A/N: (contains personal opinions about the deathly hallows-book, if you haven't read it, skip the author's note, the story is spoilerfree ... and READ THE BOOK!! IT'S GREAT!)
Now I know this is odd coming from me, but this hasn't got any slash. Yes, that's right. Not even little, not even as a mention. This is a story of growth which was missing from J.K. Rowling's books, even the last one. I was very happy about almost everything else in the Deathly Hallows except the fact that Draco was missing! Well, he was there and we did find out what happened to him but we never found out much about him, you know, as a human. So basically my idea here is to reveal you how did Draco Malfoy become the Draco Black we have met in "Not Quite One of Them". It was a long road for him and it all starts and ends with the "Bloody Boy Who Lived". But even Harry never knew what happened in between. But here You can find out what it was...
A Harry Potter FanFiction story by The Little Green Voice
A SECRET STORY OF CHANGING SIDES
Sequel to "Not Quite One Of Them".
Inspired by a friend of mine who was very keen on knowing "what happens next in the universe where slash rules"
and by the song "Dirty Little Secret" by The All-American Rejects.
Although this might be a little disappointment with all the "dirty little secrets" and slash missing, I hope all Draco-fans enjoy this.
"Let me know that I've done wrong Tell me all that you've thrown away
When I've known this all along
I go around a time or two
Just to waste my time with you
Find out games you don't wanna play
You are the only one that needs to know"
Tell me all that you've thrown away
The first year Draco Malfoy had spent in Hogwarts was easily the best year of his life. So young, so ignorant, so naive, so eager to explore the great castle and get new friends, so looking forward to every class, so excited about magic. Even now, after everything great he had experienced, he thought it was his best year. When he had been a student, he had always liked paper tests, they were easy to answer and he had always preferred writing to talking or doing. That was also why Professor Lupin had always been his least-favourite teacher. He had always held practical tests, even as a final test of the year. That had been cruel.
Now, as a teacher himself, Draco fully understood his former Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. A large pile of essays, all about the same subject, was not the most fun way of spending your free evenings. He had actually started to give the students more often homework that didn't need checking. It was funny, actually, he had always hated that kind of assignments as a student but loved them as a teacher.
It had been a strange path for Draco Malfoy, the wealthy Death Eater to transform into Draco Black, the Potions master of Hogwarts. And not only strange, but before all, difficult. If a person needs to admit himself that just about every decision that has been made for him and that he has made in the past has been a wrong one, it's not a thing that can be taken lightly. If you manage to live eighteen years under a false identity that has been built for you since you were born and then have to tear it down in a few weeks and show your true self (that even you don't really know at al) to others in order to stay alive and do the right thing, it's nowhere near easy.
Draco Malfoy had always known he was the user, the one with the power and the one with influence. Draco Black knew now that both he and this Malfoy boy he had been had only been little pieces of a larger game not played by him or even his father. In a way, not even Voldemort, Dumbledore or Harry had been more than pieces in the game.
Harry. It all came down to Harry. His worst rival, an enemy even, had been the first to stumble by when his mask had started to break. Harry had also been the reason why it hadn't but cracked a little that time. But just enough for Draco to notice it before he had to pull it back straight and act his way out of the situation. Who knows what could've happened if it had been like now, if Harry had been a friend instead of a rival. Who knows if he had gotten rid of the fake façade already then? But instead, he got hit by the worst curse he had been hit until that age. He could still remember the shock of feeling thousands and thousands of wounds everywhere in his body, he could still see and smell the blood and see the plain horror and fear in his enemy's eyes.
That wasn't the first time he had noticed that The Boy Who Lived was simply just a boy who happened to have lived. He had often wondered if he was the only one who knew that the Saviour of the Wizarding kind was only a human after all. Of course back then he had thought that Voldemort and his own father knew it too, but later he got to notice that they were most afraid of him. That was the second time when his mask had crumbled a bit. Again, just a bit, because he still very much needed it, but enough for him to remember that there was something that wasn't part of him, something that wasn't right at all and not a part that belonged to him.
The final blow wasn't the arranged marriage to Aurelie, a French girl he had never met before the wedding rehearsal, and neither was it the painful initiation rituals for becoming a Death Eater. Once again, it was Harry. It was his words that finally broke the mask into so little pieces that he couldn't pick them up and keep up his acting. The words he had heard so many times before, but it was probably more about the expression of disgust and pity that moved him. He had fled from the fight that had turned into a fiasco, leaving his fellow Death Eaters outnumbered and loosing. It wasn't what any real Death Eater would've done when an enemy says "You're pathetic." It wasn't what a Malfoy would've done. But it was what he had done. He had ran for it, stumbling past Harry who was clearly running to help his friends, and as they recognized each other and Harry realized what Draco was doing, he said the crushing sentence, not even bothering to fight him. That's how pathetic Harry had thought he was.
Draco had then went through a change so brutal and rough that it ended him up into a Muggle Hospital for weeks. After running away from the battle he had Apparated into the furthest place he could reach. He ended up unconscious to the western part of Russia. No-one there recognised him and from the looks of his torn and dirty clothes, the muggles who found him decided that he was a poor homeless person. For some reason, they took him into a nearest hospital and left there. When he woke up he started his journey from Draco Malfoy to this Potions Professor that he was now. It was if said by a metaphor, longer than his journey from England to Russia even if he had swum the whole way. He spent five days staring at the ceiling, not sleeping, not talking, not eating. The nurses thought he was seriously disturbed or disabled and the doctor who visited him every other day tried to keep telling him he needed to eat or he'd die.
Eventually he did. In a way, Draco Malfoy died in that hospital room. During those days Draco went through his life and himself. When he thought about himself and the situation where he was, it seemed impossible to want to be the person he had been. He had discovered the existence of the mask, the fake-self that he was wearing on his sixth school year when the task he had been given was way too much for him. The stress and irrationality of the situation he had gotten himself into had caused a scratch. The realisation that the highest authorities he respected over everything else didn't know everything had caused another crack. And when he saw the pity and disgust in the eyes of a person he somehow knew very well to always be honest with his eyes, it was enough to make him realize his pathetic mask's stupidity.
Selfish, cruel, emotionless, cold, self-centred, money- and success driven. Those words were some that could describe Draco Malfoy very well. The only thing he had cared and wanted was power. Money was power, influence was power. He had thought power was all that mattered. He couldn't have helped it much, though, after all he had been raised to believe it. But now that he really gave it a thought, he questioned everything that had been said to him, even about mudbloods and blood traitors, pure-bloods, squibs and muggles. How hadn't he seen how close-minded and narrow the picture he had had of this world before? What was really important, being a good wizard or human? How was he a better human than that doctor that took care of homeless people in an old, stupid hospital? How was he a better wizard than Granger who had gotten better grades than he in everything back at school? He had never really asked those questions from himself, he had just known that that was the way things were meant to be. Now that he saw that it was all a big lie, he also saw what kind of person he had been. Realizing that you are definitely not the perfect person you've thought you were is tough. When it comes in a big bang like this, it usually causes deep depression.
It did so to Draco. It came close to real death for him too. He couldn't see anything good in himself, why should he live? It was by a mere chance that there happened to be a television in the corner of his room (thanks to some muggle charity) and that he could see it well enough and that he happened to look at it just then. It was also by chance that the day nurse had turned on a news channel that had programs in English with Russian subtitles. It was easily the greatest chance that just then the news showed a part of London that had been "struck by an unknown terrorist group". Draco recognised the place instantly as the place where Ministry of Magic entrance-telephone box was situated. The buildings around it were black and one was still burning while on the place of the old telephone box there was only a black crater. It hadn't been a terrorist attack, of course. Draco could remember the meeting where it had been discussed – a major attack straight to the ministry headquarters to destroy everything the Order and Ministry might've held there, following a series of smaller well-planned actions. It was the Lord Voldemort's plan to finish the war. Or, at least that was the start of it.
When the news reader changed the subject, it occurred to Draco that he might not need to commit a suicide himself – his former master had most certainly sent people after him in case he had decided to become a traitor. How badly it could all go wrong if the Order would know the plan, or even some parts of it… Then, a memory of a long gone voice came to him.
"No, Draco. It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now."
But the one who had offered him a chance to change back then was gone and his Order as ready to kill him as the Death Eaters were. However the thought of how important his knowledge could be to the right side made him accept food that the nurse brought him, looking bored and sure that it was a waste of time. She yelped a little when Draco shifted in the bed and took the soup when she offered it, nodding as a thanks. He had barely moved an inch for many weeks, it was like a statue had come alive.
Russian, Draco noticed the next day, was a difficult language. After a frustrating ten minutes of trying to speak English, French and even a few words of Latin plus waving his hands like a maniac he finally managed to ask the nurse to bring him pencil and paper. He had lost his wand and the diet he had been on had lost him all of his will to even dare try Apparate anywhere.
He started his letter with no greeting and no name. He merely wrote the title "Voldemort's plans according to how I remember them" and under it all the dates, places, numbers, names, secret new curses, their counter-curses and tactics he could remember. He finished the letter the next morning signing it with his own name and had no idea how to get it to the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix without The Death Eaters knowing.
After the nurse had brought him some breakfast, the doctor came to see him. First the doctor pushed a cold odd device on Draco's chest, muttered something in Russian, then he stuck an another strange equipment in his ear and again mumbled something, writing something down on his notebook. He then did a series of other just as weird and useless things for a while and after he seemed to have finished he said something very strange.
"Vii wjill hjaf the transchljeitor soon hjere", the doctor said, reading it from his notebook and smiled tiredly.
He had to smile at this. But he also wanted to be kind to this man who had probably somehow saved his life (because when he hadn't been eating, they had sticked a needle in him and put something water-like liquid in his veins and after a while he didn't feel hungry anymore). He felt really wanted to say thank you. He had once watched a Russian film, but thought it was rather boring.
"Thank you, danke, merci, gracias, tack, aitäh, kiitos... thank you..." He tried all the languages he knew something about but the doctor didn't seem to understand.
"Spasiba", someone said from the door. A young, smiling woman with platinum blonde hair and a little too much make up walked inside the room and shok hands with the doctor and with Draco. She spoke a few words Russian to the doctor and finally the doctor smiled at Draco, saying something in Russian again.
"We help everyone here, this is a charity held hospital", the woman translated.
"Gods, finally some English! Can you tell that doctor that I'm very gratefull for all he's done for me?" Draco asked
"I did, that's what spasiba means." She smiled "You're not Russian, are you a tourist?"
Now this was a bad thing. What could he say? He vaguely remembered that the englishmen needed a visa for visiting Russia. And of course he didn't have one, let alone id or anything. This might be trouble...
"Don't worry, we're not so much into calling the local police for every little thing. Where are you from?"
"Britain. And yes, I'm sort of a ... a tourist." Or should he say a refugee? He hmpfed at the idea of wizard refugee from Britain running away a war no-one knew was going on. The woman translated it to the doctor and the doctor talked something again.
"How did you end up here, the doctor says you were in a very bad condition when they found you, you were missing a toe and the wound looked as if it had been cut clean on purpose, you also seem to be suffering from a deep depression. What happened?
So he had been splinched. Ouch. He hadn't noticed he missed a toe, but he hadn't really needed his feet during the weeks. But how to explain what happened?
"Well yes, I had a little ... er ... travelling accident. And the depression ... well, I've been through quite a lot ... very recently and I ... well, it has been very good to be here, I've had time to think it trough and... and I think I got it right, I think I'm done with just laying down."
"Well so does dr. Pjotr Koryakov think. He says you can leave today or if you don't have a place to go to you can stay a few days in the homeless shelter near this hospital."
Doctor Koryakov nodded while the translator spoke and when she finished, he started talking something more.
"He wants you to know that because of the loss of your left bog toe you may have some balance problems for a few weeks and walking may feel strange but that it is nothing to worry about and that you will very soon get used to not having a toe." The doctor waited for the woman to translate that part and proceeded to give him a little white plastic can with Russian text on it.
"That's pain killers, you should take one pill in the morning, another during the day if you feel that you need it. The first few days may be pretty bad if you need to walk a lot and then you can take more pills. But only if you feel that you need it and you mustn't take more than five per day." She took a pen from the doctor and wrote "1-2 per day, max 5" on the pill can. "The wound is stitched with two stitches and you can come here or go to any other public or charity-held hospital to take them off after two weeks." She kept on telling him to be careful while walking, watching out for infections in the wound and that he would be given a walking stick while checking out and a lot of other strange things about how to take care of himself.
Finally she translated the doctor's question of was he ready to leave and did he need any more help. Suddenly Draco remembered the letter. There was a way to get it to the Order!
"I'm ready to go, but I need to send one letter and I don't know how your Mug- Russian post works", he said.
The translator told him that the nearest post office was right around the corner and that if he had the address ready she could go take it there. He insisted on going with her (partly because he wanted to see how it was done, partly to see that he wasn't tricked on this important issue). He then shook the hand of doctor Koryakov and with an uncertainly pronounced but understood "spasiba", Draco left the hospital with the translator.
Every step to the post office hurt like hell even with the stick he had gotten from the doctor. Once they made it to the little strange shop-like office, the translator woman bought him an envelope and a small sticker she called stamp. Draco slid the rather long letter inside the muggle-envelope, attached the whatever the stamp-thing was.
Then the woman asked him if he had the address. He said all he knew was "No.4 Private Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey", but he had no idea was it right or enough. He just knew it was Harry Potter's relative's home address. What a wonderful thing that he had plotted to send a Howler to him on second grade. He was assured that it would be enough and after an uncomfortable question on where and how to write the address he got it done and was told that it would be in Surrey in a week.
It was the longest week in his life. He lived in the homeless shelter, spending his days wondering on the streets of the city which he found out was called Morshansk. He tried to find any trace of the local witches and wizards, but failed. And without a wand he couldn't really do anything. He didn't dare try disapparate anywhere and he wasn't so sure if he could without a wand. And where would he go?
Then, suddenly on a rather gloomy Wednesday, Fred and George Weasley apparated in front of him, grabbed his arms and disapparated him into a shady room filled with people he didn't recognize at all. The interrogation was rough but nowhere near as violent as what the Death Eater's used to do and after five hours he was finally left alone there, still filled with Veritaserum, feeling dizzy and - for his surprise - pleased with himself.
After spending the rest of the day asleep, he woke up to see Harry Potter standing next to the sofa he was using as a bed. He looked like he had just returned from a fight.
"Your information was right about St. Mungo's, we were able to save the place thanks to your letter. I have no idea what made you do this and I bet you're not so keen to tell me, but whatever your reason was I'm glad you did. It saved Mrs. Weasley, Ginny and about a thousand other patients at the hospital." He could hear the unsaid thanks in his old rival's words.
"Good", was all he could say and even that came out rather weak. How pathetic. But at least he had helped a little.
For a long time Harry looked at him in silence. Then finally he spoke again.
"They say you're ready to join us. Are you?"
"I'll keep you my dirty little secret When we live such fragile lives A/Nno.2: So... a little different from me, eh? I enjoyed writing it though, so I might be writing something like this more. But what did you think? Too boring? Too deep? Too shallow? Too wannabe-real-writer-ish? Or was it -gasp- good? I would love to have a review, even if you don't have more than a few words to say about this! Thank you if you have the time to review and thank you for having the time to read this! :) And yes, I am writing the on going stories Erased and Strange Disease! :D I'm just having my vacation and I'm off to Estonia on a sailing trip for a week so... might take a while to update them, but I will!
(Dirty little secret)
Don't tell anyone or you'll be just another regret
(Just another regret, hope that you can keep it)
My dirty little secret
Who has to know
It's the best way we survive
I go around a time or two
Just to waste my time with you"
When we live such fragile lives
A/Nno.2: So... a little different from me, eh? I enjoyed writing it though, so I might be writing something like this more. But what did you think? Too boring? Too deep? Too shallow? Too wannabe-real-writer-ish? Or was it -gasp- good? I would love to have a review, even if you don't have more than a few words to say about this! Thank you if you have the time to review and thank you for having the time to read this! :)
And yes, I am writing the on going stories Erased and Strange Disease! :D I'm just having my vacation and I'm off to Estonia on a sailing trip for a week so... might take a while to update them, but I will!