In the end, the spell did not work at all the way Draco had expected. Instead, it exceeded his expectations in every way, though, at first, it seemed it would not work at all.
He'd taken to stalking towards the library almost daily when thoughts of his approaching mission would plaque his mind. Perhaps somewhere among the multitudes of old tomes and other scholarly books, would be the answer to the hundreds of questions he was unable to ask others. To ask for answers would be taken as a weakness, and any weakness accidentally shown to Death Eaters and their acquaintances was the same as revealing a pulsing jugular to hungry wolves. To the others, it did not matter that Draco was the son of a well known Death Eater. A Death Eater that had once held a place of honor among the Dark Lord's inner circle. No, if anything, it only seemed to make them more eager to catch the first glimpse of failure.
Already bets had been placed on how long he'd last in this newly exposed and dangerous world. Why give them more ammunition by asking for help?
His mother's heart had already been broken upon the news of his mission. There was no need to ask why he had been chosen. For his father's lacking obedience when it came to the Dark Lord's orders, Draco had been chosen to kill the second most powerful wizard of all time.
The only blessed reassurance Draco had left, and one he constantly brought up to himself in times of doubt...was this: Dumbledore was only the second most powerful.
Unlike those foolish enough to follow Dumbledore's ways of thinking, Draco was on a path that would lead him to be at the right side of the Dark Lord. The most powerful Wizard of all time, one who had defeated death itself several times, if what Draco's father said was true...and he was not one to doubt his father's words. Though it would most certainly prove to be a challenge, Draco would have help, for surely the Dark Lord did not want him to fail.
There were also whispers of his mother going to great lengths to also provide him assistance. However, Draco was not so ready to accept that help...he was no where near ready to believe that he would need it.
After several days of putting off the research he would have to seek out, the overwhelming urge for him to quickly find an easy solution came to him while watching clouds float by his bedroom window. It was easy to be lazy when no one was around to convince him to do otherwise, but now was not that time. He had been given a task, and as much as Draco hated it, it was in his best interests to complete that task in as quick a fashion as possible all the while protecting his own rump.
There had to be something that would help him to achieve his task, some spell, a long forgotten curse that would kill that old coot without Draco being too heavily involved. He could commit a murder the old fashioned way, a bit of poison slipped into a drink, some powdered hemlock stirred into his morning oatmeal. Even though, it was not exactly what Draco originally had in mind.
He had wanted to look into Dumbledore's eyes when he killed him. He would be the last person to look upon the live face of Albus Dumbledore, and he would see something that few, if any, had ever seen in the man's face. Fear.
Draco was not even sure if the Dark Lord in all his power had seen Dumbledore scared.
It would be the moment that his life has thus been based around. Until then, he'd been treated as a boy, as the son of a powerful man...but after he killed Dumbledore, he would be looked upon as a powerful man in his own might.
Then he would take his place beside the Dark Lord. His father had done the same a long time ago, but Draco had the chance to be far more powerful than his father ever had...especially considering how recent events had cast his father into the Dark Lord's bad graces.
Draco gritted his teeth at that. The exact events that had transpired at the Ministry of Magic that horrid night were not completely clear to him; but, he knew enough to realize that Potter alone could be held responsible for his father's current residence in Azkaban.
He would get revenge...but, that was another matter for another time.
For now, he would be content searching for spells to aid his mission.
The library itself was kept clean, but the books had not been dusted in at least a decade due to the dangerous spells placed on several. One wrong spell tossed carelessly in the direction of a shady tome could result in painful abrasion, or death as one house elf found out shortly after Draco had been born. There were still blood stains in one far corner of the room that could not be removed after that incident, his mother had tried both magical and Muggle means of doing so. It was a sore topic, not often brought up, and Draco did his best to avoid that area of the room.
The spell that now took up so much of his time had been found completely by accident, he'd been flipping through yet another volume of older spells used to maim, or fatally injure one's foe. The yellowed page fell out from between a re-telling of the death of Racouris Dimpsey, whom had suffered a deadly blow to the head via the corpse of a dead fish. Draco had to give him points for creativity, but the mental images made him glad he had not eaten anything for this mornings breakfast.
On the next page, there were several spells created specifically for the use of cutting off digits. Perhaps they had been used as torturing techniques, but Draco could not think how cutting off Dumbledore's little pinkie would aid him in anyway.
The yellowed page that had fallen out was littered with a neat handwriting, the language looked familiar to Draco, who had briefly been schooled in several languages, though only French and Latin had been consistently taught.
Stained and mistreated by previous owners, the spells on the page were almost indiscernible.
Along with the spells, there was a detailed drawing along the bottom right-hand corner. It described a man peering into a...window? A serious look was clearly painted on his face, and through the window, it seemed he was watching another person.
Intrigued, Draco read out the spell in rough Latin. He really did need to practice, if only foreign language was taught at Hogwarts he wouldn't have this problem.
Eyes narrowed, Draco scowled down at the words and moved the tome over to one of the many reading tables. The stains seemed to have been placed in the worst possible location, though the spell itself was perfectly viewable, it was hard to read the description as to what exactly would take place after someone read out the incantation.
From what he was able to determine...it seemed the spell would allow him to view someone secretly.
Draco smirked, no doubt this was a spell mostly used by peeping-Toms.
Or, extremely bored people. The last thought suited him just fine, and provided a good excuse as to why he would soon be trying to use a mysterious and possibly dangerous spell. If anyone was to ask, he'd raise an eyebrow, (a trademark Malfoy look) and say blandly, "I was simply bored."
At the back of his head, Draco knew he should be firmly searching for a spell that would save his arse by killing, or at least making it easier to kill, Albus Dumbledore. But, at that moment, curiosity overruled his sensibility.
"Sino oculos meos videre periclitatur hostis!"
The Latin words rolled easily off his tongue, it seemed that, just like riding a broomstick, some things just were not easily forgotten.
It was a shame then, that nothing happened upon saying these wonderfully pronounced words.
Frowning, Draco reminded himself firmly that not all spells were easily cast. There was sometimes a difficult twist of the wand involved, or, in more difficult, and ancient circumstances, a dance.
There was no way he was going to waltz though, and so Draco leaned back over the book and began to search for what he had not included in the incantation. What was the caster depicted in the drawing thinking so seriously on?
"Why does everything have to be so bloody difficult," Draco sighed, leaning back in his seat to think.
When the answer came to him, in a much longer time than he was proud to admit, Draco could almost curse at his own stupidity. Honestly, if it took him so long to think of something so simple, how was he ever going to defeat one of the greatest Wizards of all time?
Obviously, he had to think of the person he would want to view. This was true for most viewing spells, or at least, the two he knew of that were not banned by the Ministry of Magic. One of those viewing spells could only be used for children within a few meters distance, to make sure they had not wandered off too far. The other was not well-known, and was used by suspicious husbands and wives to see just how true their spouse was about their whereabouts.
Jumping up from the chair, Draco delightedly began to pace and ponder...just who would he spy on?
His somewhat girlfriend came to mind. He had not seen Pansy in quite a long time, though her letters came quite often and were always filled with sweet sayings and sugar coated niceties.
Yes, it would be nice to see her...and maybe catch her in a state of undress, he thought with a smirk.
Once again, Draco cast the spell, all the while thinking of Pansy clearly but fiercely.
It was clear in a few moments of intense thought, that it was not going to work. Maybe the spell had something against him, or perhaps it could feel his inner reasons for checking on this particular person.
Sighing, Draco gave in and thought about Crabbe while casting. By this point, he just wanted to know if would work.
Goyle, Nott, and in a daring moment, Draco even tried Professor Snape. It did not work. The bloody spell had got his hopes up, and then it did not even work.
Furious, Draco strode out of the library, tearing the old parchment in two and throwing it to the ground as he went.
Three hours later, he was back. In his wake, he'd left several very troubled house elves, a broken coffee table, and...somewhere along the way, his immense frustration had run its course.
Much calmer, but just as disappointed, Draco smoothed out the parchment that was now in two pieces, and tried to put them back together with a mending spell. It worked, but a line was still visible where he had ripped it in anger.
Sipping from his tea, which had been provided by an eager house elf, Draco leaned back in the comfy recliner, and held the parchment in one hand and studied the drawing.
It was quite detailed. The disdain for the man in the glass was clear in the caster's face, as well as his concentration. The man in the window did not appear to be having a great day, he looked weather worn and tired, bent over wearily in the hall of his house.
The artist really had outdone himself, even the two men's outfits were detailed. One man's family crest was clearly drawn on the back of his cape, it looked familiar, and Draco thought he remembered it from some gory history.
Upon further examination of the man in the window, Draco noticed another crest, visible over the man's breast. It was different from the one the caster wore, and Draco tried to remember why it was so familiar.
Something about a war between the two families...they were enemies, sworn to hate each other just because their family did. It had ended in blood and death, as all stories such as that did, if Draco remembered right.
Pushing the parchment away, Draco rubbed his eyes and tried to think of a reason to not go to bed early. He had found nothing but an unusable spell and a mountain of depression waiting to collapse on him in the library today.
Maybe tomorrow would be different. He stood up to leave, with a tired glance at the two enemies forever depicted in that drawing...and that is when a curious thought struck.
Perhaps...perhaps the spell was only for people who hated each other.
That would explain why it had not worked on Pansy, she adored him, and Crabbe and Goyle were eternally faithful, Nott had his moments, but he was okay...and Snape. Well, no one could ever determine what he thought of anyone, but Draco was sure the man did not hate him. In fact, he'd been spending a odd amount of time around Draco recently.
Now the question was, who did he hate?
Three answers immediately came to mind. All Weasley's, you might as well consider them a group, much like geese, cows and other dimly witted creatures. Then Granger, and of course, that four-eyed idiot...
Potter. His stupid friends had left him and the other Slytherins an a rather embarrassing situation, those...things, the stupid flying things the Weasley bitch had cursed him with still made him shiver with unease when his mind drifted to that particular memory.
His and Potter's last few meetings had not been satisfying at all. Draco wasn't used to having anyone laugh at his threats. He was a Malfoy; his name meant power. Anyone that laughed at his father one day meant that they'd lose their job the next.
But, Draco wasn't his father, and he had not yet gained the kind of respect his father had.
Thinking about his proud father in prison made Draco wonder though...would he still hold the same amount of power when he got out?
But...that kind of thinking made him uncomfortable, and Draco shook the thought away by aiming his mind at something else. In this case, giving Potter everything he deserved.
After so many failed attempts, Draco had partly memorized the spell, and he used the page as reference for the last few syllables.
Perhaps part of him had been losing faith in himself, or perhaps deep down he thought the spell would never work, and he was just grateful for an excuse to avoid certain other recent study topics...therefore, when the blank space in front of him seemed to shimmer, Draco was thoroughly stunned.
He stumbled back, remembering gory tales of spells gone wrong, but nothing upsetting happened.
The shimmer in the air glowed like crystals in the candlelight, and all at once the air hardened to a cool, glass like surface.
Swallowing his shaken nerves, Draco stepped forward cautiously. Through the glass, he could see a small, sparsely decorated room.
It was painted a bright, peach color, and the furniture (if it could even be called that) was extremely lacking in both looks and stability. Draco was taken aback by the appearance, wondering what in heaven's name could this dreary little room have to do with Harry Potter?
He knew that Potter lived with his Muggle relatives, everyone did, but even as low as Muggles were, this place was surely not the common Muggle bedroom...right?
But, the surprise at the less than luxurious living conditions was nothing when compared to what Draco felt when he saw the puddle of blood on the wooden floorboards.
Harry Potter had several things to ponder that summer, and he had both been dreading and looking forward to his life as a recluse in the Muggle house others would ignorantly refer to as his 'home'. He had found himself aching for moments alone while in Hogwarts, shying away when his friends would bring up Sirius and trying to keep the conversation dedicated to matters he was not emotionally attached to.
Judging from past years, Harry had thought what with the threat given to the Dursleys at the train station, that they would make themselves scarce. For the most part, that was true. Seemingly offended and scared at the same time, both Vernon and Petunia had avoided him, only leaving him a list of outside chores to do. A list so long and detailed it was sure to take him the majority of the summer to complete. It also assured that Harry would be mostly out of the Dursley's sight as long as they kept their blinds tightly shut while he was outside, and head firmly turned aside when he did come in.
It really was sad when his only blood-related family went to such great lengths so that they would not have to even glimpse him. It made Harry grit his teeth, a firm voice pointing out that his real family would never forget him, and were probably writing letters to him now and asking how he was...but his heart still ached for the affection he'd never feel. Not from them.
His food, he fetched for himself, and as the Dursleys had taken to eating out a fair amount lately, the kitchen was almost always empty, both of people and of food. He had a very small stash of non perishable items hidden under that one floorboard in is room, and when he found nothing to eat in the kitchen, he would make his way upstairs and pick out some snack from his little stash.
Besides the fact that he no longer had Sirius in his life, there was also something different about that summer at the Dursleys than he could have accounted for. This difference was proving to be a bigger problem than he had previously thought it would, and Harry could only blame himself for that. He should have known by now to never underestimate people, even supposedly helpless Muggles.
It seemed, Dudley had found himself a new friend.
Unlike his other friends, that were willing most of the time to follow Dudley's steps, and let him lead...this one was about as easy to bend as a rod of iron.
His name was Brent, and he'd had it in for Harry since their first meeting.
"You must be Dudley's cousin, Harold or some'thin like tha. I'm Brent, in case you haven't already heard."
Harry had heard the footsteps behind him as he knelt in the back yard at Aunt Petunia's favorite rose bush, but, he hadn't thought anything of it. Last summer, he had someone checking up on him every five to ten minutes, why should this one be any different?
The voice was dismissive, uncaring, and reminded him of another person back in the Wizarding World that he personally considered a snooty brat.
Harry leaned back on his haunches, wiping beads of sweat away from his brow as he peered up at the unfamiliar person.
Unlike Piers, a long time friend of Dudley's, this one was sturdily built with a thick neck, thicker arms, and rather dominant stance as he stood over Harry, hands loosely placed in his pants pockets. When one took into consideration that Harry, in comparison, couldn't seem to even gain weight much less muscle...well, maybe Harry should have been a bit more wary of irritating him.
As it was, after that quick glance, Harry turned back to his weeding. He wondered irritably why in the world Aunt Petunia couldn't just get a gardener while he was in school instead of letting the flowerbeds go to Hell.
"Piers said you weren't fond of talking...unless provoked," after that irate mutter, Harry was sharply kicked in his ribs. With a sharp inhalation, Harry forced himself up from where the kick had almost toppled him over onto his back.
He stood up, a scowl on his face.
Even standing at his tallest, the other teen still had a good few inches on him, not to mention a few stone, though he was not overweight, Harry was just...well, underweight.
Had there been any doubt this one was a friend of Dudley, it had disappeared when he'd decided that bullying was how best to get Harry's full attention.
"Listen, I've got work to do, so why don't you go play with someone else. Someone that can actually be bothered to give you a second glance and match you in the short temper department. Perhaps a toddler or a pet?"
Harry hadn't practiced his verbal sparring skills since Malfoy had accosted him at Hogwarts, and he found an almost dead flame inside him flaring to life.
The other boy raised his eyebrows, a grin lighting his face. "Looks like Piers is right, for once," he said, in reference to his earlier statement. Harry's ribs tinged with pain, and he glanced down to see the other boy was wearing steel toed boots. An odd choice, but effective if you wanted to cause pain.
No wonder it hurt more than when Dudley wanted to kick him around.
"Seriously," Harry said, crossing his arms defensively. "Mrs. Figg has several cats, surely one will let you play with a bit of yarn-or, if you prefer, I bet Dudley will even fetch you one of their little jingle toys. You know, the little balls with bells inside?" Harry waved one cupped hand back in forth, as if shaking the imaginary toy.
"Shut it, Potter."
Harry blinked as if surprised, and threw his hands up. "Sorry, sorry-you just seem like someone who would enjoy jingle toys. They don't take much intelligence to handle..." he trailed off, but not before he let his gaze settle on one of Brent's un-tied boots.
Harry's gaze narrowed, and he almost grinned. There was a small strip of toilet paper that trailed behind Brent's left boot, the one he hadn't kicked Harry with. He hadn't even noticed that, he'd meant to bring attention to the fact that Brent apparently couldn't even tie his shoes.
A blush rose up on Brent's cheeks as he followed his gaze, and Harry knew he should stop...but it was like Piers had apparently said, he was a quiet guy...until provoked.
"Ahh, sorry. From your apparent inability to tie your own shoes, you are clearly a shoestring man. You and Mr. Puss will get along great, that's his favorite toy too. Or perhaps you prefer the old fashioned roll of toilet pa-!"
A growl was the only warning he got, before a clenched fist flew at his mouth.
Harry ducked, and then flew for the backyard door. Fortunately, of the few things Harry thought he was good at, running away was at the top of the list. As a child, he'd run from Dudley and his merry band of bullies and from Aunt Petunia's sharp raps atop his head. As a teen, he'd run from man eating spiders, and authority...and Voldemort.
Yes, if there was one thing Harry knew how to do, it was run.
Even so, he had barely slammed the door shut when Brent's body slammed into the fake wood, shaking Harry bodily. As Harry hastily did the locks, his hand shaking with pent up nerves, he could hear Brent breathing heavily from the other side and could not subdue the laugh that bubbled out of him.
What a thrill...though, he counted himself lucky that the Dursley's were all gone out for lunch.
Now Harry realized he was wrong to think that was the last time he'd have to deal with Brent McDowell. He had given Dudley a new surge of confidence, one that destroyed the progress he'd made with his diet and made Harry's life more unpleasant than he had foreseen.
Though Petunia and Vernon still kept their distance, with only cold glances and muttered comments thrown his way, Dudley had been searching for ways to stir the pot of contempt that had before then just slowly been bubbling.
Harry thought it odd that Dudley's fear of being enchanted in some way had worn off so quickly. It was also odd that after mostly ignoring Harry, Dudley and his friends had taken up the task of making his life horrible...but Harry hadn't thought about it much until it happened.
The second instance of Brent's influence came right after Harry had arrived back from the grocery store with Aunt Petunia. She'd forced him into going, saying that Dudley did not want him around with all his nice friends over, and that he could just be locked into his bedroom instead...but Harry knew that Dudley would just find a way in if he wanted, and then there'd be no adults around at all to stop any fighting. He'd placed all the groceries away, and was heading upstairs to his place of refuge...when he heard their snickers.
Glancing down, Harry could see Dudley, Piers, Brent and a couple other boys hanging out in the living room doorway. All of them with smirks, or innocent faces, as Harry peered at them cautiously. Then their was Jimmy, a new member of their little gang...and he looked so nervous that Harry frowned.
"You okay there, Jimmy?" he asked cautiously, his concern only increasing when the other boy only jumped, nodded hastily...and then seemed to turn a little green at the quick movement.
Harry eyed him, and then decided he didn't care. He'd seen the group from his window as they sat on the lawn talking and laughing profusely, all the while sneaking drags on a cigarette that they shared amongst themselves...but he hadn't really thought they'd turn their attention to him. Mostly they stayed around Dudley's house to get free food from Petunia, who wouldn't dare refuse Dudley's friends when they might go back home and tell their mothers.
Harry suddenly felt like going upstairs was a big mistake...but to go back downstairs might prove to be even worse. It seemed one of Petunia's acquaintances had seen Harry's group of friends bidding him fair well at the train station, and had mentioned that she was 'surprised she kept such odd company' and that she'd 'never seen such an odd color of hair before on a woman,' and did Petunia 'plan on changing her own color?'
Every word made Harry feel like sinking into the ground. God, why wouldn't she just shut up? Of course she had no way of knowing that her prattling tongue was going to make Harry go without a few meals he really needed. The lady had not once glanced at Harry, but that didn't matter, the damage had been done.
As soon as they were in the car, Petunia had let a mouthful of air go. It hissed out between her teeth, as she clenched her hands on the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white.
"I've spent years in this community-" she choked up, and Harry's eyes got wide. He hastily looked out the window, away from his aunt's teary eyes. She didn't say another word the entire drive home, and Harry had taken the groceries in silently as she quietly hid herself in the bedroom.
Harry quietly finished going upstairs, feeling several sets of eyes on him all the while. What could possibly be worse than walking down the stairs into their awaiting arms? Plus, Vernon would be home in a matter of minutes, and then he'd hear what that lady had said to Petunia.
With that in mind, Harry rubbed a hand over his suddenly tired eyes, and pushed the door open into his room and stepped inside. He shut the door with his foot, an instinct that came back to him every summer and stopped rubbing his face to look around his home for the next few months.
That was when he decided, yes, there were worse things than walking towards Dudley and his fellow bullies. Worse even then facing his Aunt's hateful gaze as she relayed today's market adventure to Vernon...
Because, neither of those involved a huge puddle of drying blood on his floor and a cat carcass at the edge of it.
Harry felt bile rise in his throat, and covered his mouth and nose to block out the smell of death. The doorknob pressed into his back, but he could not remember taking a step back.
What was worse, he recognized the cat as one of Mrs. Figg's favorites, and suddenly knew exactly how this had came to be. To make it worse though, is that Harry felt that doorknob turning, and then someone was trying to push it open.
"Harry-" it was his Aunt, and she already sounded impatient. "You need to finish the weeding, and Dudley says you broke his game system-open the door this instant!"
Draco had backed into a chair during the throng of confusion that followed that horrid sight. He sat down heavily. So much blood...
His hands were shaking where they lay upon his lap, and he tried to stop it by grasping the arms of the chair. The mirror spell continued to work, a barely noticeable sheen on the surface the only thing reminding him that it was indeed a spell. Closing his eyes, Draco took a few calming breaths.
How was he supposed to handle murder if even the sight of blood caused him to go into shock?
The chair was studded with silver embellishments, and Draco ran his fingertips over them pensively to calm himself. Finally, when he found his reserve, he opened his eyes and stood to confront the scene that had shocked him so.
Yes, that was a lot of blood. A puddle that had begun to dry at the edges.
And what had this blood come from...Draco eyes trailed to the side and saw the dead cat. Almost instantly, Draco felt the need to hold his nose, but of course, the spell did not allow him to smell what he was viewing, and in a moment such as this he was extremely grateful.
The cat's fur was mottled and ratty looking. The bright orange coat seemed somehow diminished in death.
Potter's room was noticeably normal, if a bit pathetic. It had to be Potter's room too, there was a trunk with his initials shoved up against one wall, a white T-shirt thrown carelessly over it.
An owl cage sat atop the sad little desk beside the bed, though there was no owl to be seen. Pictures were taped over the bed, drawings and letters-probably fan mail. God, Potter was so vain.
Draco was leaning towards the spell, so enraptured he was in his examination of Potter's room-and that was when he heard the footsteps. There was a door to his right, and it opened a moment later. Potter walked in.
Immediately, Draco straightened up, sneer appearing on his face at the sight of him. But his automatic adjustment was for nothing, Potter could not see him-wouldn't have been able to even if he hadn't been currently rubbing his face with one hand as if trying to wipe away a months worth of grit.
He let loose a little sigh, rolled the sleeves up on his too large shirt, and then shutting the door with his foot looked around the room with a resigned face.
That was, until his eyes drifted down.
Draco took delight in how wide Potter's eyes got, how the breath got caught in his throat and he was left without words. Potter stepped back in his disgust, much like Draco had. His hand flew up over his mouth, little choked sounds protruding from his throat.
Then, from outside the door, a new voice.
"Harry-" The door knob jiggled behind Potter's back, and the irate voice continued. "You need to finish the weeding, and Dudley says you broke his game system-open the door this instant!"
Potter went from looking ill, to looking pale as a ghost, and Draco had seen a fair amount of ghosts in his time.
"Ugh," Potter dragged out the word, sounding like a man awaiting the noose.
"What-what are you doing? You are already in a huge amount of trouble. I won't have any funny business in my house, Potter!"
The spell had not even been in place for five minutes, and already Draco had more to think of and to possibly use against Potter than he'd ever had before.
"I think he's done something terrible, Mrs Dursley," a sad, regretful voice said also from outside the door.
Potter had been combing his hands through his hair, but now he stopped and turned around to throw the door open.
"You did this!" He yelled at someone standing just out of sight, his voice more shocked and filled with disgust than Draco had ever heard it. "Don't you bloody dare try to blame it on me! How sick are you-how-why-"
There was a huge gasp, either someone had seen the cat, or was shocked at Potter's tone of voice...Draco was inclined to think it wasn't the latter.
The high pitched voice that had already seemed angry, was now horrified and outraged.
"What have you done?" It ended in a shriek, and Potter stepped back into the room, and now Draco could see the horsy woman that stood in the doorway. Her hands were on her hips, cheeks pale of all color except for some badly placed blush.
"I think your nephew has some problems Mrs Dursley," the same voice offered gently. "We heard him muttering strange words in here, like...abra cadabra. Kind of scared me, to be honest...especially after yesterday."
Mrs Dursley, whom Draco took to be Potter's aunt, turned slowly in place, dread written on her face.
"What happened yesterday?" She sounded like she did not want to know.
A theatrical sigh was given, and Draco watched curiously as Potter, hearing the sigh bit his lip and clenched his fists.
"I was just trying to get to know him...and so I tapped him on the shoulder, and said, "Hey, you must be Harry!" all friendly like, ya know? And...Mrs Dursley, it was so scary. I was suddenly on my back! Like a big wind had swooped out of no where and hit me!"
Potter's shoulders slumped as the speaker said these words, his eyes closing and his head bowed. His teeth had left bright red marks on his lips, where he had bitten through the skin in his attempt to stay quiet.
"I even have bruises," another stuttering sigh, then, "and to think what he's been do'in with poor Mrs Figg's cats...I read once that people practicing bad things like, er, witchcraft,"
Mrs Dursley's whole body jerked.
"...actually use animal blood. Do you think that's what he's do'in?"
Draco knew many potions that used animal blood, but not from any kind of animal as common as a cat. Whoever this was, was obviously untaught and extremely ignorant about such matters.
But, if his wanted effect was to thoroughly stress out Mrs Dursley, it certainly had worked.
Her mouth was as tight as a newly wound toy, and her eyes were hard. She answered in a very quiet tone, but each word carried bad news for Potter. Her eyes never left his face, as if turning away would mean something bad happening to her...like Potter stabbing her.
"Dudley...darling, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask your friends to go home now. Vernon will be home soon...and I need to have a talk with your cousin."
A new voice replied, "Okay, Mum, come on guys. Harry's got to be punished." Snickers broke out in the hall, and Draco found himself slightly revolted that anyone could laugh now...even with the satisfying prospect of Potter getting what he deserved.
The words "Poor Mr Puss," were heard as the boys disappeared away down the hall, and then down what was presumably stairs.
Malfoy looked between the two remaining in the room.
Potter looked as ill as he had after the Tri Wizard tournament, when he'd appeared out of thin air with a dead Cedric Diggory desperately clutched in his arms. And his Muggle aunt? She looked ready to make Potter wish he was in Diggory's place.
Yes, Draco thought, this spell had certainly exceeded his expectations.
Author's Note: I'm very excited about the prospect of this new Harry Potter fanfiction, I plan on it being a long one...that is...if anyone wants to continue reading it? If so, please take a moment to leave a review! I greatly appreciate them, and reply to all.