"A Choice of Influence"
Title: A Choice of Influence
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: Under the heavy weight of obligation Draco reflects on his past choices.
Author’s Notes: This is to be read after the Prequel and In the Rain, but can stand on its own. That being said, this chronologically takes place after the Prequel but before In the Rain.
A Choice of Influence
He remembered it well, the sharp click of shining boots across a marble floor and the fabric swish of a heavy cape being removed. Draco had waited in silence until he’d been addressed.
His father had once been known for his entertaining quick wit and quiet humor. Those times had gone, bled into the present where he only spoke in stiff voice, one that Draco knew was slightly horse from the dark curses it had been intoning during the earlier part of the evening.
Draco had once studied the man as he’d informed the household of the changes that were soon to take place, the visitors that were soon to come. Draco knew him well, despite the dark stranger he’d become.
Sentimentalities were for fools.
But he still missed his father.
…
He’d known it was coming, the familiar feather-light weight of a gloved hand resting on his bare shoulder, its silent demand of compliance stronger than the Imperius.
Familial bonds were inborn, were stronger, and held more weight than their physical counterparts. Chains were for beasts and shackles for muggles. He needed neither.
Draco had remained perfectly motionless at the touch, his face carefully crafted into a pale mask.
…
A murmured word bubbled through his thoughts like the boiling of a gloppy potion in one of the school’s stained cauldrons.
“Submit.”
He’d bowed his head and murmured his assent, the final step in the rite. The white-hot burn of pain had followed a second later, etching itself into the flesh of his arm. Too bright too look at, the tip of his father’s wand had illuminated the even the plush chairs across the room. Their satin pillows had gleamed in its light.
Draco’s memories were as fragmented as a reflection in a shattered mirror. He remembered little else other than the pain.
His father’s face had been a pale, white mask in the sparking flash of the spell. Draco’s arm had cramped as he clenched the too-large signet ring in his sweating fist.
…
Draco’s swirling thoughts slowly congealed on the inside of his skull. Nothing was going to change the facts. There was no choice. There never had been. Stronger than any chain, his heritage coursed through his veins, beating blue just below the surface of his pale skin.
His father had always been with him. He’d always known where Draco was when he’d been a child, taking his lessons and playing in various parts of the Manor. He’d known when Draco had snuck out of his room to practice on his broom so he could show off his skills when he finally went to Hogwarts. He’d known that Draco would be placed in Slytherin, where he would gain considerable prestige amongst his classmates.
Now, his father knew exactly where Draco was and, if he focused enough, he would be able to tell what his thoughts were. The family crest on his shoulder had slowly healed over time and now that it was a faded scar it was able to accept its full range of functions.
Draco shifted in the alcove, lightly gripping his arm as it gave a steady throb of pain. He dreaded the signal it gave: his father wanted to speak with him.
The sudden crunch of a stone grinding under a boot jolted him out from his thoughts. Draco jerked his wand out, training it on the source of the sound, just behind an overgrown hedge. If it was a student who’d come to spy on him, they were going to get more than they’d bargained for.
“You’re two seconds away from being hexed,” Draco growled. Or cursed, his mind supplied.
“Easy Malfoy,” a male voice said. Hands held aloft, wand securely tucked away, a slightly damp Harry Potter stepped into view. “I didn’t come out here to fight.”
Potter obviously hadn’t learned to cast a proper Impervious charm and didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that it was, in fact, raining on his school outfit.
“Then what did you come out here for, Potter?” He spat, narrowing his eyes. He didn’t lower his wand.
“Why are you out here, in this rain?” Potter continued rather cheerfully, ignoring his question in the most infuriating way. He seemed entirely unconcerned that Draco could fire off any number of jinxes, hexes, or even curses. “It’s a rather wet day to have lunch outside.”
“It is none of your business why I am out here.” Draco snapped, his arm smarting again and his patience wearing thin. He certainly hadn’t come out to be interrogated by a nosy Gryffindor. “And I asked you a question. I expect an answer.”
In the back of his mind Draco was rather surprised how like his father his last words had sounded. While not looking particularly surprised, Potter sighed and squared his shoulders, making himself suddenly look years older than he was. Instead of a slouching, scrawny teenager he looked like a middle-aged man ground down by years of troubles.
“I’d hoped to start off with some small talk, Malfoy.” He said quietly, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “If you don’t want to, that’s all right. I need to talk with you though.”
The odd illusion had passed. Draco once again stared at his fidgeting classmate.
“So talk,” He said, finally lowering his wand.
Somewhat encouraged, Potter looked to the pond through the mist.
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: Under the heavy weight of obligation Draco reflects on his past choices.
Author’s Notes: This is to be read after the Prequel and In the Rain, but can stand on its own. That being said, this chronologically takes place after the Prequel but before In the Rain.
A Choice of Influence
He remembered it well, the sharp click of shining boots across a marble floor and the fabric swish of a heavy cape being removed. Draco had waited in silence until he’d been addressed.
His father had once been known for his entertaining quick wit and quiet humor. Those times had gone, bled into the present where he only spoke in stiff voice, one that Draco knew was slightly horse from the dark curses it had been intoning during the earlier part of the evening.
Draco had once studied the man as he’d informed the household of the changes that were soon to take place, the visitors that were soon to come. Draco knew him well, despite the dark stranger he’d become.
Sentimentalities were for fools.
But he still missed his father.
…
He’d known it was coming, the familiar feather-light weight of a gloved hand resting on his bare shoulder, its silent demand of compliance stronger than the Imperius.
Familial bonds were inborn, were stronger, and held more weight than their physical counterparts. Chains were for beasts and shackles for muggles. He needed neither.
Draco had remained perfectly motionless at the touch, his face carefully crafted into a pale mask.
…
A murmured word bubbled through his thoughts like the boiling of a gloppy potion in one of the school’s stained cauldrons.
“Submit.”
He’d bowed his head and murmured his assent, the final step in the rite. The white-hot burn of pain had followed a second later, etching itself into the flesh of his arm. Too bright too look at, the tip of his father’s wand had illuminated the even the plush chairs across the room. Their satin pillows had gleamed in its light.
Draco’s memories were as fragmented as a reflection in a shattered mirror. He remembered little else other than the pain.
His father’s face had been a pale, white mask in the sparking flash of the spell. Draco’s arm had cramped as he clenched the too-large signet ring in his sweating fist.
…
Draco’s swirling thoughts slowly congealed on the inside of his skull. Nothing was going to change the facts. There was no choice. There never had been. Stronger than any chain, his heritage coursed through his veins, beating blue just below the surface of his pale skin.
His father had always been with him. He’d always known where Draco was when he’d been a child, taking his lessons and playing in various parts of the Manor. He’d known when Draco had snuck out of his room to practice on his broom so he could show off his skills when he finally went to Hogwarts. He’d known that Draco would be placed in Slytherin, where he would gain considerable prestige amongst his classmates.
Now, his father knew exactly where Draco was and, if he focused enough, he would be able to tell what his thoughts were. The family crest on his shoulder had slowly healed over time and now that it was a faded scar it was able to accept its full range of functions.
Draco shifted in the alcove, lightly gripping his arm as it gave a steady throb of pain. He dreaded the signal it gave: his father wanted to speak with him.
The sudden crunch of a stone grinding under a boot jolted him out from his thoughts. Draco jerked his wand out, training it on the source of the sound, just behind an overgrown hedge. If it was a student who’d come to spy on him, they were going to get more than they’d bargained for.
“You’re two seconds away from being hexed,” Draco growled. Or cursed, his mind supplied.
“Easy Malfoy,” a male voice said. Hands held aloft, wand securely tucked away, a slightly damp Harry Potter stepped into view. “I didn’t come out here to fight.”
Potter obviously hadn’t learned to cast a proper Impervious charm and didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that it was, in fact, raining on his school outfit.
“Then what did you come out here for, Potter?” He spat, narrowing his eyes. He didn’t lower his wand.
“Why are you out here, in this rain?” Potter continued rather cheerfully, ignoring his question in the most infuriating way. He seemed entirely unconcerned that Draco could fire off any number of jinxes, hexes, or even curses. “It’s a rather wet day to have lunch outside.”
“It is none of your business why I am out here.” Draco snapped, his arm smarting again and his patience wearing thin. He certainly hadn’t come out to be interrogated by a nosy Gryffindor. “And I asked you a question. I expect an answer.”
In the back of his mind Draco was rather surprised how like his father his last words had sounded. While not looking particularly surprised, Potter sighed and squared his shoulders, making himself suddenly look years older than he was. Instead of a slouching, scrawny teenager he looked like a middle-aged man ground down by years of troubles.
“I’d hoped to start off with some small talk, Malfoy.” He said quietly, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “If you don’t want to, that’s all right. I need to talk with you though.”
The odd illusion had passed. Draco once again stared at his fidgeting classmate.
“So talk,” He said, finally lowering his wand.
Somewhat encouraged, Potter looked to the pond through the mist.