Ownfic: "The Wishbox" (1/2) for catsintheattic
Title: The Wishbox (1/2)
Author: mizbean
Recipient: catsintheattic
Characters/Pairings: Draco-centric, references to Draco/Pansy and Draco/Blaise, and shades of future of Harry/Draco because I'm a shipper.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings (highlight to view): none
Wordcount: 11,000 words
Summary: If you could have anything in world, what would you wish for?
Author's Notes: I originally got the idea for this story from my 7-year-old son. One day after school he was telling me, rather excitedly, about a story he had heard at school about a boy could have anything he wished for. It immediately started the wheels turning, and I wondered what would happen if someone like Draco, a boy who has almost everything, would be given the chance to wish for anything in the world. Of course, he would wish for more toys, but we know his story takes a darker turn as he grows older. What would he wish for then? Thank you to hijja for her immense patience and for giving me the opportunity to write this story.
Madame Malfoy,
It has come to my regrettable attention that a list of instructions was omitted when we packaged your wishbox for sale. It is imperative that you study each and every one of them carefully as your wishbox may not otherwise operate to its fullest potential.
Your humblest servant,
Monsieur Petit
~ * ~
"What is it?"
"Can't see."
"Stop pushing."
"You stop."
"No, you stop."
"Mum, Crabbe kicked me."
"Did not."
"Did too. Mum."
Pansy Parkinson's wail was lost in the din of shouting children crowding around Draco Malfoy. Today was his fifth birthday, and the South Lawn of the Manor was festooned with balloons and fairy lights. Later there would be pony rides and acrobats to marvel over, and, of course, a large chocolate cake to devour, but for now all eyes were on the small blond boy as he sat cross-legged on the grass, dwarfed beneath a teetering pile of birthday presents.
As Draco tore open the colorfully-wrapped boxes (immediately discarding their contents onto the lawn behind him), the children pressed closer, some pushing and shoving their way to the front, for it was a well-known fact that Draco always got the best presents, the fastest and shiniest toys, and when he grew bored he sometimes shared. But no present garnered more interest from the gathered children (and their respective parents) than the one Draco currently held in his hands.
The box, wrapped in his favorite color of Slytherin green, was small, much too small to contain a Junior Nimbus 500, the toy racing broom Draco so desperately coveted, and for that reason he wore distinctly perturbed expression.
"I heard it only arrived this morning," Mrs. Parkinson whispered to Mrs. Nott, from where they both stood a few steps beyond the scrum of shouting children.
"Express owled from Paris. Can you imagine?" Mrs. Nott tutted in return, even as she craned her neck so she could see.
"Cissy spoils that child rotten," another parent chimed in, and there was a chorus of agreement.
And then, on cue, an impeccably dressed, flaxen-haired woman stepped forward. Head held high, Narcissa Malfoy was long the object of both admiration and jealousy among the other mothers in Wizarding society. Not only did she have a beautiful home and an even more beautiful husband, she had the most darling son (even if he was all kinds of a brat), but even more to the point: she was richer than God. Surely, any gift she had hand-selected to give her son would soon become the most coveted toy in England. Perhaps there would still be time to get an order in before the Christmas rush!
A hush fell as Narcissa beamed down at her son. "Go on, dear. Open it."
It didn't appear that Draco needed to be told twice. He tore open the wrappings, and once again he was lost amidst the surging crowd of chattering children.
"Well, what is it?" someone finally yelled, the crowd of onlookers growing impatient.
There was no response, only the soft titter of a child's laughter, and then…
"It's just--" a child's voice was heard as the laughter grew louder, "an ugly old box."
One should never take one's wishbox for granted.
"What is it?" a little girl demanded breathlessly into Draco's ear. She was crouched down next to him, watching, as he lifted a square wooden box out from its green foil wrapping.
His frown deepened. He had no idea. It looked like it could be a music box, albeit one that looked like it had spent the last century cared for by trolls. Scorch marks marred the outside and part of a corner was nicked off, and it smelled unpleasantly of mildew and damp. But when Draco opened the hinged top, no music played, nor was there anything hidden inside. He poked at the velvet lining a few times just to make sure, and when he closed the lid again, tears of disappointment were prickling his eyes. The runes carved into the top of the box would offer Draco no clues to its purpose either. At age five Draco had only just started to learn his letters. Runes wouldn't be something he'd learn to read until he was older.
By now Draco was certain that he was the butt of a very cruel joke. The growing laughter -- from guests invited to his birthday party! -- only proved it.
Eyes stinging and feeling very betrayed, Draco glared at the other children. "Shut up," he snapped as the tears began rolling down his cheeks. "You too, Zabini. Who cares what you think?" he snarled, focusing his ire on the tall haughty-looking boy laughing the loudest. Blaise Zabini didn't even have a father. Draco thought he had a lot of nerve!
"You shut up," Zabini retorted.
Infuriated, Draco picked up the box with every intention of throwing it at Zabini's head when his mother grabbed him by the arm.
"Draco," she warned, and it was as if all the fight and energy had drained out of him. Draco adored his mother, and at this moment all he wanted was to curl up into her arms, his birthday party ruined. He doubted now that even a full-blown tantrum could save it.
"There, there, darling. It's all right," she said, brushing the tears from of his eyes. She had summoned a pillow from inside the Manor, and she was perched on top of it, her elegant robes fanned out around her.
Draco sniffled, burying his head in her lap. He soon forgot all about the party and the other children, his focus only on the touch of his mother's fingers as she stroked his hair. However, it wasn't long before his attention drifted back to the box lying forgotten on the grass. Draco lifted his head and found his mother smiling down at him. It was a sly sort of smile that spoke of magic and secrets, and Draco felt a tingle of excitement curl around inside him.
"Do you know what this is?" his mother asked, picking the box up again and touching the top almost reverentially with her fingertips.
"No," he admitted, barely able to contain himself. Nor, it seemed, could the other boys and girls still standing clustered around them, for all of them leaned forward at once, not wanting to miss a single word.
"Well, it is very rare," Narcissa said with smirk, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Really?" Draco said, beaming. Rare was good. Rare meant no one else had one. Especially Blaise Zabini.
"Really," Narcissa confirmed. "This rare artifact is…" she paused just long enough for the children listening in to move closer, "a wishbox."
Someone let out an audible gasp, and then everyone began talking at once.
Draco grinned.
He didn't especially know what a wishbox was, but he thought he had a good idea. More important, however, was that he was still the center of attention, jealously regarded by his friends. His mother's gift must be a very special gift indeed.
His mother smiled. "If you could have anything in the world, Draco, what is it that you would wish for?"
"Anything in the world?" Draco repeated. Well, there were great many things a young boy like Draco might like to wish for, but there was only one thing he really wanted.
"A Junior Nimbus 500 racing room," he blurted out.
Draco watched, fidgeting with excitement, as his mother wrote out the words Junior Nimbus 500 in careful, neat letters on a square of parchment. She folded it once and placed it inside the box. "Ready?" she asked that sly smile returning.
Draco nodded.
With her hand on top of the box, Narcissa closed her eyes and began to recite:
"I have a wish I wish to make.
A wish I wish will come true.
With all my heart and all my soul
I wish that you will grant me my wish
and make my dreams come true."
Draco watched as the runes carved into box began to glow, and with it came a heady twist of magic. It swirled around him, and Draco found the sensation both exciting and unnerving. Much how he imagined flying would be like. Oh, how he wished he had a broom…
"Ow!" Draco cried out, something hard smacking him across the forehead.
It was a toy broom. It lay on the grass at Draco's feet, its polished wooden handle gleaming in the sunlight and not a straw out of place. It was a thing of beauty. A perfect replica of the broom Fergus Stump rode when he lead his team to victory in the last Champions Cup, only sized down to fit one small boy.
The Junior Nimbus 500 was everything Draco could ever wish for. And he didn't have to share.
You can't never wish for too many toys.
Two hours later, sated and face smeared with chocolate, children were once again surrounding Draco. Only this time the adults had gone elsewhere, gossiping and drinking their tea at tidy white tables set across the lawn. The Junior Nimbus 500 lay where he left it an hour ago, bored with it already. There were other toys to play with, new ones "wished" from his wishbox: a model train magicked to run under its own power, Demons of the Dark Arts action figures, exploding wands. But they too lay scattered across the lawn, forgotten, even by the other children, their eyes trained instead on the motley-looking box sitting in Draco's lap.
Draco wondered what else he should wish for.
"A model dragon," a child shouted.
"Screaming yo-yo," said another.
"Chocolate Frogs." That was Goyle.
"A Baby Betsy doll," someone else yelled, a girl dressed head to toe in pink. Draco scowled. He wasn't going to wish for a doll.
"Blood lollies."
"Dungbombs."
"Ice mice."
"Chocolate Frogs."
"You said that already."
"So."
The shouting went on. Zabini rolled his eyes and claimed he was bored, and Draco vowed to never again invite Zabini to one of his parties. And then Draco smiled, inspiration striking. He knew exactly what he wanted to wish for.
"How do you spell 'go'?" asked Draco, turning to Zabini, a square of parchment and quill in hand.
Zabini frowned. "Go? G-O. Why?"
"No reason." Draco scrawled the word down on the piece of parchment and slipped it inside the box. He shut his eyes and began reciting the spell.
A light breezed whispered across the grass, and when Draco re-opened his eyes he saw he was alone, the children gone.
He grinned. Now he had all the toys to himself.
You can never wish for too many friends.
Draco footsteps echoed as he raced across the marble floor, his Junior Nimbus 500 dragging behind him. Of course, he wasn't supposed to run in the house, and indeed as he turned the corner into the music room, chock full of elegant and priceless treasures, he collided with a small table, sending a vase teetering over its edge. It crashed to the floor, shards of porcelain scattering in every direction. Draco paid it no heed, already running on to the next room, and besides, a house-elf appeared almost instantly to clean the mess up.
There was also mud on the floor, tracked in through the front door. It was still summer, the air heavy from an early morning rain shower, and Draco had spent the last hour alone, leaping over puddles in the garden on his toy broom. He had quickly grown tired of that and was now searching for something better to do.
His father was in the library, the door closed; in other words: DO NOT DISTURB (especially energetic little boys with muddy shoes), and when he finally came upon his mother in the salon she was busy conferring with her head elf, Mimsy. But her face lit up when he ran to her side, and Draco knew that at last he had found someone to play with.
But his hopes were soon dashed. After a quick peck on the forehead and a Scourgify from Mimsy for his muddy shoes, Narcissa shooed him on his way.
Draco stuck out his lower lip.
"Oh, darling. What now?" Narcissa's face wore a fine imitation of his petulant expression.
"Bored," Draco replied, his feet rooted to the spot and his arms crossed in front of his chest.
"Bored?" Narcissa laughed indulgently. She knelt down in front of him, the gold bracelets on her wrist jangling as she reached to brush the fringe out of his eyes. "You must have something to play with."
Draco shrugged.
"Well, I just know just the thing," said his mother, touching the tip of his nose.
"Really?" Draco's heart leapt. His mother made everything better.
"I do." She rose to her feet and paused to smooth the wrinkles out of her robes. "Dobby," she said with certainty. "I'm sure Dobby would love to play with you."
Wishes may come in all shapes and sizes.
Draco hated Dobby.
"I hate you," said Draco to the miserable-looking house-elf who appeared in his bedroom doorway, and he took no consolation when Dobby picked up a lamp off a nearby table and began using it to hit himself on the head.
Well, Draco found some consolation, for the house-elf was now crying, fat tears running down its ugly face. Draco found a stack of wooden blocks on the floor and tormented Dobby further, throwing them one by one at his head as the house-elf cowered on the floor. One bounced off the top of Dobby's eyelid, leaving a gash.
A trickle of blood ran down the side of Dobby's face, and Draco wasn't about to feel sorry. He hated Dobby.
But the spectacle of watching a bleeding house-elf blubber all over his carpeted floor could only cheer Draco for so long. He wanted someone to play with. Someone fun.
It had started to rain again, the dim light outside his windows coloring his bedroom a gloomy shade of gray. Sighing heavily, Draco slumped down on top his bed, hugging his pillow to his chest. He began to cry, and it was through tear-stained eyes that he saw the wishbox on his bedside table.
He wondered if he could wish for something more than just a toy broom or chocolate frogs.
"Dobby," he barked, sitting up.
He had an idea, but he wasn't sure if it was going to work. He opened one of his drawers and pulled out a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill.
The house-elf lifted his tear-stained face out of his hands. "Yes, Master Draco?"
"How do you spell 'friend'?"
Moments later a little girl stepped out of Draco's fireplace. She was dressed in frills and had pink ribbons in her hair. On her face was a petulant expression very much like the one on Draco's.
Draco reacted to her appearance with shock, springing off his bed. He was expecting someone like Crabbe or Goyle. He might have even tolerated Zabini.
But what he wasn't expecting was a girl. "Wait!" he cried as he watched in horror as the little girl walked over to his toy chest and picked up a stuffed bear. She turned it upside down and made a face, the toy bear expressing its displeasure with an irritated growl.
"Who are you?" he demanded, balling his fists.
The little girl turned and gave him look like he had just grown a set of tentacles. "I'm Pansy Parkinson, stupid." She tossed the bear behind her. It landed headfirst on the floor with an oof.
There was something about her ill-tempered demeanor that sparked a memory. "You were at my birthday party, " he said.
"Duh." She rolled her eyes and plopped down on top his bed.
"Duh. I don't talk to girls," snapped Draco, pushing her back off.
She landed on floor in a puddle of pink, and with one evil-looking grin she kicked him in the shin.
"Ow!" Draco jumped on one foot, rubbing his leg. "That hurt," he roared.
Pansy sat on the floor with her arms crossed in front of her chest. "Maybe you should."
She seemed awfully bossy, and he wondered if he should make Dobby get rid of her, but Dobby seemed to have taken the girl's sudden arrival as an excuse to disappear.
Draco narrowed his eyes, still hopping on one leg. "Why did you come here?"
Pansy shrugged. "Dunno. I just felt like it, I guess." She narrowed her eyes back at him. "Why?"
"Nothing," he said, looking at his wishbox. He wondered if it might be broken. Then it occurred to him that he didn't have anything else to do. He turned back to Pansy. "You want to play a game?"
She grinned at him. "Sure."
Use your wishbox early and often.
Pansy and Draco became fast friends. Still, he kept a healthy distance should some of the frippery and pink rub off. They spend the summer running around the gardens, Draco on his toy broom and Pansy chasing behind. But by the time autumn came and went, the toy Nimbus 500 was left abandoned next to the reflecting pool, exposed to the elements until a house-elf appeared one afternoon and carried it away.
The wishbox quickly became Draco's favorite thing ever, and he kept it on his bedside table. Mountains of toys crowded Draco's bedroom until he could barely walk a path across the floor until one day, bored and annoyed with the mess, Draco wished them all away. They disappeared in an instant, and Draco smiled to himself, satisfied until the lull of boredom overcame him once again, and he picked the wishbox and wished for something else.
Some nights he even slept with it, placing it on a pillow next to his head, and he would lie awake, imagining what other magical things he could wish for: perhaps a tray of sticky pudding for breakfast or a never-ending jar of strawberry jam. If he had a taste for chicken he could just make a wish and find a whole roasted chicken steaming on a platter waiting for him at the dinner table. Or if he was lonely he could wish for company and find Crabbe or Goyle tumbling out of the fireplace in his room. One time, annoyed that he wouldn't stop sniveling, he even wished Dobby away, and in a whisper the elf was gone (resurfacing moments later in a duck pond, shivering and gasping for breath).
But then on his sixth birthday, Draco got an even better present: a baby dragon of his very own. One couldn't really play with a dragon; they were impractical for children, breathing fire and being a generally fearsome creature, but Draco's mother had insisted it was very rare, and his friends looked very jealous besides. A child-sized castle with it very own working dungeon was Draco's seventh birthday present, and then on his eighth birthday arrived a flying carpet, procured with some careful bribery from his father.
Still, the wishbox remained, sitting on a shelf high above Draco's bed.
Adult supervision is strongly advised for all children under the age of 12.
"Up."
The broomstick quivered at Draco's feet.
"Up." His voice had more urgency now, and Draco hoped, more determination. He shut his eyes, his hand stretched out in front of him, willing the broomstick to rise with every fiber of his being. Outside, rain was pelting against his bedroom window, the noise a distraction until he concentrated harder and focused his mind. "Up," he repeated, eyes clenched tight. Still, nothing happened and then, a held breath later, something hard smacked him in the palm.
Eyes flying open, Draco's heart leapt at the sight. Yesterday was his eleventh birthday and here was his present, a Comet 260, hovering at his fingertips. He was willing to bet he was the youngest Wizard in England to own such a fine broom, but even better: He had made it fly -- all by himself.
Grinning, he hopped on.
The broomstick dipped under his weight, and for a wild, panicked moment he was hurled sideways across his bedroom, one hand holding on to the broom handle for dear life, the other flailing behind him, trying to make it stop.
But it was no use. The broomstick had a will of its own, or more precisely: Draco had no idea what he was doing. It was one thing for a boy to leap over mud puddles in the garden on a toy broom. Quite another to fly indoors on a broom designed to go high speeds. Still, miraculously, Draco managed to hold on as the broomstick careened higher, skimming over the top of his bed and flying straight for his bedroom wall.
"Nooo!" He flinched, and the broomstick banked left at the last moment, his shoulder making painful contact with the side of his bookcase. A shower of books fell down to the floor. He paid no attention, for he was now speeding in the other direction, still frantically trying to right his broom. Gritting his teeth, he finally managed to pull himself upright, banking again to avoid crashing into his wardrobe. At least he was sitting on the broom properly now, his knuckles white as they clung to the handle. He made another arc around his bedroom, starting to get the hang of it.
Flying wasn't so hard after all, he decided, and he leaned his body forward just as a Seeker would be reaching for the Snitch.
The broom reacted instantly, speeding up, and again Draco was thrown sideways. This time there were no miracles, for the broom was now careening out of control.
"Help! Stop!" Draco cried, panicking. He tried to pull up on the broom handle, hoping to slow the broom's forward momentum but that only sent him flipping over backwards, and now he was flying upside down straight toward his bedroom window.
"Help me," he whimpered, shutting his eyes and certain of eminent death, the window locked tight to keep out the rain.
Then it occurred to him. He could just let go, so he did.
Draco landed in a crumpled heap, his desk chair upended over him. The broomstick kept flying, crashing through his window, and broken glass rained down on Draco's head.
This had to be the worst day of Draco's life.
His elbow was starting to throb. Leaning on his other arm, he gingerly sat up, and then winced, at the sight of his bedroom. It looked as if a cyclone had hit it, chairs upended, books and toys littering the floor. He doubted even his mother's noted benevolence towards her son's behavior would only go so far, and he thanked Merlin that she wasn't home but in London, shopping in Diagon Alley.
"Dobby," he shrieked, touching his forehead and finding blood. "DOOOOBBBBBYYYY."
Almost instantly the house-elf appeared, bowing, his nose scrapping the ground. "Master Draco," he panted. He stood up and gave Draco one, wide-eyed look before crying out, "Dobby will get Master Lucius."
"No." Draco grabbed Dobby by the arm. "Don't you dare," he warned, shuddering at the thought of what his father would say. And then with a groan, Draco slumped back against the wall, his entire body aching.
"But Master Draco is hurt," Dobby insisted. "Dobby must."
"Just fix it," Draco hissed, tears gathering in his eyes, more from humiliation than pain. "NOW."
The house-elf's ears drooped. Draco thought he looked almost sorry as he carefully reached for Draco's elbow with his outstretched hand. At once the pain began to subside, Dobby's fingertips brushing lightly over the bruised skin. Draco knew enough about magic to know that house-elves were especially powerful. Dobby didn't even have a wand. Still, it didn't mean he disliked Dobby any less, and the elbow now healed, Draco snatched it away, glaring.
But Dobby would not be deterred -- indeed it was his duty -- his fingers reaching to touch Draco's forehead. Draco flinched, expecting Dobby's fingers to be cold, but they were surprisingly warm to the touch, soothing almost, and it occurred to Draco -- as the gash above his left eyebrow magically knitted together -- that Dobby was tending to him with the same care his mother did.
Draco frowned. Dobby was a house-elf. An inferior species.
"Master Draco?"
Draco saw Dobby staring at him, a curious expression on his face, his bulbous eyes shining. Draco thought he might be crying.
"Go away," Draco snarled, incensed.
"But Master Draco," Dobby stammered.
"I said, 'Go away,'" Draco screamed, kicking Dobby away with his feet.
Dobby gave Draco one last sorrowful look before disappearing with a soft pop.
Draco dropped his head in his hands and began to cry in earnest. It wasn't fair. All he wanted to do was fly his new broom. He didn't mean to break anything.
Raindrops continued to blow through the broken window, and finally, miserable and sniffling, Draco pulled himself to his feet, his body still aching from his fall. One look through his window told Draco what was left of his broom. It was impaled to a tree, but Draco couldn't be arsed to care. Dobby would fetch it later (after he cleaned up the mess in Draco's room).
Draco carefully picked his way across his bedroom floor, careful to avoid broken glass when he saw something in his path.
It was a wooden box, disabused over the years and covered with runes. It was now missing a hinge, likely from its fall when Draco collided with his bookshelf.
Draco clutched it to his chest. He wondered if it still worked.
Tucking it under one arm, he crawled on top of his bed, sweeping aside his wizards chess set. (He was meaning to challenge Dobby to a rematch later.) He laid the box down on the bed in front of him and considered it for a moment.
He could wish for the rain to stop, but he wasn't sure if that would work. Then he pondered wishing something horrible to befall Dobby, but he knew that would only get him into trouble like it did the last time. And then the answer came to him so quickly, that he wondered why he didn't think of it in the first place.
He fished a scrap of parchment out his bedside table and wrote his wish down in a neat script and tucked it inside the box.
There was an explosion of ash inside Draco's fireplace and when the dust had cleared, Pansy Parkinson was standing in his bedroom, smirking.
"Took you long enough," said Draco.
Wishing harm upon your rivals is frowned upon.
"Rough day," said Pansy, stepping over a broken lamp.
Draco moved over to make a space for her on the bed. "Don’t want to talk about it," he growled.
"Sorry." It was a rare admission, and she looked it as she crawled onto the bed beside him. "I brought something to cheer you up." Pansy pulled something out of her pocket.
Draco perked up. "Really?" he asked. "What?"
"This." It was a copy of yesterday's Daily Prophet. She laid it on top of his lap.
Draco picked it up and scanned at the front page.
BOY-WHO-LIVED TO ATTEND HOGWARTS.
"Ministry sources confirm Harry Potter has received his Hogwarts letter and will be attending the venerable institution this September…
Draco looked up at Pansy and shrugged. "So?"
"So?" Pansy looked incredulous. "Don't you want to meet him?"
"No! The Potters were blood traitors. My father said so."
"He's famous. Draco, just think of it. He probably has loads of money. I bet he lives in a bigger house than yours."
Draco's face darkened. He hadn't considered that anyone might live in a bigger house than his. He crumpled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it onto the floor. "Doesn't matter. I'm not going to Hogwarts anyway."
"No!" Pansy looked at him wide-eyed.
Draco grinned, pleased to have Pansy's full attention again. He puffed out his chest. "I'm going to Durmstrang," he announced.
Pansy scoffed, "No, you're not."
"I am too. My father said."
Pansy still looked incredulous. "Your mother won't let you go to Durmstrang."
"It's not up to my mother, know-it-all." Draco rolled his eyes.
"Okay. Your mother won't let your father send you to Durmstrang," Pansy amended.
Draco deflated. She was, of course, right, and he sighed at the unfairness of it all. He didn't want to go to Hogwarts. Hogwarts taught stupid things like Transfiguration and Herbology and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Why one would want to defend against the Dark Arts was a mystery to Draco, especially when Dark Magic was the best kind of magic there was.
Draco felt defeated once again, and he barely paid attention as Pansy picked the crumpled newspaper off the floor. She seemed taken by a picture on the front page, and had smoothed the crinkles out the paper to stare at it.
Draco looked over her shoulder.
"I think he looks dreamy," she murmured.
Draco scowled. It was a drawing of Potter (because, according to the caption, there was no known photograph available of the boy). Whoever had made the picture had taken some creative license portraying the eleven-year-old boy hero, portraying more like a character from a comic book than a young boy. He was tall with broad shoulders and a long mane of black hair, and he had a wide, ready smile and bright, green eyes that winked whenever he caught Draco's attention.
Draco scowl deepen, his cheeks turning pink. "He looks like a wanker."
~ * ~
"Like I said, a wanker." Draco was scowling again, in what was to become permanent affliction whenever he was around Potter. Still stung from their meeting onboard the train, Draco was already plotting ways to get even, and he glumly looked on as Potter, looking less the hero than an eager stray dog, scrambled off the steps to the train and ran toward the grouping of boats that would ferry them all across the lake.
Crabbe and Goyle grunted in agreement, Goyle still nursing his finger from his confrontation with Weasley's rat. Pansy had already forgotten her infatuation with the Boy Wonder and was more concerned about the Sorting.
"I'd die if get sorted in Gryffindor," she said, eyeing the boats with concern. (She never learned to swim.) She gingerly stepped on board.
"Brave? You?" Goyle snickered as Pansy cried out a sound of alarm, the boat tipping precariously under his added weight.
"C- could happen," Pansy stammered, looking a bit green and clinging to the side of the boat. The lights of Hogwarts were mirror across the water's surface as the boat began to move, and Pansy relaxed her grip. "At least nobody's going to sort me into Hufflepuff," she called, letting out a shaky laugh. She appeared to be enjoying herself.
The mood was contagious.
"Or Ravenclaw," said Draco, snickering.
Pansy kicked him but not terribly hard. "Shut up. I'm smart."
They laughed, and then the four of them fell silent as Hogwarts drew closer. Draco found it hard not to be excited, and like the others, he scrambled off the boat when it had reached the shore. The castle beckoned and he crowded through the front door. There would still be time to correct past wrongs, but now he was in awe.
One mustn't use their wishbox to persuade implacable potions masters.
"It's not fair," Draco cried, following Professor Snape down the dungeon corridor. "How come Potter gets to be Seeker-"
Snape opened the door to his office and gave Draco one withering glare before going in. "Mister Malfoy. Do you really mean to lecture me on what is fair?"
Draco darted inside before Snape could have the chance to close the door on him. He wasn't about to give up so easily. Potter was practically a Muggle. It was simply unfair that he got to play Quidditch when Draco had been flying brooms since he was five years old. "Yes," he said hastily. Snape's gaze darkened. "I mean, no." He tried another tack.
Bribery. "My father is a very wealthy man--"
Draco found himself being forcibly ejected from Snape's office. "Wait," he cried. He was not too proud to grovel. "I'll do anything. Just let me play. "
Draco landed on his butt in the middle of the corridor floor just as a trio of giggling Hufflepuff girls was walking by. Draco thought he had never been more humiliated.
Meanwhile, Snape was still glowering from his office doorway. "Need I remind you that it was your stunt that got Potter onto the Gryffindor team in the first place?" He cocked an eyebrow before slamming the door in Draco's face.
Logic was never really Draco's strong suit. Especially when it was so much easier to lay the blame on someone else. Potter was going to pay.
Using one's wishbox to win the House Cup is strictly forbidden.
Professor McGonagall had him by the ear.
"But," Draco cried, "You don't understand. Potter's got a dragon."
"Detention," she bellowed. "Twenty points from Slytherin." She dragged him down the corridor. "You will be serving your detention in the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid. No complaints."
~ * ~
Red eyes haunted Draco's dreams.
Draco took to sleeping with a lighted candle. He kept his bedroom windows locked tight even though it was now summer.
Ever since he saw that thing with Potter, drinking unicorn blood like it was vampire, Draco had nightmares. He saw it in his dreams: that thing, cloaked in black, swooping toward him, eyes scarlet.
Draco's eyes flew open. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest as he stared up at his bedroom ceiling, his sheets twisted around his ankles.
"Dobby," he shouted into the dark. He wanted something warm to drink, to take the edge of the night, and yes, he may have wanted the company.
But no house-elf appeared.
"Dobby," he tried again, the fright from his dream subsiding into a sense of confusion. Dobby always came when called. It wasn't only his duty as a house-elf; it was just what he did.
Draco slid off the bed and took his candle with him as he padded out of his room. He thought about waking his mother, and indeed the lure of crawling into her bed was a strong one, but Draco reminded himself that he was twelve now. He had already grown considerably taller over the last year; he didn't need to act like a baby.
That settled, he walked past her bedroom door and went down the stairs. As he expected, a light was shining from under the library door, and he pushed the door open.
The chair behind his father's desk was empty, and the sound of a snore drew Draco's attention to the sofa across the room where he found his father fast asleep. Draco figured there was probably a proper explanation: the hour was late, his father too weary to climb the stairs, and he already knew, abstractly, that his father rarely slept in his mother's room. Still, Draco found was something disquieting about the sight of someone as powerful as Lucius Malfoy sound asleep in his robes and socks. But Draco remembered his father had been rather distracted lately, and he wondered if it had anything to do with Dobby's disappearance.
Draco wasn't about wake his father and ask. A proper Slytherin, Draco had a keen sense of self-preservation.
He was going to go back to bed, and he turned to leave the library when something caught his eye.
It was a book, ordinary looking and covered in worn leather, sitting on the center of his father's desk, but even from a distance Draco could tell there was nothing ordinary about it. It was just a feeling he had, a tingle in his spine. As he drew closer, he could see that it was a diary, which only heightened his curiosity.
He reached out his hand, compelled to see what was inside.
"Don't-- Touch it."
Draco froze. Even in the semi-darkness he could read his father's expression from across the room. Draco suddenly felt afraid.
"I -- apologize," he stammered, backing away from the desk. "I couldn't sleep. I--"
It was at that moment that Dobby chose to make his return, appearing at once out of thin air. "Master Lucius," he bowed, out of breath. "Master Draco." He tugged Draco's hand. "You must come. Dobby will make your hot cocoa."
The house-elf seemed insistent, and Draco had the feeling that there was something important he was missing. He wondered if his father might be hiding something, and if he had somehow got himself into trouble.
"Fath-" he started, but he was cut off.
"Good night, Draco," came his father's voice, his face still shrouded in shadow. His tone was final, and Draco knew there would be no further discussion without risking his father's ire.
Draco let Dobby lead him out of the room, and the library door locked with a click. Draco wondered why his father wouldn't trust him. It wasn't like he was a child.
Frustrated and still confused, Draco wheeled around, facing Dobby. "Where were you?" he hissed.
Dobby looked very sorry indeed, his ears drooping, his eyes starting to water. He made a move to grab an umbrella out of the nearby stand, no doubt intending to harm himself, but Draco stopped him, grabbing his arm. "O-out," was Dobby's stammering answer, as he shrunk under Draco's gaze. "Must not tell where Dobby went. Must not--"
The contempt Draco felt for Dobby returned, and it didn't take more than a hard shove for the house-elf to careen backwards into the opposite wall, where he landed, limbs in all directions, blubbering Draco's name.
His face in a sneer, Draco glared down at him. He had no idea what was going on, so he settled for what came easy: petulance. "Next time you come when I call you," he snarled. He gave Dobby a swift kick for his troubles and stormed back up the stairs to his bedroom.
It was there that he took his wishbox off his shelf. He wanted a good night's sleep, one that didn't dwell on red-eyed monsters and questions about his father's odd behavior. Ridding the world of Dobby was purely optional.
I wish to sleep, he wrote down and slipped the parchment square into the box.
And he did.
Concluded in Part 2
Author: mizbean
Recipient: catsintheattic
Characters/Pairings: Draco-centric, references to Draco/Pansy and Draco/Blaise, and shades of future of Harry/Draco because I'm a shipper.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings (highlight to view): none
Wordcount: 11,000 words
Summary: If you could have anything in world, what would you wish for?
Author's Notes: I originally got the idea for this story from my 7-year-old son. One day after school he was telling me, rather excitedly, about a story he had heard at school about a boy could have anything he wished for. It immediately started the wheels turning, and I wondered what would happen if someone like Draco, a boy who has almost everything, would be given the chance to wish for anything in the world. Of course, he would wish for more toys, but we know his story takes a darker turn as he grows older. What would he wish for then? Thank you to hijja for her immense patience and for giving me the opportunity to write this story.
Madame Malfoy,
It has come to my regrettable attention that a list of instructions was omitted when we packaged your wishbox for sale. It is imperative that you study each and every one of them carefully as your wishbox may not otherwise operate to its fullest potential.
Your humblest servant,
Monsieur Petit
~ * ~
"What is it?"
"Can't see."
"Stop pushing."
"You stop."
"No, you stop."
"Mum, Crabbe kicked me."
"Did not."
"Did too. Mum."
Pansy Parkinson's wail was lost in the din of shouting children crowding around Draco Malfoy. Today was his fifth birthday, and the South Lawn of the Manor was festooned with balloons and fairy lights. Later there would be pony rides and acrobats to marvel over, and, of course, a large chocolate cake to devour, but for now all eyes were on the small blond boy as he sat cross-legged on the grass, dwarfed beneath a teetering pile of birthday presents.
As Draco tore open the colorfully-wrapped boxes (immediately discarding their contents onto the lawn behind him), the children pressed closer, some pushing and shoving their way to the front, for it was a well-known fact that Draco always got the best presents, the fastest and shiniest toys, and when he grew bored he sometimes shared. But no present garnered more interest from the gathered children (and their respective parents) than the one Draco currently held in his hands.
The box, wrapped in his favorite color of Slytherin green, was small, much too small to contain a Junior Nimbus 500, the toy racing broom Draco so desperately coveted, and for that reason he wore distinctly perturbed expression.
"I heard it only arrived this morning," Mrs. Parkinson whispered to Mrs. Nott, from where they both stood a few steps beyond the scrum of shouting children.
"Express owled from Paris. Can you imagine?" Mrs. Nott tutted in return, even as she craned her neck so she could see.
"Cissy spoils that child rotten," another parent chimed in, and there was a chorus of agreement.
And then, on cue, an impeccably dressed, flaxen-haired woman stepped forward. Head held high, Narcissa Malfoy was long the object of both admiration and jealousy among the other mothers in Wizarding society. Not only did she have a beautiful home and an even more beautiful husband, she had the most darling son (even if he was all kinds of a brat), but even more to the point: she was richer than God. Surely, any gift she had hand-selected to give her son would soon become the most coveted toy in England. Perhaps there would still be time to get an order in before the Christmas rush!
A hush fell as Narcissa beamed down at her son. "Go on, dear. Open it."
It didn't appear that Draco needed to be told twice. He tore open the wrappings, and once again he was lost amidst the surging crowd of chattering children.
"Well, what is it?" someone finally yelled, the crowd of onlookers growing impatient.
There was no response, only the soft titter of a child's laughter, and then…
"It's just--" a child's voice was heard as the laughter grew louder, "an ugly old box."
One should never take one's wishbox for granted.
"What is it?" a little girl demanded breathlessly into Draco's ear. She was crouched down next to him, watching, as he lifted a square wooden box out from its green foil wrapping.
His frown deepened. He had no idea. It looked like it could be a music box, albeit one that looked like it had spent the last century cared for by trolls. Scorch marks marred the outside and part of a corner was nicked off, and it smelled unpleasantly of mildew and damp. But when Draco opened the hinged top, no music played, nor was there anything hidden inside. He poked at the velvet lining a few times just to make sure, and when he closed the lid again, tears of disappointment were prickling his eyes. The runes carved into the top of the box would offer Draco no clues to its purpose either. At age five Draco had only just started to learn his letters. Runes wouldn't be something he'd learn to read until he was older.
By now Draco was certain that he was the butt of a very cruel joke. The growing laughter -- from guests invited to his birthday party! -- only proved it.
Eyes stinging and feeling very betrayed, Draco glared at the other children. "Shut up," he snapped as the tears began rolling down his cheeks. "You too, Zabini. Who cares what you think?" he snarled, focusing his ire on the tall haughty-looking boy laughing the loudest. Blaise Zabini didn't even have a father. Draco thought he had a lot of nerve!
"You shut up," Zabini retorted.
Infuriated, Draco picked up the box with every intention of throwing it at Zabini's head when his mother grabbed him by the arm.
"Draco," she warned, and it was as if all the fight and energy had drained out of him. Draco adored his mother, and at this moment all he wanted was to curl up into her arms, his birthday party ruined. He doubted now that even a full-blown tantrum could save it.
"There, there, darling. It's all right," she said, brushing the tears from of his eyes. She had summoned a pillow from inside the Manor, and she was perched on top of it, her elegant robes fanned out around her.
Draco sniffled, burying his head in her lap. He soon forgot all about the party and the other children, his focus only on the touch of his mother's fingers as she stroked his hair. However, it wasn't long before his attention drifted back to the box lying forgotten on the grass. Draco lifted his head and found his mother smiling down at him. It was a sly sort of smile that spoke of magic and secrets, and Draco felt a tingle of excitement curl around inside him.
"Do you know what this is?" his mother asked, picking the box up again and touching the top almost reverentially with her fingertips.
"No," he admitted, barely able to contain himself. Nor, it seemed, could the other boys and girls still standing clustered around them, for all of them leaned forward at once, not wanting to miss a single word.
"Well, it is very rare," Narcissa said with smirk, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Really?" Draco said, beaming. Rare was good. Rare meant no one else had one. Especially Blaise Zabini.
"Really," Narcissa confirmed. "This rare artifact is…" she paused just long enough for the children listening in to move closer, "a wishbox."
Someone let out an audible gasp, and then everyone began talking at once.
Draco grinned.
He didn't especially know what a wishbox was, but he thought he had a good idea. More important, however, was that he was still the center of attention, jealously regarded by his friends. His mother's gift must be a very special gift indeed.
His mother smiled. "If you could have anything in the world, Draco, what is it that you would wish for?"
"Anything in the world?" Draco repeated. Well, there were great many things a young boy like Draco might like to wish for, but there was only one thing he really wanted.
"A Junior Nimbus 500 racing room," he blurted out.
Draco watched, fidgeting with excitement, as his mother wrote out the words Junior Nimbus 500 in careful, neat letters on a square of parchment. She folded it once and placed it inside the box. "Ready?" she asked that sly smile returning.
Draco nodded.
With her hand on top of the box, Narcissa closed her eyes and began to recite:
"I have a wish I wish to make.
A wish I wish will come true.
With all my heart and all my soul
I wish that you will grant me my wish
and make my dreams come true."
Draco watched as the runes carved into box began to glow, and with it came a heady twist of magic. It swirled around him, and Draco found the sensation both exciting and unnerving. Much how he imagined flying would be like. Oh, how he wished he had a broom…
"Ow!" Draco cried out, something hard smacking him across the forehead.
It was a toy broom. It lay on the grass at Draco's feet, its polished wooden handle gleaming in the sunlight and not a straw out of place. It was a thing of beauty. A perfect replica of the broom Fergus Stump rode when he lead his team to victory in the last Champions Cup, only sized down to fit one small boy.
The Junior Nimbus 500 was everything Draco could ever wish for. And he didn't have to share.
You can't never wish for too many toys.
Two hours later, sated and face smeared with chocolate, children were once again surrounding Draco. Only this time the adults had gone elsewhere, gossiping and drinking their tea at tidy white tables set across the lawn. The Junior Nimbus 500 lay where he left it an hour ago, bored with it already. There were other toys to play with, new ones "wished" from his wishbox: a model train magicked to run under its own power, Demons of the Dark Arts action figures, exploding wands. But they too lay scattered across the lawn, forgotten, even by the other children, their eyes trained instead on the motley-looking box sitting in Draco's lap.
Draco wondered what else he should wish for.
"A model dragon," a child shouted.
"Screaming yo-yo," said another.
"Chocolate Frogs." That was Goyle.
"A Baby Betsy doll," someone else yelled, a girl dressed head to toe in pink. Draco scowled. He wasn't going to wish for a doll.
"Blood lollies."
"Dungbombs."
"Ice mice."
"Chocolate Frogs."
"You said that already."
"So."
The shouting went on. Zabini rolled his eyes and claimed he was bored, and Draco vowed to never again invite Zabini to one of his parties. And then Draco smiled, inspiration striking. He knew exactly what he wanted to wish for.
"How do you spell 'go'?" asked Draco, turning to Zabini, a square of parchment and quill in hand.
Zabini frowned. "Go? G-O. Why?"
"No reason." Draco scrawled the word down on the piece of parchment and slipped it inside the box. He shut his eyes and began reciting the spell.
A light breezed whispered across the grass, and when Draco re-opened his eyes he saw he was alone, the children gone.
He grinned. Now he had all the toys to himself.
You can never wish for too many friends.
Draco footsteps echoed as he raced across the marble floor, his Junior Nimbus 500 dragging behind him. Of course, he wasn't supposed to run in the house, and indeed as he turned the corner into the music room, chock full of elegant and priceless treasures, he collided with a small table, sending a vase teetering over its edge. It crashed to the floor, shards of porcelain scattering in every direction. Draco paid it no heed, already running on to the next room, and besides, a house-elf appeared almost instantly to clean the mess up.
There was also mud on the floor, tracked in through the front door. It was still summer, the air heavy from an early morning rain shower, and Draco had spent the last hour alone, leaping over puddles in the garden on his toy broom. He had quickly grown tired of that and was now searching for something better to do.
His father was in the library, the door closed; in other words: DO NOT DISTURB (especially energetic little boys with muddy shoes), and when he finally came upon his mother in the salon she was busy conferring with her head elf, Mimsy. But her face lit up when he ran to her side, and Draco knew that at last he had found someone to play with.
But his hopes were soon dashed. After a quick peck on the forehead and a Scourgify from Mimsy for his muddy shoes, Narcissa shooed him on his way.
Draco stuck out his lower lip.
"Oh, darling. What now?" Narcissa's face wore a fine imitation of his petulant expression.
"Bored," Draco replied, his feet rooted to the spot and his arms crossed in front of his chest.
"Bored?" Narcissa laughed indulgently. She knelt down in front of him, the gold bracelets on her wrist jangling as she reached to brush the fringe out of his eyes. "You must have something to play with."
Draco shrugged.
"Well, I just know just the thing," said his mother, touching the tip of his nose.
"Really?" Draco's heart leapt. His mother made everything better.
"I do." She rose to her feet and paused to smooth the wrinkles out of her robes. "Dobby," she said with certainty. "I'm sure Dobby would love to play with you."
Wishes may come in all shapes and sizes.
Draco hated Dobby.
"I hate you," said Draco to the miserable-looking house-elf who appeared in his bedroom doorway, and he took no consolation when Dobby picked up a lamp off a nearby table and began using it to hit himself on the head.
Well, Draco found some consolation, for the house-elf was now crying, fat tears running down its ugly face. Draco found a stack of wooden blocks on the floor and tormented Dobby further, throwing them one by one at his head as the house-elf cowered on the floor. One bounced off the top of Dobby's eyelid, leaving a gash.
A trickle of blood ran down the side of Dobby's face, and Draco wasn't about to feel sorry. He hated Dobby.
But the spectacle of watching a bleeding house-elf blubber all over his carpeted floor could only cheer Draco for so long. He wanted someone to play with. Someone fun.
It had started to rain again, the dim light outside his windows coloring his bedroom a gloomy shade of gray. Sighing heavily, Draco slumped down on top his bed, hugging his pillow to his chest. He began to cry, and it was through tear-stained eyes that he saw the wishbox on his bedside table.
He wondered if he could wish for something more than just a toy broom or chocolate frogs.
"Dobby," he barked, sitting up.
He had an idea, but he wasn't sure if it was going to work. He opened one of his drawers and pulled out a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill.
The house-elf lifted his tear-stained face out of his hands. "Yes, Master Draco?"
"How do you spell 'friend'?"
Moments later a little girl stepped out of Draco's fireplace. She was dressed in frills and had pink ribbons in her hair. On her face was a petulant expression very much like the one on Draco's.
Draco reacted to her appearance with shock, springing off his bed. He was expecting someone like Crabbe or Goyle. He might have even tolerated Zabini.
But what he wasn't expecting was a girl. "Wait!" he cried as he watched in horror as the little girl walked over to his toy chest and picked up a stuffed bear. She turned it upside down and made a face, the toy bear expressing its displeasure with an irritated growl.
"Who are you?" he demanded, balling his fists.
The little girl turned and gave him look like he had just grown a set of tentacles. "I'm Pansy Parkinson, stupid." She tossed the bear behind her. It landed headfirst on the floor with an oof.
There was something about her ill-tempered demeanor that sparked a memory. "You were at my birthday party, " he said.
"Duh." She rolled her eyes and plopped down on top his bed.
"Duh. I don't talk to girls," snapped Draco, pushing her back off.
She landed on floor in a puddle of pink, and with one evil-looking grin she kicked him in the shin.
"Ow!" Draco jumped on one foot, rubbing his leg. "That hurt," he roared.
Pansy sat on the floor with her arms crossed in front of her chest. "Maybe you should."
She seemed awfully bossy, and he wondered if he should make Dobby get rid of her, but Dobby seemed to have taken the girl's sudden arrival as an excuse to disappear.
Draco narrowed his eyes, still hopping on one leg. "Why did you come here?"
Pansy shrugged. "Dunno. I just felt like it, I guess." She narrowed her eyes back at him. "Why?"
"Nothing," he said, looking at his wishbox. He wondered if it might be broken. Then it occurred to him that he didn't have anything else to do. He turned back to Pansy. "You want to play a game?"
She grinned at him. "Sure."
Use your wishbox early and often.
Pansy and Draco became fast friends. Still, he kept a healthy distance should some of the frippery and pink rub off. They spend the summer running around the gardens, Draco on his toy broom and Pansy chasing behind. But by the time autumn came and went, the toy Nimbus 500 was left abandoned next to the reflecting pool, exposed to the elements until a house-elf appeared one afternoon and carried it away.
The wishbox quickly became Draco's favorite thing ever, and he kept it on his bedside table. Mountains of toys crowded Draco's bedroom until he could barely walk a path across the floor until one day, bored and annoyed with the mess, Draco wished them all away. They disappeared in an instant, and Draco smiled to himself, satisfied until the lull of boredom overcame him once again, and he picked the wishbox and wished for something else.
Some nights he even slept with it, placing it on a pillow next to his head, and he would lie awake, imagining what other magical things he could wish for: perhaps a tray of sticky pudding for breakfast or a never-ending jar of strawberry jam. If he had a taste for chicken he could just make a wish and find a whole roasted chicken steaming on a platter waiting for him at the dinner table. Or if he was lonely he could wish for company and find Crabbe or Goyle tumbling out of the fireplace in his room. One time, annoyed that he wouldn't stop sniveling, he even wished Dobby away, and in a whisper the elf was gone (resurfacing moments later in a duck pond, shivering and gasping for breath).
But then on his sixth birthday, Draco got an even better present: a baby dragon of his very own. One couldn't really play with a dragon; they were impractical for children, breathing fire and being a generally fearsome creature, but Draco's mother had insisted it was very rare, and his friends looked very jealous besides. A child-sized castle with it very own working dungeon was Draco's seventh birthday present, and then on his eighth birthday arrived a flying carpet, procured with some careful bribery from his father.
Still, the wishbox remained, sitting on a shelf high above Draco's bed.
Adult supervision is strongly advised for all children under the age of 12.
"Up."
The broomstick quivered at Draco's feet.
"Up." His voice had more urgency now, and Draco hoped, more determination. He shut his eyes, his hand stretched out in front of him, willing the broomstick to rise with every fiber of his being. Outside, rain was pelting against his bedroom window, the noise a distraction until he concentrated harder and focused his mind. "Up," he repeated, eyes clenched tight. Still, nothing happened and then, a held breath later, something hard smacked him in the palm.
Eyes flying open, Draco's heart leapt at the sight. Yesterday was his eleventh birthday and here was his present, a Comet 260, hovering at his fingertips. He was willing to bet he was the youngest Wizard in England to own such a fine broom, but even better: He had made it fly -- all by himself.
Grinning, he hopped on.
The broomstick dipped under his weight, and for a wild, panicked moment he was hurled sideways across his bedroom, one hand holding on to the broom handle for dear life, the other flailing behind him, trying to make it stop.
But it was no use. The broomstick had a will of its own, or more precisely: Draco had no idea what he was doing. It was one thing for a boy to leap over mud puddles in the garden on a toy broom. Quite another to fly indoors on a broom designed to go high speeds. Still, miraculously, Draco managed to hold on as the broomstick careened higher, skimming over the top of his bed and flying straight for his bedroom wall.
"Nooo!" He flinched, and the broomstick banked left at the last moment, his shoulder making painful contact with the side of his bookcase. A shower of books fell down to the floor. He paid no attention, for he was now speeding in the other direction, still frantically trying to right his broom. Gritting his teeth, he finally managed to pull himself upright, banking again to avoid crashing into his wardrobe. At least he was sitting on the broom properly now, his knuckles white as they clung to the handle. He made another arc around his bedroom, starting to get the hang of it.
Flying wasn't so hard after all, he decided, and he leaned his body forward just as a Seeker would be reaching for the Snitch.
The broom reacted instantly, speeding up, and again Draco was thrown sideways. This time there were no miracles, for the broom was now careening out of control.
"Help! Stop!" Draco cried, panicking. He tried to pull up on the broom handle, hoping to slow the broom's forward momentum but that only sent him flipping over backwards, and now he was flying upside down straight toward his bedroom window.
"Help me," he whimpered, shutting his eyes and certain of eminent death, the window locked tight to keep out the rain.
Then it occurred to him. He could just let go, so he did.
Draco landed in a crumpled heap, his desk chair upended over him. The broomstick kept flying, crashing through his window, and broken glass rained down on Draco's head.
This had to be the worst day of Draco's life.
His elbow was starting to throb. Leaning on his other arm, he gingerly sat up, and then winced, at the sight of his bedroom. It looked as if a cyclone had hit it, chairs upended, books and toys littering the floor. He doubted even his mother's noted benevolence towards her son's behavior would only go so far, and he thanked Merlin that she wasn't home but in London, shopping in Diagon Alley.
"Dobby," he shrieked, touching his forehead and finding blood. "DOOOOBBBBBYYYY."
Almost instantly the house-elf appeared, bowing, his nose scrapping the ground. "Master Draco," he panted. He stood up and gave Draco one, wide-eyed look before crying out, "Dobby will get Master Lucius."
"No." Draco grabbed Dobby by the arm. "Don't you dare," he warned, shuddering at the thought of what his father would say. And then with a groan, Draco slumped back against the wall, his entire body aching.
"But Master Draco is hurt," Dobby insisted. "Dobby must."
"Just fix it," Draco hissed, tears gathering in his eyes, more from humiliation than pain. "NOW."
The house-elf's ears drooped. Draco thought he looked almost sorry as he carefully reached for Draco's elbow with his outstretched hand. At once the pain began to subside, Dobby's fingertips brushing lightly over the bruised skin. Draco knew enough about magic to know that house-elves were especially powerful. Dobby didn't even have a wand. Still, it didn't mean he disliked Dobby any less, and the elbow now healed, Draco snatched it away, glaring.
But Dobby would not be deterred -- indeed it was his duty -- his fingers reaching to touch Draco's forehead. Draco flinched, expecting Dobby's fingers to be cold, but they were surprisingly warm to the touch, soothing almost, and it occurred to Draco -- as the gash above his left eyebrow magically knitted together -- that Dobby was tending to him with the same care his mother did.
Draco frowned. Dobby was a house-elf. An inferior species.
"Master Draco?"
Draco saw Dobby staring at him, a curious expression on his face, his bulbous eyes shining. Draco thought he might be crying.
"Go away," Draco snarled, incensed.
"But Master Draco," Dobby stammered.
"I said, 'Go away,'" Draco screamed, kicking Dobby away with his feet.
Dobby gave Draco one last sorrowful look before disappearing with a soft pop.
Draco dropped his head in his hands and began to cry in earnest. It wasn't fair. All he wanted to do was fly his new broom. He didn't mean to break anything.
Raindrops continued to blow through the broken window, and finally, miserable and sniffling, Draco pulled himself to his feet, his body still aching from his fall. One look through his window told Draco what was left of his broom. It was impaled to a tree, but Draco couldn't be arsed to care. Dobby would fetch it later (after he cleaned up the mess in Draco's room).
Draco carefully picked his way across his bedroom floor, careful to avoid broken glass when he saw something in his path.
It was a wooden box, disabused over the years and covered with runes. It was now missing a hinge, likely from its fall when Draco collided with his bookshelf.
Draco clutched it to his chest. He wondered if it still worked.
Tucking it under one arm, he crawled on top of his bed, sweeping aside his wizards chess set. (He was meaning to challenge Dobby to a rematch later.) He laid the box down on the bed in front of him and considered it for a moment.
He could wish for the rain to stop, but he wasn't sure if that would work. Then he pondered wishing something horrible to befall Dobby, but he knew that would only get him into trouble like it did the last time. And then the answer came to him so quickly, that he wondered why he didn't think of it in the first place.
He fished a scrap of parchment out his bedside table and wrote his wish down in a neat script and tucked it inside the box.
There was an explosion of ash inside Draco's fireplace and when the dust had cleared, Pansy Parkinson was standing in his bedroom, smirking.
"Took you long enough," said Draco.
Wishing harm upon your rivals is frowned upon.
"Rough day," said Pansy, stepping over a broken lamp.
Draco moved over to make a space for her on the bed. "Don’t want to talk about it," he growled.
"Sorry." It was a rare admission, and she looked it as she crawled onto the bed beside him. "I brought something to cheer you up." Pansy pulled something out of her pocket.
Draco perked up. "Really?" he asked. "What?"
"This." It was a copy of yesterday's Daily Prophet. She laid it on top of his lap.
Draco picked it up and scanned at the front page.
BOY-WHO-LIVED TO ATTEND HOGWARTS.
"Ministry sources confirm Harry Potter has received his Hogwarts letter and will be attending the venerable institution this September…
Draco looked up at Pansy and shrugged. "So?"
"So?" Pansy looked incredulous. "Don't you want to meet him?"
"No! The Potters were blood traitors. My father said so."
"He's famous. Draco, just think of it. He probably has loads of money. I bet he lives in a bigger house than yours."
Draco's face darkened. He hadn't considered that anyone might live in a bigger house than his. He crumpled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it onto the floor. "Doesn't matter. I'm not going to Hogwarts anyway."
"No!" Pansy looked at him wide-eyed.
Draco grinned, pleased to have Pansy's full attention again. He puffed out his chest. "I'm going to Durmstrang," he announced.
Pansy scoffed, "No, you're not."
"I am too. My father said."
Pansy still looked incredulous. "Your mother won't let you go to Durmstrang."
"It's not up to my mother, know-it-all." Draco rolled his eyes.
"Okay. Your mother won't let your father send you to Durmstrang," Pansy amended.
Draco deflated. She was, of course, right, and he sighed at the unfairness of it all. He didn't want to go to Hogwarts. Hogwarts taught stupid things like Transfiguration and Herbology and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Why one would want to defend against the Dark Arts was a mystery to Draco, especially when Dark Magic was the best kind of magic there was.
Draco felt defeated once again, and he barely paid attention as Pansy picked the crumpled newspaper off the floor. She seemed taken by a picture on the front page, and had smoothed the crinkles out the paper to stare at it.
Draco looked over her shoulder.
"I think he looks dreamy," she murmured.
Draco scowled. It was a drawing of Potter (because, according to the caption, there was no known photograph available of the boy). Whoever had made the picture had taken some creative license portraying the eleven-year-old boy hero, portraying more like a character from a comic book than a young boy. He was tall with broad shoulders and a long mane of black hair, and he had a wide, ready smile and bright, green eyes that winked whenever he caught Draco's attention.
Draco scowl deepen, his cheeks turning pink. "He looks like a wanker."
~ * ~
"Like I said, a wanker." Draco was scowling again, in what was to become permanent affliction whenever he was around Potter. Still stung from their meeting onboard the train, Draco was already plotting ways to get even, and he glumly looked on as Potter, looking less the hero than an eager stray dog, scrambled off the steps to the train and ran toward the grouping of boats that would ferry them all across the lake.
Crabbe and Goyle grunted in agreement, Goyle still nursing his finger from his confrontation with Weasley's rat. Pansy had already forgotten her infatuation with the Boy Wonder and was more concerned about the Sorting.
"I'd die if get sorted in Gryffindor," she said, eyeing the boats with concern. (She never learned to swim.) She gingerly stepped on board.
"Brave? You?" Goyle snickered as Pansy cried out a sound of alarm, the boat tipping precariously under his added weight.
"C- could happen," Pansy stammered, looking a bit green and clinging to the side of the boat. The lights of Hogwarts were mirror across the water's surface as the boat began to move, and Pansy relaxed her grip. "At least nobody's going to sort me into Hufflepuff," she called, letting out a shaky laugh. She appeared to be enjoying herself.
The mood was contagious.
"Or Ravenclaw," said Draco, snickering.
Pansy kicked him but not terribly hard. "Shut up. I'm smart."
They laughed, and then the four of them fell silent as Hogwarts drew closer. Draco found it hard not to be excited, and like the others, he scrambled off the boat when it had reached the shore. The castle beckoned and he crowded through the front door. There would still be time to correct past wrongs, but now he was in awe.
One mustn't use their wishbox to persuade implacable potions masters.
"It's not fair," Draco cried, following Professor Snape down the dungeon corridor. "How come Potter gets to be Seeker-"
Snape opened the door to his office and gave Draco one withering glare before going in. "Mister Malfoy. Do you really mean to lecture me on what is fair?"
Draco darted inside before Snape could have the chance to close the door on him. He wasn't about to give up so easily. Potter was practically a Muggle. It was simply unfair that he got to play Quidditch when Draco had been flying brooms since he was five years old. "Yes," he said hastily. Snape's gaze darkened. "I mean, no." He tried another tack.
Bribery. "My father is a very wealthy man--"
Draco found himself being forcibly ejected from Snape's office. "Wait," he cried. He was not too proud to grovel. "I'll do anything. Just let me play. "
Draco landed on his butt in the middle of the corridor floor just as a trio of giggling Hufflepuff girls was walking by. Draco thought he had never been more humiliated.
Meanwhile, Snape was still glowering from his office doorway. "Need I remind you that it was your stunt that got Potter onto the Gryffindor team in the first place?" He cocked an eyebrow before slamming the door in Draco's face.
Logic was never really Draco's strong suit. Especially when it was so much easier to lay the blame on someone else. Potter was going to pay.
Using one's wishbox to win the House Cup is strictly forbidden.
Professor McGonagall had him by the ear.
"But," Draco cried, "You don't understand. Potter's got a dragon."
"Detention," she bellowed. "Twenty points from Slytherin." She dragged him down the corridor. "You will be serving your detention in the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid. No complaints."
~ * ~
Red eyes haunted Draco's dreams.
Draco took to sleeping with a lighted candle. He kept his bedroom windows locked tight even though it was now summer.
Ever since he saw that thing with Potter, drinking unicorn blood like it was vampire, Draco had nightmares. He saw it in his dreams: that thing, cloaked in black, swooping toward him, eyes scarlet.
Draco's eyes flew open. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest as he stared up at his bedroom ceiling, his sheets twisted around his ankles.
"Dobby," he shouted into the dark. He wanted something warm to drink, to take the edge of the night, and yes, he may have wanted the company.
But no house-elf appeared.
"Dobby," he tried again, the fright from his dream subsiding into a sense of confusion. Dobby always came when called. It wasn't only his duty as a house-elf; it was just what he did.
Draco slid off the bed and took his candle with him as he padded out of his room. He thought about waking his mother, and indeed the lure of crawling into her bed was a strong one, but Draco reminded himself that he was twelve now. He had already grown considerably taller over the last year; he didn't need to act like a baby.
That settled, he walked past her bedroom door and went down the stairs. As he expected, a light was shining from under the library door, and he pushed the door open.
The chair behind his father's desk was empty, and the sound of a snore drew Draco's attention to the sofa across the room where he found his father fast asleep. Draco figured there was probably a proper explanation: the hour was late, his father too weary to climb the stairs, and he already knew, abstractly, that his father rarely slept in his mother's room. Still, Draco found was something disquieting about the sight of someone as powerful as Lucius Malfoy sound asleep in his robes and socks. But Draco remembered his father had been rather distracted lately, and he wondered if it had anything to do with Dobby's disappearance.
Draco wasn't about wake his father and ask. A proper Slytherin, Draco had a keen sense of self-preservation.
He was going to go back to bed, and he turned to leave the library when something caught his eye.
It was a book, ordinary looking and covered in worn leather, sitting on the center of his father's desk, but even from a distance Draco could tell there was nothing ordinary about it. It was just a feeling he had, a tingle in his spine. As he drew closer, he could see that it was a diary, which only heightened his curiosity.
He reached out his hand, compelled to see what was inside.
"Don't-- Touch it."
Draco froze. Even in the semi-darkness he could read his father's expression from across the room. Draco suddenly felt afraid.
"I -- apologize," he stammered, backing away from the desk. "I couldn't sleep. I--"
It was at that moment that Dobby chose to make his return, appearing at once out of thin air. "Master Lucius," he bowed, out of breath. "Master Draco." He tugged Draco's hand. "You must come. Dobby will make your hot cocoa."
The house-elf seemed insistent, and Draco had the feeling that there was something important he was missing. He wondered if his father might be hiding something, and if he had somehow got himself into trouble.
"Fath-" he started, but he was cut off.
"Good night, Draco," came his father's voice, his face still shrouded in shadow. His tone was final, and Draco knew there would be no further discussion without risking his father's ire.
Draco let Dobby lead him out of the room, and the library door locked with a click. Draco wondered why his father wouldn't trust him. It wasn't like he was a child.
Frustrated and still confused, Draco wheeled around, facing Dobby. "Where were you?" he hissed.
Dobby looked very sorry indeed, his ears drooping, his eyes starting to water. He made a move to grab an umbrella out of the nearby stand, no doubt intending to harm himself, but Draco stopped him, grabbing his arm. "O-out," was Dobby's stammering answer, as he shrunk under Draco's gaze. "Must not tell where Dobby went. Must not--"
The contempt Draco felt for Dobby returned, and it didn't take more than a hard shove for the house-elf to careen backwards into the opposite wall, where he landed, limbs in all directions, blubbering Draco's name.
His face in a sneer, Draco glared down at him. He had no idea what was going on, so he settled for what came easy: petulance. "Next time you come when I call you," he snarled. He gave Dobby a swift kick for his troubles and stormed back up the stairs to his bedroom.
It was there that he took his wishbox off his shelf. He wanted a good night's sleep, one that didn't dwell on red-eyed monsters and questions about his father's odd behavior. Ridding the world of Dobby was purely optional.
I wish to sleep, he wrote down and slipped the parchment square into the box.
And he did.
Concluded in Part 2