The Boy Who Lived

The Malfoy Mask

When Draco arrived at Hogwarts, he knew immediately that it felt different. And he hated it. He wanted to escape. But he knew he'd been wanting to escape for a while now.

He held his mask in place. He had little choice. He knew how the other students regarded him and even within his own House, well, it didn't do to trust anyone, especially with the kind of traitorous thoughts he'd been having since the death of Albus Dumbledore. Since long before then...

He held his mask in place.

Instead, he watched and carefully monitored. He watched how Severus ruled with an iron fist, installing discipline but without meting out punishment. The Dark Lord's name was enough to ensure the children marched in formation around the school. He watched how the Carrow siblings considered themselves kings amongst fools, sneering and leering at the students and staff alike but, in particular, Professor McGonagall. He watched how Severus kept them on a tight leash, like the dogs they were, so ready to attack. Amycus, especially, seemed to have a particular hatred towards Professor McGonagall, no doubt because of her closeness to Potter, no matter the rumours of an acrimonious separation and his apparent fleeing of the country. Draco didn't believe a word of it. He knew Potter too well. Potter wasn't one to run away. Nor was he one to turn his back on McGonagall, no matter what Madame Rosmerta had revealed under interrogation. Potter was, undoubtably, up to something with Granger and Weasley and he thought anyone was an idiot if they believed otherwise (the Dark Lord included).

But he couldn't allow such thoughts bubble to the surface. He had to quash them, bury them deep behind his mask. He couldn't afford to let it slip. He knew he was being monitored since he failed to raise his wand against Dumbledore.

Though the mask nearly fell on so many occasions, even as early as the second day back, just two days after he'd sat opposite Blaise on a very subdued Hogwarts Express, and just shy of forty-eight hours after he'd watched a disciplined and quiet Sorting. It nearly slipped because, on Tuesday 2 September 1997; Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ronald Weasley broke into the Ministry of Magic, right under Voldemort's bloody non-existent-nose, made it all the way down to the Wizengamot Courts in the depths of the Ministry, caused some kind of mayhem, exact details unknown, and escaped, again. They tried to keep it quiet but there were too many witnesses and word was passed to someone on Potterwatch and every common room had a radio tuned in, even Slytherin. One had to admire Potter's balls, so to speak. There had to be a reason for him to make such a foolhardy expedition.

Still, it confirmed Draco's intuitive belief that Potter had not enrolled at Durmstrang. Unfortunately, it meant that everyone else knew that too. It would mean that the Dark Lord's hunt for the Boy who Lived would be doubled in effort.

Since the bathroom incident, Draco's anger with Potter subsided completely, transferring instead to his father. But his mother had said that his father was to blame, that the Dark Lord had wanted Potter at the Ministry. It didn't make much sense to him but that was irrelevant now. What was clear was that the Dark Lord wanted Potter dead in some sort of obsessive vendetta and that the Dark Lord spent a lot of time and energy focused on killing a mere boy who was Draco's age. That made Potter a victim in all this, as much as Draco was.

This epiphany meant something else clicked into place for Draco; that Potter wasn't just a mere boy. The Dark Lord had earmarked Potter as a powerful wizard and perhaps he was for all that clueless, messy exterior. He'd somehow killed Quirrell at eleven, killed a Basilisk at twelve, duelled with the Dark Lord at fourteen and survived it all. He'd had the Dark Lord and his servants try to kill him year after year since he revealed his identity at eleven. Draco suddenly felt a surprising admiration for the boy who survived so much after so many years, a boy who had firm and honourable beliefs and fought for them with his life, a boy who was still desperately fighting despite it seeming so hopeless. A boy who lived.  A boy who seemed to be winning, or at succeeding in what he needed to do. A boy whose life had been turned upside down by the Dark Lord's ideas of a 'pure' race. Potter didn't even choose any of this, it was just thrust upon him at fifteen months old.