By mid-August, as the height of summer began to ebb, I was enjoying a long holiday at our estate in Wiltshire.
Hogwarts is comfortable enough, but home has endless advantages. The one I'm most grateful for is having a house-elf to help with everything. During the summer, Bink—who used to be my nanny and is now my personal attendant—helped tirelessly with all sorts of things, studies included. We know each other too well; in a sense, she's the one person I can hide the least from.
Of course, it wasn't always like this. When Bink first started serving me, I had no idea what to do with her.
The problem wasn't Bink in particular so much as the Malfoy elves in general—terrified of incurring the master's wrath, they spoil the master's son to the utmost and try to anticipate every need to avoid a scolding. I wasn't upper-class by nature, so the treatment felt absurdly excessive.
Left to them, my meals alone would have made me six times wider than I am now. They'd try to do my every move for me. Perhaps that becomes easy once you're used to it, but for someone unaccustomed to using others' hands more than his own, it's a nuisance.
If a child grows up served like that from the moment he can understand words, his ego will swell and he'll turn out thoroughly unpleasant. Fed up with the environment, I tried to nudge Bink, little by little, toward behaving more like a normal human servant.
—Don't punish yourself. You belong to me; there is no part of you I may hurt at whim.
—Teach me instead. Or are you a house-elf who would deny his master the chance to grow wiser?
—Do you do everything for me because you enjoy thwarting my wishes? Do you think it best if I can't do anything without you?
—Withholding advice only ensures your master will be humiliated elsewhere. If you give me your all, then give me your opinion too.
After I said things like that, her attitude improved considerably… and, in exchange, I created an incredibly nosy house-elf who ignores fifty percent of what I say.
"Young master, you really should change your hairstyle," Bink chirped. "Please, push your fringe up. It would be so much less trouble when you're reading!"
"I told you before that I can't settle without my fringe. You even styled it for me just now."
"Of course. It suits you! But you've kept the same hair forever, young master. A little variety would make you—and your future wife—much happier!"
…Incredibly noisy. But she does keep quiet while I'm reading.
Naturally, if Bink behaved like this in front of my parents—especially my father—she'd lose her head in an instant. Hence we only speak this way in my room, behind a soundproofing charm. Outside, she remains the trembling house-elf. Even so, she's far more capable now than when she was a cringing bundle of nerves. It seems true that neither humans nor house-elves can use their full abilities without safety.
Perhaps because they've been oppressed, the elves who serve my father directly are drained, listless, a bit vacant. One elf, Dobby, is punished particularly harshly—perhaps because his temperament rubs Father wrong. The other elves don't pity him; they even keep their distance.
Part of that is Dobby himself. There are few house-elves who can even form the thought, "I don't want to serve my master." However vile the human might be, it's hard for an elf—once bound—to imagine letting go. Dobby is unusual, showing a reluctance to submit to my father, and a glimmer of valuing freedom over servitude. Among house-elves, that is the greatest heresy.
I don't know if Father realizes it, but he likes Dobby—for the pleasure of stamping on that smallest spark of defiance. What a sadist. Is this how he satisfies those appetites, and why is he so lenient with his family? That's frightening enough in its own right.
Father has been getting on my nerves lately. Current conditions in the wizarding world aren't ideal for the Malfoys. All the surviving members of my mother's family have taken ill, and the Ministry has been making frequent surprise inspections for dark artefacts. Many items in our collection—things "on the darker side"—will soon be leaving Father's possession. He's just a collector; I've never seen him use a single one, or even check how to. But what's forbidden to keep is forbidden to keep. Being forced to part with historic pieces wounds his pride.
On the other hand, he seems generally pleased with me, which is convenient. He raised an eyebrow when I said I'd finished first last year, especially being closely rivaled by a Muggle-born girl, but concluded it was likely down to favoritism from Dumbledore and the like. The favoritism was, of course, coming from our Head of House. He also decided the last-minute points at the feast were a case of standing up to Dumbledore's tyranny. Fortunately Professor Snape doesn't seem to have told him anything otherwise, so in Father's mind I've settled into the image of a well-behaved, ideal son. It's helpful that he insists on seeing things his way. Still, one difference of opinion kept growing.
"You haven't checked to see if you've left anything behind, young master! Go on, check!"
"Hm… Oh, a note for a present."
"Exactly! You must go to Diagon Alley and think of gifts for the ailing Lady Cygnus and Lady Cassiopeia! And you would forget the reminder note—cart before the hippogriff!"
"I know… I know. I'm going."
"Have a pleasant trip."
After Bink bowed as low as she dared—head not touching the carpet, per my standing order—I headed to my father's rooms to escort him.
—
Diagon Alley—well, technically Knockturn Alley.
It seems Father has decided to share a few secrets. I'm grateful, and not. It will be useful in an emergency. I hate that that's precisely why I must learn it.
Our first stop was Borgin and Burkes, an antiques dealer in magical artefacts. My first time in Knockturn Alley, and the street was lined with strange, ominous wares. Frankly the Ministry ought to start weeding out dark goods before going after inconvenient high-status people like us; I wonder if they even bother investigating.
We walked a street far emptier than Diagon Alley and entered the largest shop. A rusty bell rattled above the door. Dust lay over everything, and the shelves fairly shouted "dark magic." Why do dark objects look sinister at a glance? If they were whiter, they'd be easier to disguise. While I mused and nosed among the wares, Father asked if there was anything I wanted. If there was, would he buy me one of those Muggle-killing necklaces? I had no need of it, of course.
Not that he meant to buy me anything. His expression was both admonishing and pleased.
"I'm buying you a racing broom, so we won't buy anything here. All right?"
There it was: our crucial disagreement. The thing I hated most this summer. I tried one more time to steer him off it.
"Father… I'm really not cut out for Quidditch. My marks are slightly ahead of the year already. If I can't find time to study, I might not meet your expectations."
"You're a fine boy, Draco. There's no world in which you lose to some girl with no magical pedigree, Quidditch or no."
Like a nailing breeze to chaff. He overestimates me to an unmanageable degree. I've hinted throughout the holiday that I don't need a broom and don't need to play. It hasn't budged him. He's drunk on his son's humility and only cheers me on. Love without a trace of malice is the hardest kind to handle.
Despite my small, desperate resistance, Mr. Borgin emerged from the back. The conversation shifted; the adults began to talk. I had to shelve persuasion for now.
As expected, Father was parting with a few pieces. Nothing that would expose him in a surprise inspection, but he was reluctant. The bargaining went smoothly, punctuated by barbs aimed at his old enemy, Arthur Weasley. Unable to join in, I drifted. Eavesdropping was fine, but this was a chance to broaden my horizons. I decided to wander the shop.
My interest in magic is partly a necessity, but there's joy in it too—examining unfamiliar objects and feeling out the spells woven into them, especially when I've never seen them.
I ambled through the clutter. A long coil of hangman's rope. A gorgeous opal necklace. And this large black cabinet—this shelf seemed to link two places.
Yes. Amazing. A permanent Portkey of sorts? Wizarding teleportation is more limited than I'd thought. A general-purpose device like this is rare—but what good is it without its counterpart?
Thinking that, I peered through the crack of its door. To my shock, I met a pair of eyes staring back from inside. I very nearly screamed. Those unmistakable green eyes—there was no doubt. Why was Harry Potter here?
I snapped a look toward Father and Mr. Borgin. Luckily, they were deep in discussion and didn't notice me jumping. I wanted to pretend I hadn't seen, but I couldn't leave the protagonist stuffed in something that was suspicious. As discreetly as I could, I drew my wand and whispered a Disillusionment Charm over Harry. I heard a soft intake of breath at the sudden chill. No time to explain. I eased the cabinet open and hauled him out, hissing for silence.
My charm was admittedly sloppy. The colors blurred well enough, but the light still wavered around Harry's outline. Fortunately, Borgin and Burkes were dim and the men were intent on business, but we'd be spotted if we dallied.
We had to leave. I called Father that I was going to look for gifts for our ill relations. Before either man could turn, I grabbed Harry and bolted into Knockturn Alley.
My half-baked charm wore off a short sprint later.
When the shimmer shed, Harry stood there in better clothes than the ones I'd first seen at Madam Malkin's—but much dirtier. However shabby, the Boy Who Lived would cause a stir in a place like this. I dragged him behind a barrel, out of sight.
It seemed to hold, for the moment. Catching my breath, I finally faced him.
"What are you doing here? It's dangerous to be alone."
Harry scowled at the scolding. "I know that was a bit arrogant, but—what? Sulky phase?"
"You just slipped your father, didn't you?"
"So he'll be furious later… Brilliant."
"He won't be if he never learns why."
Harry looked in a state—sooty, dust-streaked, a crack in one lens. How had he get here?
"Explain," I said, flicking Scourgify and Tergeo to clean him up a bit.
"Whoa, what was that? I used something called chimney flying, but I missed Diagon Alley."
"Floo travel? Didn't you come from Muggles?"
"I'm staying with Ron for the rest of the summer. Hey—don't slick my hair back!"
So, on his first trip by Floo, he bungled the pronunciation and dropped a few fireplaces past where he meant to land. That might not even be his fault. I'd suspected he'd come here out of curiosity—serves me right for assuming.
"Why are you so casual about using magic outside school?" he asked—the first real question between us in over a month.
"With an adult witch or wizard nearby to supervise, it's actually quite acceptable. Especially if both parents are of old lineage."
"That's not fair."
"No. The wizarding world is not fair. There, you look presentable."
Once he looked a little better, I draped my cloak over him and pulled up the hood. No way was I parading his famous face around here.
"The Weasleys must be frantic. We need to get you to them."
"But I don't know where they are in Diagon Alley."
"Then I'll take you—actually, no need. Look. A perfect landmark. Follow him."
A giant of a man, twice the height of an ordinary person, was striding down the alley. Hagrid, Hogwarts's gamekeeper. I had a score to settle with him from last year and no wish to meet, but I was grateful now. "Will Harry go with us?" he asked—but of course I wouldn't. Has he forgotten the dragon?
Harry still hesitated, so I nudged him toward Hagrid. "Go on. We'll come to Diagon Alley later. We might run into each other."
He wavered, then chose. "See you, Draco!" he called, waving and running off after Hagrid.
Still dazzlingly the protagonist.
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