A Bad Death Eater Gone Good - Act One 01
A Bad Death Eater Gone Good - Actt One 01
**
Paul Smecker: “... That’s just what we need now: some sensational story in the papers making these boys out to be superheroes, triumphing over evil. Let me squash the rumours now. These two are not heroes. They’re just two ordinary men who were put in an extraordinary situation and they just happened to come out on top. Yes, nothing from our far-reaching computer system has turned up diddly on these two. All we know is what we found out from the neighbours, and the general consensus is, they’re angels. But angels don’t kill...”
-- Boondock Saints, 1999
**
ACT ONE: ORDINARY MEN
**
“... Draco? Wake up... Draco...”
The voice was insistent. It was squeaky. It would loud and high-pitched. Draco Malfoy wondered when Pansy Parkinson managed to sneak into his bedroom.
Oh, wait. Pansy was dead.
A younger, higher male voice, one that Draco recognised as his, squeaked out in fear, Pansy’s dead?!
The sharp words rang in his head, amplifying the throbbing pain that was the beginning of a massive chronic headache. Draco groaned, rolled onto his side, and pulled the covers over his head.
Of course Pansy was dead; she’d been dead nearly ten years-she killed herself instead of participating as the entertainment in a Revel.
WHAT?
That annoyingly high-pitched voice, his younger voice, echoed in his blindingly painful head. So did the strange voice calling his name, ensuring a deep, throbbing ache spread from the middle of Draco’s forehead to the back of his skull. Merlin, maybe someone had hit him over the head?
“Master Draco! You’s must gets up!”
Master Draco? Goodness, he hadn’t heard anyone call him that in years. Deciding that their advice was sound, Draco cracked open one eye, and then another, and peered around his childhood bedroom at Malfoy Manor in shock and confusion.
On the other side of the bed stood a tiny green house elf in Malfoy pillowcase, wringing its hands and staring worriedly at Draco.
Draco stared back, trying to think. Which elf was this? Malfoy Manor hadn’t had any elves since Nagini ate all of them in his seventh year. Finally, it hit Draco. There was a house elf in his room. In his childhood bedroom at Malfoy Manor. Calling him ‘Master Draco.’
“Gibbs?” queried Draco slowly, blinking at the house elf.
“Yes, Master Draco?” asked the house elf.
“Gibbs,” repeated Draco, in the same confused tone.
“Yes, Master Draco?” repeated Gibbs, the house elf, patiently.
“Gibbs-”
“Master Draco, you’s must gets up,” the house elf finally interrupted, done with playing the strange game. “Yous and Master and Mistress are to gets to the Quidditch Cup laters.”
“The what?” asked Draco, frowning. What Quidditch Cup?
“The Quidditch World Cup, Master Draco,” responded the house-elf, hopping off the bed and waddling its way over to the dressers on the far side of the room. The elf snapped his fingers and a few drawers slid open; a thin cashmere jumper floated out of one drawer, socks and underwear from another, a light undershirt from one more and then a belt with buckle.
Draco slowly sat up in his bed, staring at Gibbs. Was he talking about the Quidditch World Cup in 1994? Was Draco back in 1994?
A part of Draco was dancing in joy - the blasted Clock had worked, sending him back in time and before the Dark Lord even had a body - but another part of him was running around and screaming like his head was cut off at the thought of being a fourth year again. It was so long ago - and he and Potter weren’t friends - what if Potter didn’t remember? Couldn’t yet remember what happened in the future?
Oooh, Draco’s headache throbbed at the final thought.
“Draco?”
Looking up, Draco opened his eyes and saw his mother hovering at his bedroom door. “Darling, it’s already gone seven. We must get to the grounds before noon, and you’re still in bed. You said you were going with your father to pick up the Port Key at the Ministry.”
Narcissia Black-Malfoy looked unfazed, cool and composed in a regal manner. The tall, willowy blonde emulated the best features of the Malfoys in their aloofness but the tenacity of the Black line - after all, she had gone down fighting. Narcissia Malfoy had fought her own sister to the death. It was, unfortunately, her death.
“Mother,” said Draco, breathlessly. He hadn’t expected to see her - he had almost forgotten the point of the Clock taking them back in time.
Narcissia rolled her eyes. “Do get up, Draco. Gibbs already has your clothing prepared. Wash up and come eat breakfast.”
Draco dumbly nodded, certain he looked like a Hufflepuff, and slipped out of his bed on unsteady feet. With uncharacteristic patience, Draco let Gibbs usher him into his bathroom, even taking the small elf’s gentle reminders (“don’t forget to wash yous hairs, Master Draco”).
Once fully dry and dressed, Draco meandered down familiar corridors, framed portraits murmuring their hello’s and good morning’s, sculptures and artwork proudly displayed and not blood-soaked or broken.
The double doors to the dining room were shut - father never did enjoy the hustle and slight bustle of the house elves getting on with their work in the hallways and preferred family solitude, especially at meal times - and Draco hesitated before them.
What was he, a stupid ‘Puff? Slytherins may have a sense of self-preservation, but he needed to be a Gryffindor right now and march right in, tell his father hello and that they needed to break Potter out of his relatives and then demand that his father not take up Muggle Baiting during the Quidditch World Cup - oh, and maybe find some Goblins to lay down a bet of Krum catching the Snitch but Ireland winning, side note - but Draco hesitated.
He hesitated.
Then, he sucked in his breath, pushed the doors open loudly, saw his parents look up from their seats, and smiled broadly and -
“Damn it, Draco, shut those blasted doors!”
“Of course, Father.”
Yes, Father. No, Father. Your stupid beliefs in the Dark Lord got us all nearly killed, Father.
Damn it, he was supposed to be a general in the Dark Lord’s Legion (of Dark Nincompoops, seriously), and his thoughts were all over the place. That would not do (thank God Auntie Bellatrix was still in Azkaban).
Draco sighed, sliding into his seat at the table. It was going to be a long summer.
**
Draco had forgotten quite a lot over the years. Particularly, he forgot the events in the Top Box with the Ministers at the World Cup. He followed his mother and father in, and was immediately surprised by the annoyed look on the Bulgarian Minister’s face; Fudge was finishing his introduction of Harry Potter to the man, but it seemed the language barrier was causing some humiliating, awkward stilted conversation between the three.
His father sneered at the Weasleys - the eldest, Arthur, sneered back, and Draco wondered if his father was ever that good at acting before. He certainly knew how to keep a blank face, but living under the Dark Lord’s thumb showed Draco his father wasn’t nearly as blank or taciturn as he was previously led to believe.
As the youngest Weasleys turned to face the newcomers, Draco nodded amicably at Harry Potter first. “Potter,” he greeted neutrally. He glanced over at the bushy-haired companion and nodded politely as well. “Granger.”
He then paused as his eyes swept over the redheads. It wasn’t that he had anything against the Weasleys personally, he just never got along with them. With an internal sigh, he gritted out as politely as he could, “Weasleys.”
At this, Draco missed the confused glance that Harry and Hermione shared, but didn’t miss Harry’s, “Erm... Malfoy,” in response, nor did he miss the young male Weasley’s hiss of, “Harry!”
Well. This was a setback. Apparently, Potter didn’t remember the previous timeline.
As he settled into his seat, Draco frowned, his eyes blank as he stared ahead at the enormous Quidditch pitch and oblivious to the Bulgarian team’s fly-by. Instead, a startling thought made him shiver and nearly weep.
What if I’m the only one who remembers?
**
“I can’t believe you said hello to him!”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake...” Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes as Ron continued his rant against Draco Malfoy, who for some strange reason, was nice to her and Harry.
“Ron, it wasn’t a big deal. He was polite. I was polite,” replied Harry with infinitely more patience than Hermione was currently demonstrating.
The entire Weasley clan was moving slowly from the stadium seats back to their tent, after the wonderful Irish win, despite Krum catching the snitch. The eldest, Bill and Charlie, were walking towards the back with Mr. Weasley so that they could watch over the younger children. Percy was trying to behave as though he didn’t belong to the large, rowdy bunch; the twins walked together, heads close and whispering, while Ginny walked with Ron, Harry and Hermione - although her patience too, was wearing thin.
“I can’t believe you said hello to him!”
“Great Merlin, Ron, if you don’t shut up within the next three seconds I will send my Bat-Bogey hex on you!” growled Ginny, finally giving up all pretenses.
Ron fell silent, into a sulky mope; seeing it, Charlie quickly sidled up to the youngest male Weasley and engaged him in to a conversation about Viktor Krum.
The debate raged and Ginny was soon drawn in, leaving Harry and Hermione to walk companionably beside each other.
“You have to admit, Malfoy acting that way was pretty weird,” offered Harry, finally.
Hermione gave a hum of agreement. “Maybe he fell off his broom, hit his head hard on the ground and had a personality transplant?”
Harry chortled. “Yeah, sure. And I’m Dudley in disguise.”
“Well, it would explain how you inhaled dinner earlier,” laughed Hermione. “But, no, I understand what you mean. Something about him was... off.”
“He was dressed the same,” mused Harry aloud. “But he wasn’t behaving like Draco Malfoy should.”
“There was no arrogance,” answered Hermione evenly. “He didn’t have his nose up, no snobby tone... oh my God, he was normal.”
Both Harry and Hermione shivered in response.
“Something is not right with him,” Harry declared. “Do you think he’s been possessed?”
“If he has, I’m not going to say anything to anyone,” replied Hermione. “That’s the first time he’s ever greeted me by the name and not mudblood. I’d be quite happy if he’s being possessed by You-Know-Who.”
The two shared a quiet laugh, glancing over as the debate between Charlie, Ginny and Ron drew Bill into the discussion, all with loud, raised voices and violent hand gestures.
“Alright, alright, that’s enough, kids,” interrupted Mr. Weasley, slowing down as they reached their camping tent. “We’re back anyway. You can continue it inside.”
Harry and Hermione made to enter the tent flap with the rest, but Harry stopped Hermione with a gentle hand on her upper arm.
“Hermione...” he began slowly, “If there is something wrong with him-Draco, I mean-we’ll keep our eyes on him, right?”
Hermione frowned, pensively for a moment; Harry could see her thoughts turning inward as she considered it. “Yes,” she finally answered, slowly. “Yes, we’ll keep an eye on him.”
Harry nodded. “Good.”
Together, they entered the tent, separating as Hermione went to sit with Ginny and Harry to sit with Ron, who decided to make a fool of himself, acting out with the twins all of Krum’s ‘best of moments.’
Soon Mr. Weasley was ushering everyone to bed; Harry and Hermione shared a final, hard glance at each other, reaffirming their belief in keeping an eye on Draco Malfoy, and then the tent was silent.
For a while, anyway.
**
Continue to Act One Part 02...
**
Paul Smecker: “... That’s just what we need now: some sensational story in the papers making these boys out to be superheroes, triumphing over evil. Let me squash the rumours now. These two are not heroes. They’re just two ordinary men who were put in an extraordinary situation and they just happened to come out on top. Yes, nothing from our far-reaching computer system has turned up diddly on these two. All we know is what we found out from the neighbours, and the general consensus is, they’re angels. But angels don’t kill...”
-- Boondock Saints, 1999
**
ACT ONE: ORDINARY MEN
**
“... Draco? Wake up... Draco...”
The voice was insistent. It was squeaky. It would loud and high-pitched. Draco Malfoy wondered when Pansy Parkinson managed to sneak into his bedroom.
Oh, wait. Pansy was dead.
A younger, higher male voice, one that Draco recognised as his, squeaked out in fear, Pansy’s dead?!
The sharp words rang in his head, amplifying the throbbing pain that was the beginning of a massive chronic headache. Draco groaned, rolled onto his side, and pulled the covers over his head.
Of course Pansy was dead; she’d been dead nearly ten years-she killed herself instead of participating as the entertainment in a Revel.
WHAT?
That annoyingly high-pitched voice, his younger voice, echoed in his blindingly painful head. So did the strange voice calling his name, ensuring a deep, throbbing ache spread from the middle of Draco’s forehead to the back of his skull. Merlin, maybe someone had hit him over the head?
“Master Draco! You’s must gets up!”
Master Draco? Goodness, he hadn’t heard anyone call him that in years. Deciding that their advice was sound, Draco cracked open one eye, and then another, and peered around his childhood bedroom at Malfoy Manor in shock and confusion.
On the other side of the bed stood a tiny green house elf in Malfoy pillowcase, wringing its hands and staring worriedly at Draco.
Draco stared back, trying to think. Which elf was this? Malfoy Manor hadn’t had any elves since Nagini ate all of them in his seventh year. Finally, it hit Draco. There was a house elf in his room. In his childhood bedroom at Malfoy Manor. Calling him ‘Master Draco.’
“Gibbs?” queried Draco slowly, blinking at the house elf.
“Yes, Master Draco?” asked the house elf.
“Gibbs,” repeated Draco, in the same confused tone.
“Yes, Master Draco?” repeated Gibbs, the house elf, patiently.
“Gibbs-”
“Master Draco, you’s must gets up,” the house elf finally interrupted, done with playing the strange game. “Yous and Master and Mistress are to gets to the Quidditch Cup laters.”
“The what?” asked Draco, frowning. What Quidditch Cup?
“The Quidditch World Cup, Master Draco,” responded the house-elf, hopping off the bed and waddling its way over to the dressers on the far side of the room. The elf snapped his fingers and a few drawers slid open; a thin cashmere jumper floated out of one drawer, socks and underwear from another, a light undershirt from one more and then a belt with buckle.
Draco slowly sat up in his bed, staring at Gibbs. Was he talking about the Quidditch World Cup in 1994? Was Draco back in 1994?
A part of Draco was dancing in joy - the blasted Clock had worked, sending him back in time and before the Dark Lord even had a body - but another part of him was running around and screaming like his head was cut off at the thought of being a fourth year again. It was so long ago - and he and Potter weren’t friends - what if Potter didn’t remember? Couldn’t yet remember what happened in the future?
Oooh, Draco’s headache throbbed at the final thought.
“Draco?”
Looking up, Draco opened his eyes and saw his mother hovering at his bedroom door. “Darling, it’s already gone seven. We must get to the grounds before noon, and you’re still in bed. You said you were going with your father to pick up the Port Key at the Ministry.”
Narcissia Black-Malfoy looked unfazed, cool and composed in a regal manner. The tall, willowy blonde emulated the best features of the Malfoys in their aloofness but the tenacity of the Black line - after all, she had gone down fighting. Narcissia Malfoy had fought her own sister to the death. It was, unfortunately, her death.
“Mother,” said Draco, breathlessly. He hadn’t expected to see her - he had almost forgotten the point of the Clock taking them back in time.
Narcissia rolled her eyes. “Do get up, Draco. Gibbs already has your clothing prepared. Wash up and come eat breakfast.”
Draco dumbly nodded, certain he looked like a Hufflepuff, and slipped out of his bed on unsteady feet. With uncharacteristic patience, Draco let Gibbs usher him into his bathroom, even taking the small elf’s gentle reminders (“don’t forget to wash yous hairs, Master Draco”).
Once fully dry and dressed, Draco meandered down familiar corridors, framed portraits murmuring their hello’s and good morning’s, sculptures and artwork proudly displayed and not blood-soaked or broken.
The double doors to the dining room were shut - father never did enjoy the hustle and slight bustle of the house elves getting on with their work in the hallways and preferred family solitude, especially at meal times - and Draco hesitated before them.
What was he, a stupid ‘Puff? Slytherins may have a sense of self-preservation, but he needed to be a Gryffindor right now and march right in, tell his father hello and that they needed to break Potter out of his relatives and then demand that his father not take up Muggle Baiting during the Quidditch World Cup - oh, and maybe find some Goblins to lay down a bet of Krum catching the Snitch but Ireland winning, side note - but Draco hesitated.
He hesitated.
Then, he sucked in his breath, pushed the doors open loudly, saw his parents look up from their seats, and smiled broadly and -
“Damn it, Draco, shut those blasted doors!”
“Of course, Father.”
Yes, Father. No, Father. Your stupid beliefs in the Dark Lord got us all nearly killed, Father.
Damn it, he was supposed to be a general in the Dark Lord’s Legion (of Dark Nincompoops, seriously), and his thoughts were all over the place. That would not do (thank God Auntie Bellatrix was still in Azkaban).
Draco sighed, sliding into his seat at the table. It was going to be a long summer.
**
Draco had forgotten quite a lot over the years. Particularly, he forgot the events in the Top Box with the Ministers at the World Cup. He followed his mother and father in, and was immediately surprised by the annoyed look on the Bulgarian Minister’s face; Fudge was finishing his introduction of Harry Potter to the man, but it seemed the language barrier was causing some humiliating, awkward stilted conversation between the three.
His father sneered at the Weasleys - the eldest, Arthur, sneered back, and Draco wondered if his father was ever that good at acting before. He certainly knew how to keep a blank face, but living under the Dark Lord’s thumb showed Draco his father wasn’t nearly as blank or taciturn as he was previously led to believe.
As the youngest Weasleys turned to face the newcomers, Draco nodded amicably at Harry Potter first. “Potter,” he greeted neutrally. He glanced over at the bushy-haired companion and nodded politely as well. “Granger.”
He then paused as his eyes swept over the redheads. It wasn’t that he had anything against the Weasleys personally, he just never got along with them. With an internal sigh, he gritted out as politely as he could, “Weasleys.”
At this, Draco missed the confused glance that Harry and Hermione shared, but didn’t miss Harry’s, “Erm... Malfoy,” in response, nor did he miss the young male Weasley’s hiss of, “Harry!”
Well. This was a setback. Apparently, Potter didn’t remember the previous timeline.
As he settled into his seat, Draco frowned, his eyes blank as he stared ahead at the enormous Quidditch pitch and oblivious to the Bulgarian team’s fly-by. Instead, a startling thought made him shiver and nearly weep.
What if I’m the only one who remembers?
**
“I can’t believe you said hello to him!”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake...” Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes as Ron continued his rant against Draco Malfoy, who for some strange reason, was nice to her and Harry.
“Ron, it wasn’t a big deal. He was polite. I was polite,” replied Harry with infinitely more patience than Hermione was currently demonstrating.
The entire Weasley clan was moving slowly from the stadium seats back to their tent, after the wonderful Irish win, despite Krum catching the snitch. The eldest, Bill and Charlie, were walking towards the back with Mr. Weasley so that they could watch over the younger children. Percy was trying to behave as though he didn’t belong to the large, rowdy bunch; the twins walked together, heads close and whispering, while Ginny walked with Ron, Harry and Hermione - although her patience too, was wearing thin.
“I can’t believe you said hello to him!”
“Great Merlin, Ron, if you don’t shut up within the next three seconds I will send my Bat-Bogey hex on you!” growled Ginny, finally giving up all pretenses.
Ron fell silent, into a sulky mope; seeing it, Charlie quickly sidled up to the youngest male Weasley and engaged him in to a conversation about Viktor Krum.
The debate raged and Ginny was soon drawn in, leaving Harry and Hermione to walk companionably beside each other.
“You have to admit, Malfoy acting that way was pretty weird,” offered Harry, finally.
Hermione gave a hum of agreement. “Maybe he fell off his broom, hit his head hard on the ground and had a personality transplant?”
Harry chortled. “Yeah, sure. And I’m Dudley in disguise.”
“Well, it would explain how you inhaled dinner earlier,” laughed Hermione. “But, no, I understand what you mean. Something about him was... off.”
“He was dressed the same,” mused Harry aloud. “But he wasn’t behaving like Draco Malfoy should.”
“There was no arrogance,” answered Hermione evenly. “He didn’t have his nose up, no snobby tone... oh my God, he was normal.”
Both Harry and Hermione shivered in response.
“Something is not right with him,” Harry declared. “Do you think he’s been possessed?”
“If he has, I’m not going to say anything to anyone,” replied Hermione. “That’s the first time he’s ever greeted me by the name and not mudblood. I’d be quite happy if he’s being possessed by You-Know-Who.”
The two shared a quiet laugh, glancing over as the debate between Charlie, Ginny and Ron drew Bill into the discussion, all with loud, raised voices and violent hand gestures.
“Alright, alright, that’s enough, kids,” interrupted Mr. Weasley, slowing down as they reached their camping tent. “We’re back anyway. You can continue it inside.”
Harry and Hermione made to enter the tent flap with the rest, but Harry stopped Hermione with a gentle hand on her upper arm.
“Hermione...” he began slowly, “If there is something wrong with him-Draco, I mean-we’ll keep our eyes on him, right?”
Hermione frowned, pensively for a moment; Harry could see her thoughts turning inward as she considered it. “Yes,” she finally answered, slowly. “Yes, we’ll keep an eye on him.”
Harry nodded. “Good.”
Together, they entered the tent, separating as Hermione went to sit with Ginny and Harry to sit with Ron, who decided to make a fool of himself, acting out with the twins all of Krum’s ‘best of moments.’
Soon Mr. Weasley was ushering everyone to bed; Harry and Hermione shared a final, hard glance at each other, reaffirming their belief in keeping an eye on Draco Malfoy, and then the tent was silent.
For a while, anyway.
**
Continue to Act One Part 02...