Chapter Text
Malfoy Manor – August 1992
The summer air was rich and swelteringly warm. A clear blue sky cast a magical spell on the colourful Wiltshire countryside, and a balmy breeze tickled the rolling grassy hills ever so slightly.
One might say it was the perfect summer’s day.
Draco Malfoy, however, was having the worst day of his life.
For one, he was being made to attend a small garden get-together of his parents' social circle. Draco had been left with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle to play Conjurers Croquet while his father had gone inside with his associates and his mother chatted away with her company, sipping on chilled lemonade.
For another thing, despite the sweltering heat – as sweltering as Britain could get, that is – he’d still been forced into dress-robes that were simply too much in the heat, even if he did look stunning, he felt like he was melting! Even the Cooling Charms stitched into the fabric failed to keep the icky stickiness away.
Most importantly – most annoyingly – however, was the fact that Harry Potter had still not responded to any of his owls! Draco swung his mallet with a huff.
Last Draco had known, they’d been on good terms, having helped solve the mystery of the Philosopher's Stone and Quirinus Quirrell.... So why wasn’t the stupid scar-headed boy-who-lived writing back? It had been five whole weeks!
He did suspect, perhaps, that maybe his father was keeping his letters from him. The Malfoy Patriarch had made it clear from the moment Draco had stepped off the train in mid-July, that he was extremely disappointed in him, and did not want Draco 'gallivanting around like a foolish Gryffindor and tarnishing the Malfoy name any longer.’
The owl that had swooped in with his practically perfect first year F.R.O.G results a couple of weeks back had smoothed things over a little. But only a little. His father still insisted upon badgering him about his behaviour at every opportunity.
Draco sighed, leaning against his mallet as Gregory swung his. The idiot must have got his charms wrong – yet again – because the ball went careening like a Bludger, bouncing off the croquet rungs before zipping across the vast lawns of the manor, causing a few of Draco’s father’s prized peacocks to scatter, squawking angrily.
“Oopsy-daisy!” said Greg, before rushing after it.
Draco only rolled his eyes. He was quickly becoming incredibly bored, and very much wanted to get out of the sun.
“I’m going to the little wizards’ room,” he told Vincent as a means of escaping. “Carry on without me.”
“Why don’t you just go in that small forest over there?” Vincent asked him, pointing to the thicket of trees nearest them.
“Sweet Merlin, Vincent!” Draco exclaimed. “That’s the Sacred Malfoy Grove! Wandmakers have been harvesting the wood from its trees for generations, I’m certainly not going to tamper with ancient magic like that!” he scoffed before stalking away, missing how Vincent’s face suddenly went very pale indeed.
Honestly, he thought to himself as he stomped across the impeccably well-kept lawn.
“Is everything quite alright, darling?” his mother called from beneath the flower-entwined pavilion, where all of her gossiping wix were now watching Draco curiously, cooing as they fanned themselves to swat away the heat.
“Yes, Mother! Just marvellous!” he called back, darting up the marble steps and ducking into the refreshingly chilled ballroom with a heavy sigh. He gazed up at the crystal chandelier before deciding to just wander around the cool halls of the manor for a while, occasionally stopping to chat with his painted ancestors about how boring these sorts of visits were.
“Thou doth not know thine luck!” his twelfth-great uncle, Cadmond the Crackpot, exclaimed from his ornate frame. “Rejoice! Such visitation lasts not an eternity. I envy thee, dear nephew.”
Draco only scoffed, venturing on. None of them seemed to understand just how truly dreadful he felt, it was completely and utterly unfair. He turned the corner into the West Wing, planning to close himself inside his bedchambers, when he spotted a house-elf peeking inside one of his father’s rooms, the door slightly ajar.
“I say, you there, what are you up to?” he demanded, making toward the creature.
The house-elf startled, looking at Draco with wide, green eyes before squeaking and hastily snapping into thin air. Draco froze, blinking at the spot where the elf Draco knew now to be Dobby had just been doing… something.
How very odd.
Come to think of it, Dobby had been behaving very oddly recently… Whenever Draco talked at the elf about whatever was bothering him (which was usually the owl situation with Harry), Dobby had been much, much stranger than usual. And now that Draco thought about it, it seemed that all Dobby asked him about nowadays was –
“Calm yourself, Yaxley!”
Draco jumped back as his father’s voice resonated from the room Dobby had been peeking into.
“Do you really think you’d be sitting there if we had nothing to discuss?”
“I had rather thought we were here for a pleasant afternoon rendezvous,” a voice that Draco recognised as Theodore Nott’s father, Atticus Nott, replied, chuckling.
“I just still don’t see how,” came Corban Yaxley’s voice. “The Dark Lord is long gone.”
Draco knew he shouldn’t , but he couldn’t help but lean in to listen, pressing his cheek against the door.
“This may be true, but it is far from being over yet,” Draco’s father said with firm conviction. “There’s still hope of a brighter, purer future for our kind.”
“And you truly believe opening it is our best chance?” Atticus Nott scoffed.
“It’s a start!” Draco’s father snapped. “And it’s what he asked me to do.”
“And do you still have the key?” came the grating voice of Selwina Crabbe.
“No. It’s with Mr Borgin – Who I intend to meet within the week!” Draco’s father quickly reassured as the other voices began to groan in protest. “As you all well know the Ministry has recently been… poking around a lot more.”
The others promptly made begrudging noises of agreement.
“Well, we’ll smuggle it in with a student, that will be the safest option,” boomed the gruff voice of Ivan Goyle.
“And it must be somebody pure of blood, those were the Dark Lord’s instructions,” drawled Draco’s father. “No Half-bloods or filthy little Mudbloods. The Chamber of Secrets can only be opened by a Pureblooded soul.”
Draco took a swift step back from the door, cursing as the floorboard beneath him gave an ominous creak. The conversation inside the room drew to a sudden stop.
“What was that?” asked Selwina Crabbe.
Draco held his breath, ducking behind an antique vase as footsteps clacked nearer. There was quiet, and then the door was shut with a careful snick.
Draco took that as his cue to tear down the hallway and up the stairs, not daring to glance back until he reached his bedchambers, rummaging through his bedside drawer until he plucked out a tatty little black book with a purple stain on the top corner.
The journal that had been given to Draco by his future self in an attempt to change his fate did, of course, mention that Salazar Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets would be opened in his second year, and that a handful of Muggle-borns would be petrified. Draco hadn’t thought it would be that serious if it all got resolved anyway – it was hardly any of his business if it only affected the Muggle-borns.
What Future-Draco had failed to tell Present-Draco, however, was the fact that it was his business.
Because his father was the one behind it.
***
Diagon Alley – August 1992
“Come now, Draco, don’t dawdle.”
Draco hesitated, watching his father, who had very suddenly made a sharp turn down the crooked, narrow path of Knockturn Alley.
They had come to Diagon today to tick off Draco’s second year school list, which seemed to mostly consist of a series of books written by the Gilderoy Lockhart.
Draco had an inkling of what was running through his father’s head; he knew he was to venture to someone called Mr Borgin for ‘the key.’
However, his mother had always been very firm on the rule that Draco was to never go down Knockturn Alley until he was of age. However, his mother was not with them... His father had sprung the trip on her that morning, earning a suspicious look as she had reminded him she had already planned to have tea with Mrs Greengrass.
Draco looked once more to the jollier, colourful shops painting Diagon, before taking a deep breath and crossing the line to Knockturn, chasing after his father’s long, purposeful strides.
“Knockturn, Father?” he asked with a practised air of calmness, staying as close to his father’s cloak as he possibly could.
The creepy hags, dodgy looking wix, and other mischief-making miscreants that dwelled in Knockturn Alley all parted for Lucius Malfoy.
“I’ve a small errand to run. It won't take long at all,” Draco’s father replied smoothly, then slanted him a dubious look. “I’m sure this is nothing compared to your little… misadventures with your school friends?”
Draco, entirely used to the barbs his father had been jabbing him with since July, chose not to answer, glowering at his shiny dragonhide shoes until they reached a crooked little shop with a sign that read ‘Borgin and Burkes.’
His father swept inside, and Draco followed suit, a bell jingling as the door swung.
All sorts of knick-knacks decorated the cobwebbed shelves; dusty books to tea-sets, gobstones to sparkling jewellery, each likely thickly coated with dark magic or powerful curses.
Draco startled as a glass eye snapped in his direction, watching him with its piercing blue pupil. In a sort of trance, he reached out curiously to tap it –
“Touch nothing, Draco!” his father hissed from the till, where he swatted at the bell impatiently.
Draco snatched his hand away at once. “Yes, Father,” he replied, before curiously looking around the display of shelves stacked with dusty ornaments and antiques. He crouched down to examine a shelf lined with the skulls of humans and creatures alike, both disturbing and fascinating at the same time.
A squat man with slick hair and a downright creepy smile appeared from the back.
“Mr Malfoy, what a pleasure it is to see you again – delighted!” he simpered, then noticed Draco and clapped his hands together. “And this must be the young Master Malfoy! Charmed, charmed! How may I be of assistance? I must show you, Mr Malfoy, just in today, and very reasonably priced – !”
Draco’s father made an impatient noise and cut in; “I’m not buying today, Mr Borgin, I’m selling…”
Draco quickly got bored of the conversation as his father went on about his work at the Ministry, stepping away as something else caught his eye. It appeared to be a dark branch of wood resembling a skeletal hand on a velvet cushion. Draco had recently read a book about magical properties of certain woods; he wondered what powers this one possessed.
“Father, can I have this?”
“Ah, the Hand of Glory!” exclaimed Mr Borgin, rushing over. Draco grimaced as the man scooped it up with carefully gloved hands, recoiling slightly as he caught a glimpse of something off-white and he realised that actually it wasn’t a peculiar shaped piece of enchanted wood. It was exactly as it seemed. A decaying hand.
“Best friend of thieves and plunderers!” Mr Borgin grinned before turning to Draco’s father. “Your son has fine taste, sir!”
“I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,” Draco’s father spat, continuing to speak over the little man as he began to grovel. “Although, at the rate he’s headed, frolicking around with entirely the wrong sort and getting low school marks, that may indeed be all he’s good for,” he drawled, peering down his nose at Draco.
“It’s not my fault, the teachers all have favourites! That Hermione Granger –” Draco began, only to be interrupted by his father bringing his cane down on the ground with a sharp thunk!
“I would’ve thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of no wixen family beat you in every exam!” he snapped with an air of finality.
Draco ducked his head, cheeks burning, ashamed and angry as his father carried on discussing with Mr Borgin. He distracted himself by examining a coil of hangman's rope, and was just admiring the way a cursed opal necklace sparkled when he became aware of the conversation again.
“There is another matter, I thought I might…” his father’s voice trailed off as he leant in to whisper. Mr Borgin’s eyes went wide, and he began nodding frantically.
“Yes, sir! Of course, sir!” he said with a flourishing deep bow, “If you’ll follow me to the back, it’s heavily warded with your, well, your wards, as you well remember.” Mr Borgin gave a nervous chuckle as he opened the counter gate and gestured for Draco’s father to pass through with a sweeping motion. “Not that I’ve tried to get past them or anything, no, sir!”
“Remember, Draco,” his father uttered over his shoulder, “you’re not to touch a thing. ”
“‘Memememe, mememememe!’” Draco mimicked when he was sure his father was out of earshot, blowing a raspberry in his father’s general direction and feeling his ancestors rolling in their graves.
He sighed, trying to calm down, going back to admiring the cursed jewellery, when there very abruptly came a quiet “Pssst!”
Draco shot upright, glancing in every direction as a chill ran down his spine.“Who – Who’s there?” he asked cautiously, goosebumps spreading when there came no response.
“Show yourself!” he demanded, and very nearly screamed when something came stumbling out of a large, black cabinet. A boy, covered in soot, with… with green eyes and scruffy dark hair.
Draco felt his jaw drop, still reeling from the shock. “Potter?!” he hissed, “What in Merlin’s name are you doing here?”
Harry Potter adjusted his wonky glasses, squinting slightly. “I could ask you the same question, Draco,” he replied hoarsely. “What is this place?”
“Borgin and Burkes, Knockturn Alley,” Draco huffed, crossing his arms and trying to ignore that fluttering feeling he got in his stomach around Harry. He was sure he had to be allergic to him by this point. It was already flaring up, for Merlin’s sake.
“How do I know this isn’t some sort of trick?” Draco asked. “What if you’re just an illusion from this enchanted cabinet, hmm?”
“What?” Harry replied, frowning, clearly baffled.
“One that, oh, I don't know..." Draco shrugged carelessly before jabbing Harry’s chest."Shows you who you’re the most angry with?!”
Harry had the gall to look startled. “Why would you be angry with me?”
“Because you haven’t replied to any of my owls!” Draco seethed. “I thought we were friends, Scarhead!”
“We are – hang on – Scarhead?!” Harry cried.
“Shh!” Draco hissed frantically, “You oaf! They’ll hear you!”
They looked both ways, the only noises being the hubbub of voices outside and the scurry and squeaking of a rat nearby.
“I am really me,” said Harry after a moment. “I got sent here by, what was it? Floo powder power or something, I think I might have gotten the pronunciation a bit wrong...”
“Floo powder? How crude. No wonder you look a fright,” Draco scoffed.
Harry huffed impatiently. “Look, I didn’t mean to not write back, it sounds crazy, but some sort of elf creature thing called Dobby had been hiding all my letters from me–”
Draco blinked, suddenly lost. “I beg your pardon, did you just say Dobby?!”
“Yeah!” Harry said, nodding and sprinkling soot everywhere, “Do you know–?”
Draco cut him off when he heard footsteps and muffled voices drawing near. “Shh! My father’s coming back!”
“Wait, why is– ?” but Harry didn’t get to finish his question, as Draco was already stuffing him back into the cabinet and slamming the door shut.
“Draco, what are you up to?”
Draco swivelled on his heel, managing to gain some composure in the nick of time. “Nothing, Father!” he replied, smiling in a way he thought was surely both endearing and extremely convincing.
His father only looked down at him, clearly sceptical, before sniffing and slowly turning to Mr Borgin. “Well… a good day to you, Mr Borgin, I’ll expect you at the manor tomorrow to pick up the goods.”
Draco followed his father, grimacing as he looked back at the barest hint of broken round spectacles glinting from within the crack in the cabinet door, guilt trickling into his stomach as he left Harry behind in the belly of Knockturn Alley.
***
A couple of hours later, after making stops at the Malfoy vaults in Gringotts and a few other shops for Potions ingredients, Draco’s father took him to Flourish and Blotts to get his books.
Upon arriving, they found the bookshop was jam-packed, overflowing with wix, the crowd heaving as various witches and wizards chatted away excitedly.
“What on earth…?” Draco’s father began, before noticing the banner strung above the door.
GILDEROY LOCKHART
Will be signing copies of his autobiography
MAGICAL ME
Today 12.30 - 4.30 pm
Draco felt a thrill go through him. Gilderoy Lockhart was an esteemed, famous wixen explorer, each of his tales more extraordinary than the last! He was inspirational!
Draco’s mother had several of his books, which were by this point well-read. The Travel Trilogy had always been a favourite for Draco growing up, especially the third part, where Lockhart took on a Ukrainian Ironbelly that had been dwelling in a mountain cave and causing the village below distress. He managed to defeat the dragon with only his wit, charm, and a song, lulling the dragon into a sleep that would last for a hundred years or more.
And he was actually here, in the flesh, just beyond the doors of Flourish and Blotts!
“Come along, Draco,” his father sniffed, his sharp nose scrunched as if he’d caught a whiff of something rotten. “We’d best come back on a quieter day.”
Draco felt his face fall. He began to trudge after his father, almost bumping into him when he drew to a sudden halt. Confused, Draco glanced up to find his father’s eyes fixed on the other side of the street, where a scruffy pack of unmistakable ginger wix were busy fighting their way inside the bookshop.
A fleeting smirk passed over his father’s face then, disappearing as quickly as it had come. He turned to Draco. “You know, since we’re already here, Draco, we may as well brave it, hm?”
Before Draco could even question it, his father was striding across the street – Draco wasn’t complaining, not when he was going to get to meet the Gilderoy Lockhart.
The inside of Flourish and Blotts was dimly-lit and cramped. Draco’s father grabbed his arm as they were jostled about, squeezing in between large stacks of books and the sea of tittering fans.
Draco craned his neck in an attempt to peer over the crowd, grateful when someone shifted to give a clear view of a small stage that had been set up at the front of the shop. There was a table laden with piles of books upon it, and behind that table stood a tall, handsome wizard in flattering forget-me-not blue robes. His hair coiffed in perfect golden locks, his face chiselled and his beaming smile a brilliant pearly white. Gilderoy Lockhart winked at his admirers, who giggled and clapped and fanned themselves.
“Such astounding arrogance,” Draco’s father uttered, examining the cover of a copy of ‘Magical Me’ with clear disdain written on his face.
Draco didn’t reply. He was finding it very hard to tear his eyes away from that dazzling smile. It was mesmerizingly bright.
But then that bright smile disappeared, replaced with a brief gape before forming five excited words:
“It can’t be Harry Potter?!”
Draco stood on his tip-toes, peering over the applauding audience, relief flooding through him as he saw Lockhart hauling a still-very-sooty Harry onto the stage, vigorously shaking his hand as the camera clicked a mile a minute.
He’d gotten out of Knockturn Alley! Excellent! Draco could stop feeling guilty, then. He’d made it out, and now he was in Flourish and Blotts, visibly trying to step away from Gilderoy Lockhart for some bizarre reason. The esteemed magical explorer was having none of it, however, pulling him firmly against his side, his smile blinding in the flash as the photographer kept snapping pictures.
Harry was left blinking like a Confunded kneazle, his crooked, hasty smile more of a wonky sort of grimace.
Draco couldn’t help but let out an inelegant snort, amused and more than a little envious.
“Ladies and gentlemen and all those in between!” Gilderoy Lockhart began with excitement once the flashing and clicking had finally ended. “Wix of the Wixen World, what an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I’ve been sitting on for quite some time.”
He gave a hearty chuckle. “When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography – which I shall be happy to present him now, free of charge – ”
The crowd made noises of approval, Lockhart beaming away and playfully shaking Harry by the shoulders all the while.
“He had no idea that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me,” Lockhart continued with another laugh. “He and his school fellows will, in fact, be getting the real, magical me! Yes, I have the great pleasure and pride in announcing that, this September, I will be taking up the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”
Draco felt his stomach swoop as the audience applauded with delight. The one and only Gilderoy Lockhart would be teaching him come September. Draco would get to see the celebrated wizard on a daily basis! Even perhaps get a live-action retelling of his adventures!
“How quaint,” Draco heard his father drawl behind him and immediately fell from his cloud, wiping the excited smile from his face.
He watched as Harry, arms loaded with all of Lockhart’s books, hastily stepped down from the platform, staggering slightly. Draco looked to his father, who was busily counting out the gold to pay for his books, before slipping through the crowd.
“I bet you just loved that, didn’t you, Potter?” Draco couldn’t help himself, laughing as he waltzed over. “Famous Harry Potter, can’t even go to a bookshop without making the front page.”
Harry only gave him an irritated look.
“Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that!”
Draco peered down at what seemed to be a wild little girl, snarling at him through a shock of vivid ginger hair and freckles.
“Oi, Malfoy! What are you doing here?”
Draco looked to the ginger troll that was ambling over, then back to the ferocious beast of a girl beside Harry. “Ah, yes. Now see, that makes sense.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Ronald Weasley. “Malfoy, my little sister, Ginny. Ginny, Draco Malfoy.”
The Girl-Weasley only glowered at Draco some more, although looking a little bit lost at the friendly-ish tone her brother had taken on.
Before anyone else could say another word, a bounding mane of bushy brown hair ambushed them, a bundle of energy despite heaving an armful of books. Then again, that was practically normal behaviour for the Granger.
“Oh, hello, Draco! Good to see you!” the Muggle-born witch grinned. “Did you hear the good news? About Gilderoy Lockhart?”
“Ha!" Draco scoffed. “Why would that be good news? Because it’s not, obviously. I only came in here to collect my school books, obviously. Who cares about some – some daring, dashing celebrity figure? Not I, that’s for certain!”
Draco really wished he knew how to Silencio himself, unsure why he felt so flustered. The others only stared at him as if he’d chosen to wear a pair of frilly pink bloomers atop his head.
“Say!” Draco practically shouted as he grasped for an escape from the hole he’d dug himself into. “Isn’t it lucky that Potter made it out of Knockturn Alley unscathed?”
“Oh, yeah,” Harry said, eyes narrowing behind those ridiculously round glasses of his. “Thanks for all your help back there, Draco. Really appreciated that.”
“Hang on,” said Weasley, “what were you doing in Knockturn Alley?”
“Well, I…” Draco began, unsure how to continue – but he was saved from explaining himself, as in the next moment, a balding ginger man had barged his way over to them with the Twin-Weasleys in tow.
“Ron! What are you doing, it’s mad in here, let’s get outside –”
“Well, well, well,” came a familiar icy drawl, and Draco felt the weight of a hand upon his shoulder as his father appeared at his side, his lip curled in a sneer. “Arthur Weasley, what a… pleasant surprise.”
“Lucius,” Arthur Weasley replied just as coldly.
“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” Draco’s father sighed with a false air of sympathy. “All those raids. I do hope they’re paying you overtime.” His father then swiftly plucked a worn textbook from the Girl-Weasley’s cauldron, eyeing the aged, clearly hand-me-down book with disdain. “Obviously not,” he tutted. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of a wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?”
Draco watched, transfixed, as in the blink of an eye his father deftly slipped something within the tattered pages of Ginny Weasley’s Transfiguration book.
“We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy,” said Arthur Weasley gruffly, his freckled face turning almost the exact same shade of red Weasley’s– Boy-Weasley’s– Original-Weasley – ugh – Ronald’s did when he got angry.
“Clearly,” Draco’s father sniffed disapprovingly, looking at a pair of people in Muggle attire (Granger’s parents, Draco figured) up and down before softly scoffing. “The company you keep, Weasley… and I thought your family could sink no low–” was all his father managed to say before being tackled into the nearest bookshelf.
“Get him, Dad!” the Twin-Weasleys hollered as, well, Arthur Weasley had just thrown himself at Draco’s father, wildly swinging his fists and punching the Malfoy patriarch square on the nose with a resounding crack!
Draco slapped his hands over his eyes, but found he couldn’t not look, peeking through his fingers just in time to see his father, blood trickling from his nostrils, knee Arthur Weasley in the stomach, pouncing at the ginger man while he clutched at his middle. They careened into another bookshelf, sending the shelves toppling in a domino effect while large, dusty books cascaded around them. Cries burst out from the crowd as everyone rushed to the front of the shop, far from the fray, shouting at the commotion.
A short, round lady who must’ve been the Mother-Weasley was attempting to wade through the books screeching; “Arthur, no!”
But Arthur Weasley did not listen to his wife; instead he reached up and yanked hard at Draco’s father’s long, blond hair. Pulling him back by his scalp while the Malfoy patriarch yelped out in pain, attempting to simultaneously wrap his left leg around Mr Weasley's neck and whack him with his cane, his other hand still tightly gripping Girl-Weasley’s book.
The book.
That was it! His father must’ve planted ‘the key’ inside her book! The Weasleys were pureblooded, after all, weren’t they?
“Look out!” Granger cried, hopping up on the display window as the two brawling wizards staggered in their direction. Ronald threw himself sideways into the nearest book pile while Girl-Weasley ducked behind her cauldron and Harry narrowly managed to climb a bookshelf like a tree.
As they scattered, Draco didn’t really think. He ducked out of the way of Arthur Weasley’s elbow, quickly reached out, going unnoticed by the gawking onlookers, and snatched Ginny Weasley’s book from his father’s grasp while the fighting wizards stumbled past them. A small, sleek black book slipped out of the wrinkled old Transfiguration tome. Draco quickly tucked it into his cloak, passing the Transfiguration spellbook back to the still-gawking girl, who took it without looking away from the brawling middle-aged men.
“Break it up there, gents, break it up!” came the booming voice that would finally end the madness. Draco looked up (and up, and up) as Rubeus Hagrid easily pulled Draco’s father and Arthur Weasley apart, lifting them off the ground by their robe collars as they thrashed about like angry cats.
He set them down again once they seemed to have calmed down, Draco’s father muttering about ‘dignity’ and ‘grubby giant hands.’ The Mother-Weasley began to scold Arthur Weasley immediately, whacking his arm with her patchwork handbag.
Draco looked to his father, following his eyes as he stared at the battered old copy of A Beginners Guide to Transfiguration Girl-Weasley clutched in her hands. He frowned ever so slightly, before sniffing and attempting to compose himself, smoothing his hair and adjusting his cloak. He gave Arthur Weasley one last glare before haughtily swivelling on his heel. “Come along, Draco!” he snapped, striding out of the mess with all the pride he could muster.
Draco looked once more at the sorry state of the bookshop, at the crowd watching them, at a stunned and baffled Gilderoy Lockhart, and at Harry and the others' shocked and bewildered faces, before ducking his head and tailing after his father, too humiliated to even bid them goodbye.
“This is why we do not associate with riff-raff like the Weasleys, son.” His father sneered once Draco caught up, his cane clacking on the cobblestones much more violently than usual. “Weasleys are nothing but traitorous hooligans, and you would do well to remember that!”
***
Malfoy Manor – August 1992
“How could you be so incredibly foolish?” his mother snapped, tone teetering on becoming shrill. “People will talk of this for weeks to come, now, you do realise.”
“The buffoon threw himself at me in broad daylight, ‘Cissa!” his father argued back. “I was simply defending myself!”
“And a proper duel like actual, grown wizards wouldn’t have sufficed?!”
Draco poked his head around the doorway to the parlour. His father was sitting on his armchair while his mother dabbed at his black eye with a cotton ball soaked in a lime green solution, a tray of healing potions and tinctures on the table next to them.
“Oh, do stop your whinging, Lucius!”
“I am not whinging, it really stings!” hissed his father, accompanied by another muffled whimper.
Draco inhaled sharply through his nostrils. It would seem his parents would be occupied for a while. He took the opportunity to sneak upstairs, shutting himself in his bedchambers and retrieving the book he’d taken from within his robes.
He sat down at his desk, shoving aside scrolls of finished homework and dropping the book in their place.
First question: Should he have taken it?
Probably not, but he was incredibly curious. This was the key to opening the Chamber of Secrets, after all, and Future-Draco had warned him it would be opened this year.
But how? It was a book …
Perhaps it had spells inside to unlock the chamber?
Draco picked it up and flicked through, shocked to discover it was completely empty, the only thing inside being the dates of the year 1943 …Or so it would seem! Draco held it out at arm's length, turning it in every which way.
Perhaps it was only enchanted to appear empty?
Draco knew of another certain book that had the very same trick. ‘The Journal of Dreadful Things’ was enchanted so that only Draco could see its contents, perhaps this book was enchanted in the same way. Maybe only Salazar Slytherin could see its contents?
Draco opened the sleek black book only to the very first page this time, finding a very faint scrawl of a name.
‘T. M. Riddle’
…It was a diary.
A silly old diary! Draco scoffed loudly to himself. No! There had to be more to it, otherwise why would his father attempt to plant it on Girl-Weasley?!
Draco wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at the book when he was startled out of his drifting thoughts by a sharp pop filling the air.
“Dobby is being told to tell Master Draco that supper is to be served in half an hour, sir!”
Draco shot to his feet. “Dobby!” he exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at the house elf in question, who flinched back, eyes wide and worried.
“Y–yes Master Draco?”
“Why have you been interfering with Harry Potter?” Draco snapped, marching forwards as Dobby stumbled backwards “More importantly, why have you kept my letters from reaching him?!”
Dobby let out a squeak as he backed into the desk, knocking over Draco’s never-drying inkwell, the contents splattering out onto his scrolls of homework and the diary in a seeping black mess.
“Oh you clumsy fool!” Draco cried, fumbling to rescue his hours of hard work. He rounded on the trembling house elf.
“You just wait till my father hears about this! Get out at once!”
Dobby whimpered, and with an obedient snap of his bony fingers, he disappeared.
Draco released a long breath, using the countdown technique his mother had taught him when he was all but five and had the most terrible tantrums… apparently. He didn’t see how they were tantrums when he was always completely reasonable and rational.
When he finally felt calm enough, Draco dared to peer down at the damage. His Charms essay had gotten the brunt of it, the bottom half dripping with ink. His Transfigurations one was the next worst. At least his Potions homework only had a few splatters here and there. Brilliant.
He would have to ask to have it all Tergeoed.
Oh, but what about the diary? Surely the elves wouldn’t say anything, but what if his father caught him in the act? Thinking he could perhaps blackmail Dobby, Draco cautiously opened up the book, and then, with a sharp gasp, almost dropped it.
What should’ve been pages drenched with spilt ink was instead clear, crisp parchment. Even more strangely, a sentence had magically written itself in bold loopy handwriting.
'Hello? Is there someone there?'
Draco stared at the words, until, without warning, they began to fade away. Drawn in with amazement and curiosity, he reached for a quill and fresh ink.
'Hello?' He hastily scrawled, in a sort of trance as he waited with bated breath until the same looping handwriting appeared once more, seeping into existence on the page before him.
'Why, hello there,' it said, 'who might I be talking to? And how did you come across my diary?'
'My name is Draco Malfoy, and I' – he paused to think – 'found it in my father’s study.
'Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Draco Malfoy. My name is Tom Riddle…'