Secret Keeper

Chapter 3 -- The Note



Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to JK.



Author\'s Note: Here\'s a couple of responses to reviews.



Stamey -- Thank you; I believe so too. I certainly feel more confident writing this story now than I did before. What I meant by the fact that Malfoy\'s face had become \"softer and more angular\" is that his face had become softer, so instead of being pointy and sharp, it was simply angular now. I\'ll go back and change that so it\'s easier to understand.



Sheree -- Haha, of COURSE Draco will still be Harry\'s mate. As to whether Harry will be the more dominant partner... you\'ll see. :) This will not be mpreg, however. I got just as many complaints as I did support for the idea when I asked during the old version. I\'m thinking I\'ll make a sequel to this story with mpreg in it, but only if I can think of a plot.



My internet has somehow managed to scramble the emails around in my address book. If you have not gotten an update notification in your inbox (check Bulk too, just in case) and you would like one, please let me know by leaving your email address in a comment or feel free to email me at bendandbreak@sbcglobal.net.



Again, I sincerely apologize for the wait.



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D.,



You are to be bound to the Dark Lord come Christmastime. I expect you to uphold the Malfoy family pride and take this event for the opportunity at advancement that it is.



L.



His father had just... he was...



He vaguely registered the white-knuckled, shaking grip he had on the crisp piece of parchment as his thoughts came to a grinding halt.



No. No, this couldn\'t be true. It was some cruel joke being played on - for - his birthday. Why else would the note be waiting oh-so innocently for him when he woke up?



Rolling over after a bad nights sleep, unmercifully twisted in his bed sheets and swearing sleepily, he had reached for the glass of cold milk that was always on his nightstand (per many temper tantrums when he was younger). Pale, manicured fingers had scrabbled blindly on the deep mahogany surface of the stand, searching for the cool condensation he knew would be on the side of the glass. Instead his fingers had bumped against the note, sending it skittering lightly off the chest before being snatched out of the air by a seeker-reflexive hand. Grumbling and still swearing (this time about so much exercise, so early in the day), he had given a huge yawn, rubbed his eyes with his free hand and stared blearily down at the note. Mostly asleep when he had begun to read the elegant script, he was assuredly awake by the time he had reached the end.



He was... flabbergasted... shocked... astounded. All of those adjectives and more. He still felt sure that it was some joke being played for his birthday. Mother and father, perhaps Blaise and some of his other friends, would burst into his bedroom, all yelling \"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!\". He would ask them about it, wave it in front of their faces and demand his answers. They would all laugh gaily and reply \"You didn\'t actually believe that we\'d give our Draco Lucius Alexander Malfoy to some overrated has-been on the verge of death like You-Know-Who, did you?\" and then --



He\'d stop thinking such rubbish because the last time they had behaved so enthusiastically for his birthday was when he was five. He had woken up bright and early at six am to his parents and friends screaming \"Happy birthday!\" in his ears while self-throwing confetti and balloons rained down. He had put on his brand new robes, slipped on his brand new bunny slippers and skipped joyously down the stairs to the living room where a pile of presents were waiting for him. Most of the presents from that day had disappeared over the course of the years, as old possessions have a habit of doing, and now he only had his pink bunny slippers and his favorite robe, a little ratty and torn, but still in workable condition. Standing up, he slid into the robe and hobbled a little as he put on his bunny slippers.



Shaking his head slightly, as if trying to bat away an annoying fly, he cleanly folded the note and tucked it into his breast pocket before shuffling into his bathroom. Gods, this was going to be a bad day, he could tell. The note was only an ome -- HOLY BALLOCKS. A hand dived into his hair, frantically trying to get it to cooperate. He really must have had one helluva night because his hair was standing on end -- literally. Fuck. He couldn\'t approach his father to discuss the note looking like this.



\'\"A Malfoy must always have an impeccable appearance. One piece of lint can destroy a reputation.\"\'



He snorted. \"Yeah, I hear you father.\" he muttered, reaching for the black comb that laid on the side of the sink; halfway to it, he frowned and changed direction, grabbing the bottle of gel and twisting the cap off. Satisfied, he leaned in close to the mirror and began to comb his hair with one hand and apply gel with the other. After a few minutes, he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes then tilted his head to the other side and widened his eyes. He grimaced and laid the comb back down on the counter, along with the gel, its cap replaced. \'I suppose that will have to do. I don\'t think we\'re making any public appearances today, anyways.\'



His jaw cracking through another yawn, he reached for the body of his motorized toothbrush, his other hand placing the toothbrush head on top of it. He smiled while he squeezed some Crest whitening toothpaste on it. Ferretface Malfoy using a muggle invention -- no one would ever believe it. His smile faded. Neither would his father; such heresy was unforgivable and would be severely punished if he were to find out. He shrugged that melancholy thought away and began to brush his teeth, the little motorized head spinning in a blur of black against white.



He didn\'t know what he was going to say. There were many ways to broach the subject of the note, but only one would give him the objective he sought. He must find that way before he went downstairs, before he confronted his father, because he sure as hell was not going to be Voldemort\'s little slag. This, of course, made him realize just how far gone his father was. Ever since he was little, it was drilled into his head that he would continue the Malfoy legacy by marrying a young pureblood and spitting out some heirs. And now his father was content to give away his only means of achieving that? It just didn\'t match up to who he thought his father was...



Sighing, he spit out the paste, cleaned his toothbrush and disassembled it. He debated washing his face while he was in front of the sink and decided against it; he\'d wash it tonight. His face was flawless as it was and he remembered reading in either a book or magazine that you could actually damage the epithelial cells if you washed it too much. Whether he believed it was another matter, but it served for a suitable excuse. Absently checking to make sure the note was still in his pocket, he headed for his wardrobe, pulling the mahogany doors open wide. Choosing what to wear was always the hardest part of the day, regardless of the importance of it. Since he was going to be discussing the note with his father, thereby indirectly challenging his authority, he would need to think especially long and hard about his choices. Sifting through the multiple hangers displaying his clothes, he wrinkled his nose. Nothing was looking good. He needed something that would make him look serious, mature, and knowledgeable. Something that would make him look like a man and had a right to his own opinion, had a right to defy his father to speak it.



Almost an hour later, he stood just outside the entrance to the informal dining room, nervously adjusting his collar in the decorative mirror on the wall. Gods, he was so close to pretending like nothing had happened, like the note was not the end of the world; he was so close to accepting his fate for what it was and laying down like a dead dog. But no. That wasn\'t a Malfoy. That wasn\'t him. He couldn\'t accept this because it hadn\'t been a part of his fate. This note was interceding into his destiny and he couldn\'t let it. He had to try his best, give it his all, and convince his father that he was making a mistake. It wouldn\'t be easy. His father had changed over the past few years and was now just a shell of a man. He behaved like any other, perhaps with more dignity and arrogance as befitting a member of the Malfoy family, but Draco knew he had changed. There was a pervasive air of... coldness. He frowned and slicked back his hair. No, it wasn\'t just a coldness. There was rage simmering beneath the cold exterior; one that took a long time to reach it\'s climactic end, but would be terrifying and awesome when it did.



He fidgeted, listening to the quiet tinkling of china against china and the rustling of the morning newspaper. There was no use stalling any longer. Merlin\'s balls, why the hell had he picked these robes? No, no, he had chosen well -- he would walk into that dining room with all the maturity and seriousness that he could muster and he would give it his best. A Malfoy could do no less.



Clop, clop, clop.



The echoes of his dress shoes ricocheted through the room as he proceeded to his place. There was no reaction from his father, but he heard a slight gasp from his mother, quickly masked as a coughing fit. Indulging in a mental smirk, he continued to his seat. It was understandable that she would be surprised; he couldn\'t remember the last time he had actually come downstairs for breakfast as he preferred to send for it upstairs in his room. Glancing at the table in passing, he could see that everything was normal, as it should be. Father sat on one side of the table, head submerged behind The Daily Prophet, his toast with one or two bites in it and his tea about half full. Mother sat on the other side of the table, across from father, and was steadily eating via dainty bites in her toast and eggs, her tea almost to the dregs and needing a refill. Just as he thought it, a house elf popped into sight and replaced the cup with a new one; another pulled his chair out and helped him sit down.



POP!



Another house elf appeared and asked, \"What woulds the Masters Draco likes for breakings fast?\"



Glancing at his father, he turned his nose up slightly and avoided eye contact with Mipsy. \"I would like eggs, toast, and bacon, with a glass of milk and orange juice, please. I want the eggs scrambled, the bread white and lightly toasted with a dab of margarine and some strawberry jam on the side, my bacon crisp, but not burnt, and my orange juice calcium fortified with no pulp.\" The house elf dipped slightly and vanished with another pop.



Silence settled heavily on the remaining occupants. Conversation had always been light and insignificant when they sat together before, but now, with his father changed, there was a strange awkwardness. Draco thought it the awkwardness one might feel when you weren\'t sure where you stood with the one person who mattered most to you. It was a dank cloud that followed his father around and permeated whichever room he happened to be in. His mother felt it -- he knew because he heard her cry sometimes; whenever father was gone on one of his \'business\' trips. He had no illusions as to what happened on these \'trips\'. In fact, it was quite obvious to Draco that the Dark Lord had most likely been negotiating his binding. He mentally snorted. Binding? Who the hell was he kidding? He was being outright sold to that fucking monster. So much for --



He was startled out of finishing that thought by Mipsy\'s reappearance. Straining under the heavy tray, she precariously set it on the table before putting the plates and glasses in their correct spots.



\"Thank you, Mipsy.\" He nodded, reaching for the cloth napkin and arranging it in his lap.



She blinked, brown eyes showing her surprise, and then she grinned and popped away with the tray in hand. Frowning slightly, he began to eat. For the life of him, Draco couldn\'t think as to why Mipsy would be surprised. He racked his brain, trying to remember why Mipsy\'s surprise was so important. He\'d called her by her name before... really, he couldn\'t imagine --



\"You were polite to that house elf.\" Harsh tones slithered to him from his left.



He froze for a split second, dimly hearing the slight clattering of mother\'s teacup in its saucer, then continued eating as if he hadn\'t heard it. Dammit. That was why Mipsy had been surprised; not because he had called her by her name, but because he\'d been polite to her, in front of his father no less. Ever since second year when Potter had been warned by Dobby ( the elf thereby defying the family it was supposed to obey and serve ) and had subsequently freed it by tricking his father, two new rules had been established in the household.



1. No clothing was to ever be in the hand of a Malfoy while in the presence of a house elf, lest another accident occur.



2. House elves were to be treated as less than slaves - less than the dirt and grime on Knockturn Alley streets.



Father had developed a theory that the reason Dobby had gotten those absurd idea\'s of freedom and pay was because he had been exposed to an extraordinary amount of politeness and respect. Therefore, he had realized that he could have another master who would treat him with respect, and furthermore that he should, indeed deserved, that respect. Father had come about that hypothesis in the moments it took to portkey home after that famed day.



\"Yes father.\" he replied solemnly as he piled some eggs onto his fork.



\"Why would you do such a silly thing like that, my dear boy?\"



Draco winced, quelling the impulse to fidget or otherwise display his anxiety. Feigned affection, saturated in chilly sarcasm, was father\'s way of unconsciously telling whoever he was speaking to that he was a few small steps from exploding into a rage. Swallowing the last of his eggs, he raised his glass of milk to his mouth and took a long draw, collecting himself for what could come if he were to say the wrong thing. The glass was set down slowly while he organized his thoughts and formulated responses to his father\'s possible arguments.



\"I had a rough night. I didn\'t get much sleep; it must have slipped my mind...\" he trailed off, waiting for a response while he cut his toast into quarters and began to spread margarine on each.



He jerked instinctively when his father\'s hand, cold and strong, clamped down on his, stilling his movements. He looked up into icy blue eyes, his breath becoming slightly shallow, his ears picking up mothers nervous silence. Tension vibrated through the air. I haven\'t been hit yet - I\'m fine - I can get through this - just act normal - I\'ll be fine.



\"You had a rough night?\" his father asked softly.



Draco hesitated, unsure where this question was leading him. It seemed like the house elf issue had been forgotten, which was unusual. \"Yes father.\" He nervously licked his lips, berating himself as he did so. \"I had a hard time falling asleep. I was hot; restless. I was also in a ... I felt strange.\" he finished.



The hand on his arm tightened. \"Explain what you felt like.\"



Still confused, Draco tried. \"I... kept waking up. I would fall asleep for an hour, perhaps two, and then I would wake up again. The first time was at midnight. I... I woke up to a ...\" How the hell do I tell him it was an erotic dream, that I woke up sweaty and panting, cream all over my stomach and sheets? \"I woke up to an... exciting.. dream and--\"



\"Don\'t lie to me, boy.\" Lucius growled, fingers digging painfully into his sons skin. \"You had an erotic dream, didn\'t you? Did you see the other person\'s face? Any distinguishing features?\"



Draco blinked, scrounging up the remnants of the dream. \"No, I didn\'t see their face. I only saw... I only saw black hair.\" he finished softly.



\"Was the person male or female? How did you feel strange?\" The new inquiries came flying towards him like bullets.



\"I.. don\'t know,\" he said, shifting slightly in his chair. Father did not take kindly to \'I don\'t know\' answers. \"I think they were male... they were...\" He paused, uncertain. \"They were hard. All... over.\" He stopped and would have been quite happy to remain that way, but he received another tightening of fingers on his hand - a demand to continue on to the next question. \"I just... it was a mix of emotions. Like... I needed... some... thing or someone to live... that.. I felt bonded to someone. I felt like... I - there was - is, I mean, a hole in my life and this one person, who I feel so connected to, is the only one that can fill it. This person with... black hair, I suppose. I feel uncomfortable without them. Love, despair, hope, rejuvenation, all of those, but more.. unrefined; I guess that\'s what I felt last night and continue to feel today.\" He sighed. \"I\'m sorry father,\" he apologized, certain he had disappointed his father, like usual.



\"No... that\'s fine, son. Why don\'t you head on outside and fly around a bit?\"



Surprised at the tender note he heard, Draco looked up, hoping to meet his fathers eyes. He was met with The Daily Prophet once more in place; a wall he could not get through.



Confused again, he stood up to follow the order given to him, before realizing he had never brought up the note. Unconsciously biting his lip, he politely coughed. \"Father? About the note...\"



He received a grunt to continue.



\"Are you... are you sure that... you would like to do that? I mean, I am--\"



\"Are you questioning my judgement?\" The question slithered out, slightly muffled but still holding a menace he did not want to confront.



\"No, no, I just wanted to --\"



\"Go up to your room and you will find your presents.\"



Cringing at the curt dismissal, he walked to the dining room door, shooting his mother a quick look before turning the corner into the hallway.



He spent the rest of the summer in a state of confusion. Why was his father selling him? Why did he keep having those erotic dreams? Who was this other person and why did he feel like he needed them to survive? What the fuck was going on?