The Lion and the Serpent

Draco walked.

Over the last two years, he had mastered the way of walking through the hallways of Hogwarts in such a way as to attract minimal attention and maximize his chances of survival. Don't look others in the eye, it can be perceived as a challenge. Don't walk too slowly, it can be perceived as a challenge. They hate being challenged. Don't bow your head, it indicates fear. Don't walk too fast, it indicates fear. They despise fear. Yet, they feed on fear. All of them.

Look straight ahead, eyes slightly down, avoiding looking at others. Walk a little bit faster than others, just fast enough to make it enough of a nuisance for them to chase you. Maybe they'll get bored. Maybe they'll forget about you. Maybe they'll decide you've had enough. Maybe.

“Hey, ferret!” he heard their voices behind him. Damn.

It wouldn't do to run once they've spotted you. Escape was unlikely anyways, and usually it would result in even more cruelty once they caught up you later. They. The Gryffindors. . Over the last year, they took it upon themselves to exact vengeance on every Slytherin student. Draco was just the most frequent target, because of what he had done.

Draco slowed down his pace, and then stopped, his back against the wall. Quickly a crowd of teenagers surrounded him. Black robes, gold and scarlet scarves, familiar faces. Get it over with, he thought, shutting his eyes.

“Oh no, you don't!” someone shouted. “Don't even try to pretend it's not happening.” As if he could. Draco forced himself to open his eyes and look at the lot of them, crowding him, sneering at him. He didn't flinch when the first punch hit him, breaking his nose. They hated when he flinched. They hated any indication of cowardice. Draco stood motionlessly, fighting back the tears, breathing as evenly as he could, while blood trickled down his face and chin, staining his robes.

Perhaps it won't be too bad this time, he thought hopefully. A nosebleed, a few bruises, some broken bones. Nothing that a brief visit to the school infirmary would not fix. Over the last two years, Draco became a frequent patient of the infirmary. Privately, he thought that he and Madame Pomfrey should be on the first-name basis by now; but she obviously disagreed, as she never invited him to call her Poppy.

She never asked him about the injuries, either. Broken bones, cracked ribs, a punctured lung, a gush to the head, various burns, internal injuries – she treated them as calmly and unemotionally as Mr Filch wiped the dust from the furniture. At first, Draco used to dream that one day, Madame Pomfrey would fuss over him in a motherly way, try to get the story out of him, offer to help, somehow. But days and months went by, his injuries multiplied, he continued to miss classes, he failed most of his exams, and eventually, was held back a year. And still, Madame Pomfrey continued to quietly heal him and release him from her care as soon as she could, her lips disdainfully pursed together into a severe, thin line.

Draco stopped fantasizing about Madame Pomfrey coming to his rescue, when he noticed an old picture of her on the wall of the infirmary, wearing gold and scarlet. She used to be a Gryffindor, too, Draco realized, his heart sinking. She knew exactly what was going on, but she would never go against her own to stick up for someone who was getting no less than what he deserved.

It was all happening just like Granger said it would.

x x x

The court hearing was finished, with all charges against him dismissed. Draco shook hands with his advocate, and bowed slightly to the jury. It was only when he cleared the Wizard Court building, he allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief and laugh out loud. Goyle and Crabbe laughed too, following closely behind him.

“Don't think that you are off the hook,” he heard a voice filled with cold fury behind his back. He turned around. Hermione Granger was staring at him with pure, unadulterated hatred
that would give credit to any child of Slytherin. “You won't get away with it, Malfoy.”

“Oh?” he sneered at her openly. “I believe I just did.”

“You'll get yours. You'll see.”

“Is that a threat?” Draco asked, mock terror in his voice. “Mates, I believe Miss Granger just threatened my life. Perhaps I should charge her mudblood face with uttering threats? What do you think?”

“Good idea,” Goyle agreed readily. Crabbe snickered.

Hermione was shaking with fury. Draco smiled unpleasantly, and made an inviting gesture with both hands, offering for her to attack him. For a second, she looked ready to punch him, and Draco's grin widened. But then Harry's hand was on Hermione's shoulder.

“No, Hermione. Let him be.”

Harry's voice was stern with authority, and Hermione yielded instantly. She sobbed, burying her face in Harry's sweater, while Harry placed his arms around her in comfort. Harry then stared at Draco. For a second, it looked like Harry was going to say something, but then he changed his mind. Him and Hermione left without another word.

And suddenly a strange, uncomfortable thought crossed Draco's mind: if he ever 'got his', would anyone cry for him, the way Hermione had wept in Harry's arms?

x x x

A sharp punch to his stomach jerked Draco back to reality. He gasped for breath, and then, all hell broke lose. Hands pulled on his robes, ripping them off. Fists punched him. Someone spat on him. Draco stood, transfixed, watching himself being destroyed, doing nothing. Then, he heard a distant scream. It was an unearthly, surreal howl of a wolf caught in a leg-trap, a creature about to die. The scream made him shudder in terror.

And then he realized that the scream was emanating from his throat.