House of The Rising Sun

Chapter One

Then

Draco Malfoy's fifteen year old self liked to spend his angst-filled spare time walking the long corridors of Hogwarts castle. Skulking and thinking of a few insults he could throw at the insufferable golden group of do-gooders, should he happen upon them.

His own posse became too much to handle that night, endlessly excited over which Hogwarts student would compete in the Triwizard Tournament. Pansy kept inching over to him on the common room sofa, getting into his space so much it made his skin crawl, and he just wanted out.

He made some excuse about bothering one of the elves for a late dessert, not finding it within him to care about lights-out being in less than twenty minutes. He figured that if he said he was getting dessert, he might as well do it anyway.

This is how he found himself locking eyes with a startled girl in an alcove, a pudding spoon in his mouth. Her dark eyebrows sailed to her forehead, the pile of books she was levitating wandlessly falling into a heap on her lap.

Draco let out a real dignified, "Uh..."

She just continued to stare at him for a moment, then started putting the books in a school bag. He noticed her green and silver tie then, and the insignia on her fallen robes. She looked about his age, but he couldn't remember ever seeing her around.

"What year are you?"

"Fourth," she said quickly, apparently ready to take off in any direction that wasn't him.

Distaste covered his tongue and he pulled a sour face, "Gods, you almost sound American."

"What's it to you?"

Either she was putting on airs or she really was some stranger in his house's robes. She didn't wait for an answer, shoving past him and back towards the dungeons. His curiosity didn't outweigh his dread of those in the common room, so he sauntered his way down the dimly lit hall.

Now

Draco Malfoy inhaled the sweet stench of alcohol until the inside of his nose burned. His palms began slipping around the glass with sweat as his silver eyes strained to focus on the commotion around him. Part of him didn't believe any of it was real - that he may as well be lost to his own mind in a musty cell. Far, far away.

He should be celebrating.

He felt it in his chest, that outpouring of glee of not getting more than a slap on the wrist after his year long wait in Azkaban for a sentencing. The trial was mostly lost to him as he had sat in the far corner of the cage and listened to the Wizengamot prattle on for days about all his wrongs. The few times he looked up were when testimonies from Potter and Granger disturbed his occlumency enough to listen. He was left alone for a few hours at a time as they reviewed submitted memories and somehow came to the conclusion that he was no real danger to society.

Perhaps shoving one Weasel out of the way of a killing curse had tipped them in his favor.

Draco presently stood at his mother's side with a nearly bored expression on his face as the charity gala in the Manor around him continued. He knew she had only thrown it to better their image, though a donation to the war survivors with lasting injuries at St. Mungo's didn't hurt anything. It was beautiful, he could admit, especially with the floating candles and newly decorated ballroom full of silvers and white.

Narcissa herself hadn't even been in Azkaban before her trial, simply on house arrest and fairly recently acquitted. The only Malfoy to see any real punishment was Lucius with ten years sentenced, up for an appeal in five. Draco didn't mind the peace that was the absence of his father - even if it did push his mother into a particularly collected state that he didn't care for much.