𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄

Chapter 10

Chapter 10: "Chapter Ten"

When Draco finally arrived at Fudge's office, an hour or so later, Fudge was sitting very still, his face blank and cold. By that time, though, Draco was also blank and cold, feeling very much as if the birthday party had been a dream or a supposition, or something that occurred in the life of another little boy altogether.

When Mrs. Fudge, trembling, her face blotchy from crying, had explained to him in her own simple, stuttering way what had happened, he had not cried, or screamed, or lashed out at anything. He'd simply gone white in the face, ran into his room, locked the door, and sunk down onto the carpet by the fire. "Father is dead," he breathed, as if testing out the words and scarcely believing them. "Father is dead!"

After a while, he looked up, meeting Cliodne's eyes. "Cliodne!" he cried out helplessly. "Do you hear? Father is dead! He died, thousands of miles away...and I never got to say goodbye. He is dead!"

When he finally came into Fudge's office, attired in simple black cotton trousers that were too loose, a black sweater that was too tight, and black robes that were too short, his face was very pale and his eyes were ringed with dark bruises. He looked quite horrifying, really, like some Dark, undead creature, emaciated and unhealthy. His hair had grown shaggy, and it hung around his face like a limp halo. Cliodne sat in the crook of his elbow, crooning soothingly.

Fudge glared at Draco, and then the owl. "What do you mean by bringing your owl here?" he snapped without preamble. "Put it down at once."

"I won't," Draco replied quietly. "She is all I have. My father gave her to me." Amazingly, his voice was steady, although very soft, and did not even break when he mentioned Lucius.

This calm, detached air of his had always disturbed Fudge, even angered him, and here, as he realized what irretrievable investments he'd made in this little pauper, this spawn of Satan, he felt fury threaten to overwhelm him. But since he could not argue with that logic, he changed tacks. "You shan't have time for it anymore," he said brusquely. "You will have to work and make yourself useful now. There is no time for flippancy. I suppose Mrs. Fudge explained that to you."

Draco nodded once, slowly. "I am...quite poor now," he whispered.

Fudge's expression darkened. "You are a pauper," he snapped. "And as your father put you in my official custody, you now belong to me. Everything you own belongs to me."

Draco kept his eyes lowered. "Take it then," he murmured. "I do not want it."

If he'd thrown a tantrum, or cried, or begged, Fudge may have felt more lenient. But this casual acceptance was the last straw, as it made him feel as if he was being made fun of. "Don't put on grand airs," he commanded. "The time for that sort of thing is past. You are no longer a prince. Your fine things, your books, your clothing shall all be taken away, and you shall have to work for your living."

To his surprise, Draco looked almost relieved at that. "Can I?" he breathed. "If I can work, it shan't matter as much. What can I do?"

Fudge snorted furiously. "You will do whatever you are told to do," he said coldly. "If you don't please me, I shall turn you out into the streets. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Draco replied respectfully.

"Now go," Fudge ordered. As Draco turned to leave, Fudge cleared his throat irritably. "Aren't you going to thank me?" he snapped.

Draco paused on his way out, but did not turn around. "Thank you for what?" he asked in a low voice.

"For my kindness to you," Fudge replied, furious at the ingratitude of this child. "For giving you a home."

Draco turned slowly, and, when his eyes met Fudge's, Fudge saw the gleam of furious fire there. "You are NOT kind," he growled, "and this is NOT a home." And with that, he spun on his heel and ran out of the room, leaving Fudge to stare after him in anger.

He went up the stairs slowly, holding Cliodne close against his heart, wanting to go back to his room and lie on the carpet and stare into the fire, but when he got there, Mrs. Fudge was just leaving it, closing the door behind her. She looked at Draco nervously. "You aren't to go in there," she said, almost apologetically.

Draco blinked. "Not go in?" he exclaimed, taking a step back. Cliodne hooted inquiringly.

Mrs. Fudge bit her lip, pain visible in her eyes. She was very ashamed of what she'd been told to do; she had taken quite a liking to young Draco, and felt her husband was being extremely cruel, but she was a weak woman, and her need to obey orders won out. "That is...not your room now," she explained lamely.

That, Draco could understand. This was only the first of many changes, he was sure. He took a deep breath. "Where is my room?" he murmured, concentrating on keeping his voice steady.

Mrs. Fudge twisted her hands nervously in front of her. "In the attic," she said quietly, "next to Theodore."

Draco knew where that was. Without another word, he turned and made his way back to the staircase, climbing up and up, past the last floor of student rooms, to a small, winding staircase that seemed to lead up into the rafters.

That wasn't far from the truth. When he reached the attic door and opened it, his heart sank and his stomach twisted. The room was small, barely the size of his old lavatory. The ceiling was slanted and bare, the rafters visible, and the walls were whitewashed and losing chunks. The floor was also bare, as were the walls, and the one tiny window had neither curtains nor a shade. The contents of the room included a small, wooden twin bed with a thin, lumpy mattress and ragged, gray sheets, a few old pieces of furniture too old and broken to be used downstairs, a rusted grate, and a pile of old boxes filled with various odds and ends in the corner.

Next to the window sat a small, green footstool. Draco trembled a bit, but resolutely forced himself to cross to the stool and sink down onto it, Cliodne clutched to his chest as he sat and stared out the window, his gray eyes enormous and wide but seeing nothing, blind to everything but his own grief. But he did not cry.

Presently, there was a soft, humble knock at the door, that Draco did not hear, and he likely would never have noticed had it not been followed by the door swinging open, revealing Theodore's pale, gaunt face.

"Sir?" he called faintly, and, at that softly spoken word, Draco blinked, his mind returning to his body.

"Theodore," Draco murmured, trying to muster a smile, finding that he could not, and lapsing into anguish again. Theodore was at his side in an instant, dropping to his knees next to the boy he cared for so deeply.

"Oh, Theodore," Draco breathed, his voice ragged, "I told you we were just the same - only two little boys - and now you see how true it is. There is no difference now. I'm not a prince anymore."

Theodore took his hand, squeezed it tightly. "Yes you are," he said fiercely, pulling that hand to his chest and hugging it awkwardly. "You ARE a prince. No matter what happens, no matter where you are, you'd be a prince all the same, and nothing can change that."

Draco gave a soft, dry sob, and Theodore hesitantly wrapped his arms around the other boy.

"You will always be a prince," he repeated softly, as the two of them fell into silence.