The Taming of The Viper

Chapter 23: Bedside Manners

TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT

THE DELEGATIONS FROM BEAUXBATONS AND DURMSTRANG WILL BE ARRIVING AT 6 O'CLOCK ON FRIDAY THE 30TH OF OCTOBER. LESSONS WILL END HALF AN HOUR EARLY. STUDENTS WILL RETURN–

Draco quit reading the sign Filch erected in the entrance hall. Slinging the bookbag over his shoulder, he continued to make his way towards the west wing, shoving past those still milling around the sign and chattering away with excitement. It was the only thing people seemed to be talking about these days and any mention of Draco's heroic feat in the Quidditch match was quickly overshadowed. But the tournament wasn't news to him. His father, always entangled in Ministry affairs like every Malfoy before him, told Draco about it over the summer. On the balmy nights when Draco was flogged by nightmares, he would lay awake, fantasizing what it would be like to be champion, to secure the title for Hogwarts, Slytherin, and above all, himself.

"What do you think, father?" Draco asked one morning over tea in the rose garden. A lemon tart sat on his plate, uneaten but riddled with marks where he'd prodded it with a fork. The shaky house-elf tasked with holding the sun umbrella over the table buckled under the weight of it. A sliver of sunlight fell across Draco's hand. He held still, staring at it, and just as its warmth began to seep into his skin, the house elf corrected its stance and the sunlight vanished. Fingers curling against the wrought iron table, Draco cleared his throat. "Should I enter the tournament?"

Lucius Malfoy's eyes remained glued to the paper as he turned the page of the Daily Prophet. The Wanted poster of escaped murderer Sirius Black plastered the front page, staring back at Draco. "Do you think you're ready for such a challenge?"

"Of course I am!" The raised voice triggered his father's steely gaze to lock onto his, a silent reminder to rein in his emotions. Draco took a deep and stubborn breath, counting down in his head, and although he appeared collected, he still hid his hands under the table, where no one could see how white his knuckles became. "I only meant that I'm at the top of my class in Charms and Potions, and with the added Dark Arts lessons we've been doing all summer, I'm confident I could win."

"What is it I always tell you, Draco?" His fathers voice was a monotonous drawl. "Confidence is good, but overconfidence..."

"Sinks the ship," Draco finished with a sigh. "Yes, father, I remember. But I just know that Potter is going to enter-considering he can't pass up the opportunity to be the center of attention-and if I don't enter I'll end up looking like a coward."

Pages rustled as Lucius folded the newspaper and set it down by the three-tiered cake stand brimming with sweets. His hand reached out across the table and Draco tensed, nails digging into his thighs, but his father only picked up a teacup.

Lucius took a contemplative sip. "Being top of the class isn't good enough, not when the other schools are involved. The Beauxbatons have won the tournament nearly as many times as Hogwarts, but it's the students from Durmstrang you should be wary of. They are the ones more likely to maim or accidentally kill their competition. The study of Dark Arts is respected at Durmstrang, unlike at Hogwarts, and the lessons are rigorous." Chuckling darkly into his cup, Lucius added, "They make our little training sessions look like child's play."

Though his pulse quickened at the mention of his father's lessons, Draco swallowed his fear. After weakness, it was fear that his father hated most.

"Then I'll train harder. We've still got weeks before term starts. Hexes, curses, I'll learn them all. Imagine if I won, father. Hogwarts would have a Slytherin champion and I–" He caught his words before they flew out of his mouth like caged sparrows. I could make you proud, he almost foolishly said.