The Hearts Eclipse

Chapter 3: Bitter Tea

Draco watched the still form of Harry Potter, curled up against the wall of the cell, and shivered. The dungeons were cold. That was just the way things were, but it didn't mean that Draco had to like it. He tucked his feet underneath him on the chair and pulled his blankets in tighter. It had been a long night, and it wasn't over yet. His tea had gone cold hours ago, left untouched on the floor by his feet. His mother had always refused to let him sweeten it (sweetened tea being simply not proper), and despite its fragrant aroma, Draco had never appreciated its bitter edge. Besides, he would have much preferred a stronger beverage to keep him warm – one that would have drowned out the ridiculous thoughts that kept swimming unchecked through his head.

For a fleeting instant (in a fit of momentary insanity, to be precise), he'd almost slipped and uttered an apology to Biddy, before she'd disappeared from the dungeons. He, Draco Malfoy, apologize to a house-elf? Preposterous! But worse still, Potter had instigated the whole thing, only to turn his back on Draco and curl up apparently sound asleep on the floor. Nobody turned their back to a Malfoy, and here was Potter, calmly doing just that, like there was nothing to worry him in the world. Draco considered turning his wand on the obnoxious captive, but to what end? Torture him? For some reason, the idea had lost its appeal. Control him? Apparently that wasn't going to work. No, he wanted to beat Potter at his own game.

No matter what the situation, Potter had always managed to come out on top. Oh, it wasn't just Quidditch. There was the House Cup, the Triwizard Tournament, media coverage, fame and fortune... it was enough to make Draco sick. Now that fluke of a boy, asleep on the cold dungeon floor, was winning in a game of wits. Draco set his jaw firmly. No, this was only the first round. There would be plenty of time to turn the tide of this contest. He just couldn't let Potter get to him. He certainly wasn't going to dwell on it. But that was exactly what he was doing, and he knew it. Draco shifted in his seat, turning his back so that he couldn't see Potter and the cell.

Potter couldn't possibly know the effect his comment about "earning loyalty" was having on Draco. As a Malfoy, he had spent his entire life trying to earn respect, prestige, and most importantly, power. Loyalty was merely the logical consequence of those attributes, not a quality that stood on its own. His father's loyalty to the Dark Lord, his own loyalty to his father; loyalty was simply given to the person with the most power.

Power. That's what it was all about. The final goal. It was the last step, of course, requiring time, cunning, and knowing the right people. It was a remote aspiration for Draco when he was younger, so respect had become his intermediate goal. He had sought it from his friends, his professors, and mostly, from his father. Crabbe and Goyle had been easy enough. Show those goons a card trick, and they would worship you like the second coming of Merlin. Professors were a bit more difficult. He had always earned top marks in his classes, particularly Potions; but with Mudblood lovers like Dumbledore running the place, the Malfoy name didn't hold the clout it once had. Draco had managed to royally embarrass himself on occasion, had gotten in trouble with a number of professors, and every single time, it had had something to do with Potter. Detention in the Dark Forest, tangles with hippogriffs, and painful moments as a flying ferret – all of it was courtesy of Potter, one way or another.

Naturally, whenever Potter inadvertently instigated something like that, his father made it known just how displeased he was. It wasn't easy for anybody to earn respect from Lucius Malfoy. The task became even more difficult when he was your father. Draco had never quite been good enough, never quite been able to move fast enough, although there was nothing he wanted more. Gods that be, he swore that the harder he tried, the more he fell short of his father's expectations. As the only Malfoy heir, he had a reputation to uphold. He had a destiny to fulfill. Only great things could come from a name like Draco Malfoy. He came so close, too. His father had been pleased with Draco's report card at the end of his first year. Pleased, that was, until he had heard about Mudblood Granger's marks. Draco had watched in shame as his father had removed his report parchment from its frame over the mantle and reduced it to ashes with a flick of his wand. Edged out by a Mudblood. It was humiliating. It was disgraceful. It was not the place of a Malfoy. It was nowhere near as bad as the after-effects of his first Quidditch match though.