Attention

Chapter Seventeen: Acceptance

Draco stood watching Ginny climb the sloping lawns up to the greenhouses. He could just make out her vivid hair as she joined the gaggle of other students, and then even her hair disappeared through one of the doors.

Draco felt odd. He knew that he'd just made a huge, life-changing decision, but the birds were still singing with over-effusive exuberance, the wind was still blowing gustily, and the water still lapped at the lakeside. The world had not stood still for him, and he was a little miffed. Shouldn't everything be different now? Shouldn't there be celebrations and revelations and front-page reports?

It wasn't just that he'd deliberately kissed a Weasley, although that was certainly something to worry about. Several dozen generations had passed since the Weasleys and Malfoys had last been on speaking terms, much less affable toward each other. When word got out, there would be quite the uproar, and Draco wasn't sure if he was more amused or frightened by it. The whole idea seemed odd -- these were supposed to be his wild years, weren't they? No one should really care who he snogged.

No, it wasn't the kiss, or the lust, or even the budding romance, which even he could see. It was that they had spoken to each other like friends, and that by befriending a Weasley, Draco had just thrown his lot in with Dumbledore's crowd.

It was one thing to tell Ginny, or even the Boy Who Lived, that he didn't plan on being a Death Eater, but quite another to fraternize with the enemy, as it were. The enemy...

Draco re-read his father's letter, which now made a great deal more sense. His father thought Hermione Granger was the object of his affections, and wanted him to prove his loyalty to the Dark Lord before the time came for him to take the Dark Mark.

Draco ground his teeth. When had his father decided to make that particular unilateral decision? Draco supposed he hadn't listened properly at dinner one night, though now it seemed that Lucius wouldn't have been quite as obvious about it. He couldn't exactly imagine his father saying, Now, Draco, be sure to comport yourself with dignity when the Dark Lord burns a ghastly, ugly tattoo into your forearm... He thought back to all the letters he'd received since his father had landed in Azkaban. Why hadn't he realised it earlier?

Because all Draco ever thought about was girls and Quidditch.

He wanted to rail at himself, to feel angry and galvanized into action by this discovery, but all he felt was a half-hearted numbness. It was all too far away. Politics, he thought with contempt.

But this was more than just politics, Draco told himself; he knew it would not sink in until he gave himself a stern talking-to. This was family business, this involved someone who was supposed to care for him.

Draco repeated that particlar phrase until it seemed to have sunk in. His father, who was supposed to love him unconditionally, intended him to become a Death Eater.

His father planned to give him over to the Dark Lord.

Lucius valued his own place in the Dark Lord's circle more than his son's life.

Draco shuddered, despite the warming sun. When he thought of it that way, he felt physically ill.

He thought back to when he had merely been afraid that his father would disown him. Now, that seemed an easy fate: simple wrath over the sullying of the Malfoy line. Worst consequence was death, which, no matter how much torture Lucius wrought before the end, was still an end. Eternal servitude to You-Know-Who, however, was simply gross. Who wanted to waste their time with things like war when there were so many pretty girls around? Like Ginny.

Ginny.

Gah.

Draco blinked and looked around, mildly surprised that he was still standing under the trees. The grounds appeared deserted. He considered for a moment going up to the castle, but decided that would only annoy him. Instead, he Transfigured a nearby rock into a blanket and set down his bag, then lay down and stared up at the pale sky.

For a long time Draco lay on his back, letting his mind drift from topic to topic, giving it free range. It felt easier not to think about his father's... nastiness. He couldn't bring himself to use the word 'evil', not even in his head, not yet. He remembered, instead, good memories of childhood, of his father's kindnesses: teaching him how to fly when he'd been seven, not laughing when he'd fallen and cracked his head on his first try; celebrating with Narcissa when five-year-old Draco's accidental magic had turned his hair bright green; Lucius's long, stern lectures that, though slightly scary, had always made him understand that Lucius only wanted the best for Draco...

But now, Draco thought angrily, glaring at the placid, silent sky, Lucius only wanted the best for himself. Wanted to use his son as a bargaining chip, Draco sneered. Politics, always politics. Lucius had always been like that, Draco now realized. Considering his childhood, he realized it had always been tit-for-tat, eye-for-an-eye, the punishment fitting the crime. Draco had once broken into his father's study to see what sort of books Lucius kept in there, and Lucius, in order to prove his point that Draco wasn't ready for such knowledge, performed a number of Dark curses on him. It had taken six months for his toes to grow back properly, and his left buttock had never quite looked right ever since.

But despite such hard punishment, Draco had always thought that his father loved him, that his father would defend him against enemies, would put him above everything else--

Potter's parents had died for him

--would always support him. Of course, Draco had known from an early age that this love came with a caveat: Malfoys have certain standards. There was no way Draco would get away with just anything, but Draco had never wanted 'just anything'. He wanted the easy life, the path of least resistance.

And so far, that path had included following his father's suggestions for friends, doing what he'd been trained to do, and occasionally making mischief for the amusements of his Slytherin companions.

But now his father quite clearly wanted him to join the Death Eaters, and that was far too messy and mucky and, well, hard. There weren't that many girls in the Death Eaters, unless you counted Aunt Bella and a few of her old chums, and there wouldn't be any kind of flirtation allowed, he was sure. And there was that whole thing of torturing and killing other people, as well as risking torture from the Dark Lord, and he really didn't want that. He realised that this was more than just his personality rebelling; it was that strange part of him he'd come to call a conscience.

Draco wondered if it would feel the same if his father had simply died, rather than turning against him, and decided this was decidedly worse. Not only could he no longer rely on Lucius, but Draco was now on the Wrong Side of things, having discovered a conscience.

For a split second, Draco envied people like Hannah Abbott, brought up without expectations beyond clean teeth and decent marks.

Then he sighed, wiped his eyes, and rolled over onto his feet, gathering up his bag. If he was going to be dragged into politics, he decided, he'd better get on the side where they didn't torture you if you messed up.

He tried to pretend that the fact that Ginny was on that side, and would admire him for choosing it, was not really important, then gave up and admitted that she really wasn't so bad after all. And she could kiss, which was nice.

And now that he'd decided which side of the war he was on, he could finally go to the library and get some studying done.