5A/N: This was written for Ellie's Birthday Challenge. However, since I'm a little pressed for time, I've decided to split this into three chapters. As you will see, this is a rather twisted, Tim-Burton-like version of Cinderella. I hope you'll enjoy it Ellie.
Chapter 1: Becoming Dracorella
Draco absentmindedly ran his thumb over the worn lining on the handkerchief he held loosely in his right hand. Oddly enough, this trivial motion provided the much needed comfort to calm his already overwrought nerves. In fact, as of late, it had been the only thing to do so.
However, with comfort swiftly came a twinge of irritation as he thought of this newfound idiosyncrasy. Draco Malfoy did not fidget. Neither did he twiddle his thumbs foolishly. No, he did not, in any way, display any signs of restlessness.
And yet, here he was…caressing a handkerchief…almost lovingly.
And yet, he made no move to withdraw his fingers from the shabby cloth of the handkerchief.
He looked moodily out the window of his father's study, at the crimson hue of the sun as it gradually sank into the shadowy clutches of the mountainous terrain.
As he shifted his gaze to the Ministry-embossed letter before him, shadows of a different kind consumed Draco entirely as the events from the previous night threatened to take possession of his mind again. The letter was only another reminder of the cruel hand that fate had played him; only another Unforgivable Curse that the Ministry had cleverly aimed his way.
Reluctantly, his eyes skimmed its meager contents once more, even though its words were, by now, emblazoned into his memory.
Good evening Mr. Malfoy,
We are terribly sorry for the loss you have recently suffered. The late Mr. Lucius Malfoy was a wizard of impeccable character and the wizarding world will mourn the demise of one of the noblest wizards to have grace the Ministry with his presence. We only hope that, with time, you and the deceased's wife will be able to recover from the shocking affair.
Draco snorted. Even a Dementor would be able to sense the forced undertones of the letter and, hell, those…things didn't even have eyes! Yes, no doubt, it was only common courtesy to praise the noble qualities of the wizard who the Ministry had almost been literally foaming at the mouth to throw to the Dementors not so long ago. And, of course, it had been his father's presence (or, as Draco liked to call it, Galleons) at the Ministry that had managed to prevent him from joining the ranks of the Inferi.
But, of course, the Ministry wouldn't waste its precious parchment just to send the deceased's family a common courtesy call. Let alone Lucius Malfoy's family.
Draco's lips twisted into a thin line as he read the remainder of the letter.
We also regret to inform you that, due to the abrupt manner in which Mr. Malfoy senior passed away, we were not able to retrieve any legal documents pertaining to the state of his possessions in the event that he passed away prematurely. It appears that he did not leave any will to testify to the ownership of his estate or any other property, for that matter.
As such, we are forced to use the will of the deceased's father, Mr. Abraxas Malfoy, as precedent in affairs dealing with the Malfoys' estate and personal property. Unfortunately, it appears he has bequeathed all property, both real and personal, to the Ministry.
Consequently, we request that, within the next week, you evacuate the premises by Friday, the seventeenth of March.
Once again, we apologize for any inconvenience and wish you all the best.
Sincerely,
Dennis Creevey
Head of Magical Estate Affairs
He could just imagine the lot of them doing a victory dance in those damned cubbyholes they called offices. Lucius Malfoy dead and his wealth all for their taking? Well, now he understood where the Muggles had gotten that ridiculous proverb— the one about killing two birds with one stone something or other— from.
He sighed resignedly.
His father was dead, having fallen victim to the very measly thing he had sneered at all those times—a heart attack. He had not been immune to those Muggle diseases as he had lead a younger Draco to believe. The indomitable father that he had placed on a silver pedestal was present no more.
No longer would he beat his father appallingly in wizards' chess.
No longer would he be whacked by his father's cane if he dared to say anything clever.
No longer would he see his parents quarreling over the length of his father's hair.
No longer…
Draco grimaced as he felt a dull ache grow in his chest. Now was not the time to start feeling sentimental, seeing as his father had always been the one to say sentimentality was just a synonym for weakness. But, he wasn't his father and, despite what he had been taught to feel, he couldn't deny the part of him that, however miniscule, grieved for the man who had made him who he was. It didn't help matters when he considered the almost semi-hysterical state that his mother had become consumed in since his father's death yesterday evening.
And how could he forget his overbearing prune of a grandfather in the grand scheme of things. Draco scowled. It was just like the saggy bastard to give away the Malfoy estate over a asinine little squabble he had had with his son ages ago.
He was just about to start a mental Wizengamot hearing (one that used words which proper wizards would never use) against the atrocities of Abraxas Malfoy when the door to the study opened and in sauntered a rather smug-looking Blaise Zabini, with a smirking Marcus Flint following in his wake.
Draco silently observed their movement across the room as they approached the desk, Blaise lazily perching himself on its mahogany-lacquered surface while Marcus settled into an armchair across the desk, raising his boot-clad feet to the top as well.
"Well, dear cousin," Blaise drawled snidely. "It appears that, without a penny to your Gringotts' account, we shall have to take you under our ever-so-charitable wing. Aren't you just brimming with gratitude?" He threw a patronizing look in Draco's direction, as if to say you better be.
Draco remained quiet as he watched Marcus pull out a cigarette, light it, and take a long drag. Catching Draco's eye, Marcus grinned and, taking his feet off the table, he leaned forward instead and blew the smoky contents of his mouth into the blond's face.
"Heh heh, yeah, barmy with 'tude," Marcus sniggered stupidly. "Goo' one, Blaise."
"I didn't ask you to be my verbal shadow," Blaise snapped. "And it's brimming, not barmy, you idiot."
Marcus just grinned at him, as if he had told a witty joke.
Blaise shot him an irritated look before settling his gaze on Draco once again. "I believe I asked you a question," he stated silkily. "Do be a loyal Hufflepuff and answer me, will you?" His voice was deceptively pleasant but Draco knew what its intonation implied. It meant that, if he didn't get to salivating soon at the boy's feet, there would be hell to come.
Marcus, with his piggy, button-like eyes, however, was blinking confusedly at Blaise. "I…though' he been in…Slytherin," he grunted, blowing out another puff of smoke sluggishly into Draco's face. "Wasn' he on ou' Quidd—"
"Shut up you great buffoon!" Blaise hissed impatiently at him. "What is it that you have up there, eh?" He reached over to rap his knuckles over Marcus' head. "Doxie droppings instead of a brain?"
Marcus slouched sulkily in his seat. "I-I do too have a brain…" He mumbled.
Draco felt his resolve to not say anything evaporate and he let out an incredulous snort. If Marcus Flint had a brain, then he, Draco Malfoy, was a redhead with freckles. And Merlin knew how ghastly a sight that would be.
Unfortunately, his noise of ridicule had not gone unnoticed by the others and he now felt himself being hoisted over the desk as a fuming Marcus grabbed him by the collar of his robes, making him graze his knuckles painfully against the edge of the desk as he was pulled roughly forwards.
"You got somethin' ta say, Malfoy?" Marcus growled and, with each word he spoke, a cloud of smoke erupted from his nose and mouth. He tightened his hold on Draco, the transparent hatred evident in his beady eyes.
"Now, now, Marcus, leave the poor boy alone," Blaise said mockingly. "After all, he did just lose his precious father." His eyes hardened as he coldly regarded Draco. "I'm still waiting for those words of gratitude, Malfoy. You would be well-advised to respond unless you want your mother sleeping on the streets with the Squibs."
Draco could feel his eyes watering as the putrid smell of the cigarette infiltrated his senses; apparently Marcus had decided that his new hobby would be to paint Draco's lungs black. The smell continued to invade his lungs until he was sure that they would burst out of his chest, protesting at the offensive lack of oxygen.
But, instead of lashing out at the unpleasant ogres in question as was expected of him, he clenched his jaw shut and, prying Marcus' fingers off of his collar, fixed the two former Slytherins before him with a cool, unruffled gaze.
It was a low blow to talk of his mother in a way that suggested she was a mere commoner and Draco hadn't missed the vulgar connotations to Blaise's comment. He knew if his father had been here that Blaise and Marcus would never have had the gall to act or speak so impertinently. Lucius Malfoy hadn't been one to tolerate impudence and he most likely would have transfigured Marcus into a Flobberworm for his belligerent demeanor. Not to mention scornfully told Blaise where he could shove his words of gratitude crap—
No, wait, that was only the incensed voice in his mind speaking.
A voice that was now telling him to hex the complacent smirk off of Blaise's face and to truly transform Marcus into a blithering Flobberworm.
It would be an improvement, after all.
But, as it was, his father was gone and it was up to him to see to it that his mother was looked after, regardless of what role his dignity played in the process. With no money, no residence, and a name with no worth, dignity was all that was left to him. And yet, it was his dignity that would, eventually, be sacrificed.
Trying to keep his current situation in mind (for it was all too easy to forget everything and make a mad dash for their throats), Draco transferred his gaze to the dying embers in the fireplace across the room and curtly said, "I am grateful for your generosity."
There. He had managed to be polite while not throwing his self-respect to the scoundrels. He'd be damned if they tried to weasel any other slobbering pleasantries out of him. He wouldn't give up his dignity without at least some sort of well-concealed and calculated resistance.
He stroked the slightly creased handkerchief in his pocket, just for good measure (and, although he would never admit it aloud, for consolation). The cotton material felt rough underneath his finger, inducing, once again, a peculiar surge of determination to overtake him.
However, his resilience proved to be fleeting for, when he reverted his eyes to the repulsive men before him, his stomach gave a great lurch as he saw Blaise's lip curl into a haughty sneer. With a sinking feeling in his heart, he realized that Blaise was eyeing his pocket with great interest; at the piece of cloth that was sticking out from it.
Before he had the chance to slip it out of sight, Blaise quickly leaned forward and snatched it adroitly out of his pocket. A look of gleeful disgust (if that was what it could be called) marked his olive countenance, reminding Draco of a more repugnant version of Peeves, as the offending boy dangled the handkerchief from his fingers.
"My, my, how fitting," Blaise snickered. "A filthy hanky for a filthy boy. It amazes me how easily you've adapted to your new status in the wizarding world, Malfoy."
Draco gritted his teeth. "Give it here, Blaise," he said in a voice that sounded strained even to his own ears. He made a grab for the article in question but Blaise swiftly pulled it out of his reach.
Blaise's sneer grew as he scrutinized Draco. "Am I…" he drawled, his eyes glinting spitefully, "sensing attachment?"
Marcus sniggered, and eagerly leaned forward on the desk, entranced by how Blaise would humiliate Draco next.
"I said, give it here Blaise," Draco repeated, a little more forcefully than before. He could feel his patience with the ruffians waning.
Blaise narrowed his eyes, apparently having noticed the change in his tone. "Might I remind you whose disposal you're at?" he stated calmly. Perhaps too calmly for Draco's liking.
As he continued to glower at the man, he saw Blaise suddenly smile slyly and, once again, Draco felt that queasy sensation in his stomach.
Draco watched as Blaise summoned Marcus towards him, handed him the handkerchief, and whispered something inaudible in his ear. Marcus glanced leeringly in his direction, an almost predatory look distorting his features. A look, Draco knew, that did not bode well.
Being the great sack of potatoes that he was, Marcus heaved his way gawkily to the fireplace on the opposite side of the room. Igniting the hearth with his wand (which was most likely the only spell he had ever mastered), he sneered one last time at Draco and proceeded to suspend the handkerchief tauntingly over the hungry flames erupting from the grate.
Draco cursed inwardly. He just knew that, by the end of the night, he would be on his way to Azkaban for Avada Kedavraing these two insufferable urchins. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?" He hissed, his eyes flickering angrily from Blaise's haughty smile to the fireplace, where the flames threatened to consume the handkerchief whole.
"Marcus," Blaise commanded. Marcus lowered the handkerchief a bit more towards the ravenous flames.
Draco felt his throat go dry and clutched the edge of the desk rigidly until his already pale knuckles were bone-white from being stretched so tautly. He moved from behind the desk to head towards Marcus but was blocked by Blaise. "What are you—" He began to say but was cut off smoothly by Blaise.
"As you can see, dear cousin, I have a low tolerance level for cheeky fellows," Blaise stated airily. He started to circle Malfoy deliberately, examining his nails in an almost uninterested manner. "And, I particularly don't easily forgive those who have the cheek to forget their rightful place."
Draco sighed, all of the sudden feeling extremely exhausted, both mentally and physically. The events of the past two days were beginning to take their toll on his body and he didn't know if he had it in him to maintain the Pureblood pretenses that had been ingrained in him since childhood. All he wanted to do right now was Stupefy Marcus, Petrificus Totalus Blaise, and possibly Imperio the Ministry into giving him his rightful inheritance back.
Instead, he settled for a more conciliatory approach. "Blaise—"
"That's Mr. Zabini to you," Blaise snapped.
Draco struggled to keep his face impassive, which was proving to be difficult as all he wanted to do was give the boy a look of utter revulsion. However, he reminded himself that, for the sake of his mother's wellbeing, preserving an air of cordiality would be in the best interests of both mother and son.
"Mr. Zabini," he stated evenly, silently sneering at the absurdity of it all.
"I don' see yo fatha' anywher' Blaise," came Marcus's confused voice from the corner.
Draco chose to ignore his comment and continued on, mentally bracing himself for what he was about to say. "How do you propose I earn your forgiveness?" He inquired coolly, quietly hoping that the other boy hadn't noticed the faint note of sarcasm in his voice.
Blaise arched an eyebrow; clearly he hadn't expected Draco to be so accommodating. But, as the minutes ticked by (accompanied by the occasional grunts from Marcus who was growing tired of holding the "filthy" handkerchief), and Blaise realized that Draco's question had not been in jest, a lazy smirk graced his countenance.
"My dear cousin, have you ever heard of the Muggle story of Cinderella?"
Coming up next:
Draco gets his first chore as Cinderella.
Our favorite redhead is introduced.
Will Draco's chore have anything to do with the redhead?
Review and put this story on alert to find out!