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bookishwenchIn which Draco reads his mail, receives an invitation or two, and proves that table manners are not necessarily hereditary.
Author: Meltha
Rating: PG at this point, but likely to rise
Feedback: Yes, thank you. Melpomenethalia@aol.com
Spoilers: Currently, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Again, this will rise.
Distribution: The Blackberry Patch and Fanfiction.net. If you’re interested, please let me know.
Summary: Draco receives two letters: one he was hoping for, and one he was dreading.
Disclaimer: All characters are created by J. K. Rowling, a wonderful writer whose works I greatly enjoy. I have borrowed them for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
Author Note: Some information double-checked through the Harry Potter Lexicon.
Previous chapters may be found here.
Part 10: Post and Porringer
Despite his loudly grumbling stomach, Draco groaned and sat down on his bed, carefully propping up his still throbbing leg.
“I hope these are short letters,” he groused to himself.
Draco picked up the one written on heavier parchment first, slid his finger under the green wax seal imprinted with the Hogwarts crest, and unfolded the paper. No sooner did he see the name at the end of it than he groaned again, this time not in hunger but in dread.
Hail Godson,
Please accept my congratulations upon your Sorting into Slytherin. You have adequately completed your first step towards maintaining the honor of an old and illustrious family. As per the request of your esteemed parents, I invite you to partake of tea with me this afternoon in my office at 3:00. We shall discuss matters of some import regarding your time at Hogwarts. Punctuality is highly desirable as I do not relish being kept waiting.
Respectfully,
Professor Severus Snape
Head of Slytherin House
His godfather’s signature was like the rest of his writing: somewhat spidery and written in a watery black ink that looked almost purple. Draco stared at it for a few seconds before huffing out a great sigh.
“Just what I wanted,” he said, “tea with the happiest man on the planet… if every other male were dead.”
Still, there seemed no way around it. The invitation really had the flavor of a command about it, and he guessed that tea with Professor Snape was not likely to be the most fun experience he would have at Hogwarts. On the other hand, at the very least he could expect a sandwich and perhaps biscuits out of the ordeal, and as Draco was beginning to suspect that lunch would be entirely picked over by the time he made it to the Great Hall, that was at least something.
Draco took the other letter in hand, and he suddenly found himself hoping desperately that it wasn’t from Dumbledore arguing about his spying on his own family and friends again. He hadn’t really given it much thought since he found he couldn’t even open his mouth to speak about the situation, but he felt uncomfortably that the matter wasn’t really closed. However, the rather flimsy parchment didn’t seem Dumbledore’s style at all. He broke the very modest wax seal on the letter and opened it with still some trepidation. A moment later, though, his face split into a smile.
Dear Draco,
I do hope I’m spelling that right. I quite forgot to ask you whether it was a k or c on the train. If it’s wrong, do tell me. I can’t bear getting details like that wrong, can you? Of course, with my name, I’ve seen every spelling there is, but I still find it annoying.
Anyway, I thought I’d drop you a quick note before the first day began. I’ve been up since dawn; it’s not so much that I can’t sleep or I’m an early riser as one of the other Gryffindor girls, though I probably shouldn’t say which one, has a really rafter-rattling snore that’s going to take some getting used to, or at least a good pair of ear stoppers.
Gryffindor Tower is really quite lovely. Everything is done up in scarlet and gold, and there’s a great, cozy fireplace in our common room. The view is really wonderful from the girls’ dormitory; I can see all the way out to the Forbidden Forest and even a little beyond if I squint a bit.
“Wait,” Draco said aloud. “They get a tower and we get a dank dungeon? How is that fair!”
I’m off to breakfast and then classes. Gryffindors have Charms first it seems, followed by History of Magic. Do you think we could meet up around 3:00 to swap stories about the lessons we’ve had? If so, let me know. I hope your first day goes well. I’m so nervous about not knowing everything in the texts yet. I’ll be lucky if I don’t make a fool of myself.
Best of luck,
Hermione
Draco’s face fell as he realized he was going to be with his godfather at the exact time Hermione wanted to meet, and he found himself disappointed. He would have particularly liked to get her impression of Binns. Still, it couldn’t be helped. He pulled a quill, ink, and parchment from his desk and set about writing a note.
Dear Hermione,
See. Your name’s not so hard to spell, and you’re right, there’s no k in Draco. I can’t make tea today as I’m meeting with my godfather, Professor Snape, who teaches potions. I think Gryffindors and Slytherins take that class together. He should be…
“Boring? Depressed? Gloomy?” Draco supplied, then shrugged.
…well versed in the subject as he’s an accomplished potions maker. At any rate, I regret I will be unable to meet with you today. Perhaps later in the week would work better.
Draco stared at the letter for a while, being sure all the necessary requirements were fulfilled: logical explanation as to why he had to turn down the invitation (and true, not that truth was something that mattered all that much in excuses), check; casual showing of connections of importance between himself and a member of the Hogwarts staff, check; polite request for a future meeting to show he had no intention of offending a Pureblood young lady even if she was not his betrothed, check. Now he just needed a suitable closing and the letter should be a success. After much thought, he scrawled at the bottom of the note
With warm regards,
Draco Malfoy
“Perfect,” he said, nodding to himself approvingly.
For a moment, he toyed with adding a postscript asking whether or not Gryffindor Tower was, by any chance, bone-chillingly damp, but decided it might come off as whinging and skipped it, sealed the letter, then wondered how exactly he was supposed to call Persephone to pick it up. He walked over to the window, stuck his head out, and twisted around to stare up at the Owlery.
“Hey!” he yelled in its general direction. “Any of you lot up?”
He supposed it wasn’t terribly dignified, but at the moment Draco didn’t care. He didn’t feel like walking all the way up to that tower just to wake up Persephone, not with his leg in the state it was in. As luck would have it, a rather striking white owl was clearly visible in one of the Owlery’s windows, and even from there Draco could see two glints that meant her eyes were opened.
“Oi! You!” he said, waving frantically. “Come here, yeah?”
The owl seemed to be considering him somewhat resentfully, and Draco was almost sure it was going to flutter off to bed when she surprised him by flapping her wings sluggishly and taking to the air, heading straight for him. Sure enough, she landed with a composed ruffling of feathers on the windowsill and looked about uncertainly for a moment before stepping into the room.
“Yeah, I know, it’s a pit,” he said. “Would you take this to Hermione Granger?”
The owl gave him a rather conceited look, but held out her leg obediently enough so he could tie the parchment securely. When he’d finished, she gazed at him coldly.
“Well, go on!” he said loudly. “Shoo!”
The bird did not move.
“Why aren’t you leaving?” he asked, annoyed, and the owl in question continued to give him a scathing look that suggested he was something of an imbecile. “What?!” he finally yelled.
The bird clacked her beak rapidly a few times and looked at him expectantly.
“Oh,” Draco said. “You want food. Well, I suppose that’s understandable.”
He lifted the lid of his trunk and found a container of owl treats that had been packed by one of the house-elves who had apparently known his parents were planning to give him an owl. He dug one out and flicked it in the white owl’s direction, and she caught it skillfully in her beak.
“Now… go?” he said hopefully.
The white owl spread her wings and made one loop of the room, managing to ruffle Draco’s hair with a wing on her way, and swooped out the window.
“About time,” Draco said, putting his hair to rights. “I doubt there’s anything left to eat.”
Draco walked back through the Slytherin common room, out the door, and up the stairs that led to the Great Hall. He could already smell the glorious aroma of hot beef stew and fresh bread, but when he entered the gigantic room, it was nearly as empty as his stomach. Three-quarters of the students had already eaten and left, and there really wasn’t much food remaining in the tureens on the tables. Almost panicking at the thought of having to skip another meal (Malfoys do not faint unless they are female and there’s a handsome Pureblood prince about), he ran towards the Slytherin table as quickly as his stiffened leg would carry him. He grabbed one of the few remaining bowls, scraped the soup ladle to the very bottom of the tureen, and managed to cadge a good portion of broth, but not much in the way of beef or potatoes. Snorting indignantly, he took a roll from a basket and sat down. Thankfully there was a clean spoon at his spot, and he began, politely and with great refinement, shoveling soup into his mouth.
“Cold,” he said miserably, but cold or not, it was still food, and he’d take it.
“How’s the leg?” asked a very large boy across from him. At a glance, Draco knew he wasn’t a first year.
“Better,” Draco said tersely. “How did you know about it?”
The boy grinned in a rather unpleasant manner and said, “That story’s all over Slytherin now: Draco Malfoy, bitten to a bloody pulp by a crazed geranium. Quite the star, you are.”
Draco gritted his teeth at the other boy.
“And who, precisely, are you?” he asked, making each word sound like a threat on his life.
“Marcus Flint, Quidditch team captain,” he returned, and the smile looked more like a dog baring its fangs than anything remotely human.
“Yeah,” Draco said, deciding that he had only two choices, and he was not taking the road of backing down and blending into the woodwork, “well, you should watch your tone with your betters, Flint. My father could buy and sell your family for less than he pays for morning porridge, and if you keep up with running your mouth, you might find you’ve burned too many bridges to go back.”
Flint glared at him menacingly, but Draco took note that his words had hit their mark as the older, larger boy seemed to shrink a bit in his seat with uncertainty.
“No harm meant,” Flint said, and though his voice was apologetic, his eyes were still snapping angrily. “Just a funny story.”
Draco did not deign to answer but continued downing the ice cold stew, occasionally dipping torn off chunks of his roll into it and chewing them with smooth contempt. In a few minutes, Flint simply got up and went away, leaving Draco the master of the Slytherin table. Granted, the table was now empty except for him, but an empty victorious battlefield was still a victory.
Leaving the dirty bowl on the table, he checked the clock hanging in the Great Hall. It was just 2:30. He had half an hour to get ready for tea with his dear godfather. What a joy that promised to be. Since Professor Snape’s office was in the dungeons (what was with this school and sticking Slytherins in dark, dank, fetid holes in the ground?), Draco had a sizable walk with his somewhat imperfect leg. His jaw set in grim determination, Draco set off for the torturous experience of tea, hoping against hope that at least there would be decent biscuits. Somehow, though, he doubted it.
On to part 11 here.
Author: Meltha
Rating: PG at this point, but likely to rise
Feedback: Yes, thank you. Melpomenethalia@aol.com
Spoilers: Currently, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Again, this will rise.
Distribution: The Blackberry Patch and Fanfiction.net. If you’re interested, please let me know.
Summary: Draco receives two letters: one he was hoping for, and one he was dreading.
Disclaimer: All characters are created by J. K. Rowling, a wonderful writer whose works I greatly enjoy. I have borrowed them for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
Author Note: Some information double-checked through the Harry Potter Lexicon.
Previous chapters may be found here.
Despite his loudly grumbling stomach, Draco groaned and sat down on his bed, carefully propping up his still throbbing leg.
“I hope these are short letters,” he groused to himself.
Draco picked up the one written on heavier parchment first, slid his finger under the green wax seal imprinted with the Hogwarts crest, and unfolded the paper. No sooner did he see the name at the end of it than he groaned again, this time not in hunger but in dread.
Hail Godson,
Please accept my congratulations upon your Sorting into Slytherin. You have adequately completed your first step towards maintaining the honor of an old and illustrious family. As per the request of your esteemed parents, I invite you to partake of tea with me this afternoon in my office at 3:00. We shall discuss matters of some import regarding your time at Hogwarts. Punctuality is highly desirable as I do not relish being kept waiting.
Respectfully,
Professor Severus Snape
Head of Slytherin House
His godfather’s signature was like the rest of his writing: somewhat spidery and written in a watery black ink that looked almost purple. Draco stared at it for a few seconds before huffing out a great sigh.
“Just what I wanted,” he said, “tea with the happiest man on the planet… if every other male were dead.”
Still, there seemed no way around it. The invitation really had the flavor of a command about it, and he guessed that tea with Professor Snape was not likely to be the most fun experience he would have at Hogwarts. On the other hand, at the very least he could expect a sandwich and perhaps biscuits out of the ordeal, and as Draco was beginning to suspect that lunch would be entirely picked over by the time he made it to the Great Hall, that was at least something.
Draco took the other letter in hand, and he suddenly found himself hoping desperately that it wasn’t from Dumbledore arguing about his spying on his own family and friends again. He hadn’t really given it much thought since he found he couldn’t even open his mouth to speak about the situation, but he felt uncomfortably that the matter wasn’t really closed. However, the rather flimsy parchment didn’t seem Dumbledore’s style at all. He broke the very modest wax seal on the letter and opened it with still some trepidation. A moment later, though, his face split into a smile.
Dear Draco,
I do hope I’m spelling that right. I quite forgot to ask you whether it was a k or c on the train. If it’s wrong, do tell me. I can’t bear getting details like that wrong, can you? Of course, with my name, I’ve seen every spelling there is, but I still find it annoying.
Anyway, I thought I’d drop you a quick note before the first day began. I’ve been up since dawn; it’s not so much that I can’t sleep or I’m an early riser as one of the other Gryffindor girls, though I probably shouldn’t say which one, has a really rafter-rattling snore that’s going to take some getting used to, or at least a good pair of ear stoppers.
Gryffindor Tower is really quite lovely. Everything is done up in scarlet and gold, and there’s a great, cozy fireplace in our common room. The view is really wonderful from the girls’ dormitory; I can see all the way out to the Forbidden Forest and even a little beyond if I squint a bit.
“Wait,” Draco said aloud. “They get a tower and we get a dank dungeon? How is that fair!”
I’m off to breakfast and then classes. Gryffindors have Charms first it seems, followed by History of Magic. Do you think we could meet up around 3:00 to swap stories about the lessons we’ve had? If so, let me know. I hope your first day goes well. I’m so nervous about not knowing everything in the texts yet. I’ll be lucky if I don’t make a fool of myself.
Best of luck,
Hermione
Draco’s face fell as he realized he was going to be with his godfather at the exact time Hermione wanted to meet, and he found himself disappointed. He would have particularly liked to get her impression of Binns. Still, it couldn’t be helped. He pulled a quill, ink, and parchment from his desk and set about writing a note.
Dear Hermione,
See. Your name’s not so hard to spell, and you’re right, there’s no k in Draco. I can’t make tea today as I’m meeting with my godfather, Professor Snape, who teaches potions. I think Gryffindors and Slytherins take that class together. He should be…
“Boring? Depressed? Gloomy?” Draco supplied, then shrugged.
…well versed in the subject as he’s an accomplished potions maker. At any rate, I regret I will be unable to meet with you today. Perhaps later in the week would work better.
Draco stared at the letter for a while, being sure all the necessary requirements were fulfilled: logical explanation as to why he had to turn down the invitation (and true, not that truth was something that mattered all that much in excuses), check; casual showing of connections of importance between himself and a member of the Hogwarts staff, check; polite request for a future meeting to show he had no intention of offending a Pureblood young lady even if she was not his betrothed, check. Now he just needed a suitable closing and the letter should be a success. After much thought, he scrawled at the bottom of the note
With warm regards,
Draco Malfoy
“Perfect,” he said, nodding to himself approvingly.
For a moment, he toyed with adding a postscript asking whether or not Gryffindor Tower was, by any chance, bone-chillingly damp, but decided it might come off as whinging and skipped it, sealed the letter, then wondered how exactly he was supposed to call Persephone to pick it up. He walked over to the window, stuck his head out, and twisted around to stare up at the Owlery.
“Hey!” he yelled in its general direction. “Any of you lot up?”
He supposed it wasn’t terribly dignified, but at the moment Draco didn’t care. He didn’t feel like walking all the way up to that tower just to wake up Persephone, not with his leg in the state it was in. As luck would have it, a rather striking white owl was clearly visible in one of the Owlery’s windows, and even from there Draco could see two glints that meant her eyes were opened.
“Oi! You!” he said, waving frantically. “Come here, yeah?”
The owl seemed to be considering him somewhat resentfully, and Draco was almost sure it was going to flutter off to bed when she surprised him by flapping her wings sluggishly and taking to the air, heading straight for him. Sure enough, she landed with a composed ruffling of feathers on the windowsill and looked about uncertainly for a moment before stepping into the room.
“Yeah, I know, it’s a pit,” he said. “Would you take this to Hermione Granger?”
The owl gave him a rather conceited look, but held out her leg obediently enough so he could tie the parchment securely. When he’d finished, she gazed at him coldly.
“Well, go on!” he said loudly. “Shoo!”
The bird did not move.
“Why aren’t you leaving?” he asked, annoyed, and the owl in question continued to give him a scathing look that suggested he was something of an imbecile. “What?!” he finally yelled.
The bird clacked her beak rapidly a few times and looked at him expectantly.
“Oh,” Draco said. “You want food. Well, I suppose that’s understandable.”
He lifted the lid of his trunk and found a container of owl treats that had been packed by one of the house-elves who had apparently known his parents were planning to give him an owl. He dug one out and flicked it in the white owl’s direction, and she caught it skillfully in her beak.
“Now… go?” he said hopefully.
The white owl spread her wings and made one loop of the room, managing to ruffle Draco’s hair with a wing on her way, and swooped out the window.
“About time,” Draco said, putting his hair to rights. “I doubt there’s anything left to eat.”
Draco walked back through the Slytherin common room, out the door, and up the stairs that led to the Great Hall. He could already smell the glorious aroma of hot beef stew and fresh bread, but when he entered the gigantic room, it was nearly as empty as his stomach. Three-quarters of the students had already eaten and left, and there really wasn’t much food remaining in the tureens on the tables. Almost panicking at the thought of having to skip another meal (Malfoys do not faint unless they are female and there’s a handsome Pureblood prince about), he ran towards the Slytherin table as quickly as his stiffened leg would carry him. He grabbed one of the few remaining bowls, scraped the soup ladle to the very bottom of the tureen, and managed to cadge a good portion of broth, but not much in the way of beef or potatoes. Snorting indignantly, he took a roll from a basket and sat down. Thankfully there was a clean spoon at his spot, and he began, politely and with great refinement, shoveling soup into his mouth.
“Cold,” he said miserably, but cold or not, it was still food, and he’d take it.
“How’s the leg?” asked a very large boy across from him. At a glance, Draco knew he wasn’t a first year.
“Better,” Draco said tersely. “How did you know about it?”
The boy grinned in a rather unpleasant manner and said, “That story’s all over Slytherin now: Draco Malfoy, bitten to a bloody pulp by a crazed geranium. Quite the star, you are.”
Draco gritted his teeth at the other boy.
“And who, precisely, are you?” he asked, making each word sound like a threat on his life.
“Marcus Flint, Quidditch team captain,” he returned, and the smile looked more like a dog baring its fangs than anything remotely human.
“Yeah,” Draco said, deciding that he had only two choices, and he was not taking the road of backing down and blending into the woodwork, “well, you should watch your tone with your betters, Flint. My father could buy and sell your family for less than he pays for morning porridge, and if you keep up with running your mouth, you might find you’ve burned too many bridges to go back.”
Flint glared at him menacingly, but Draco took note that his words had hit their mark as the older, larger boy seemed to shrink a bit in his seat with uncertainty.
“No harm meant,” Flint said, and though his voice was apologetic, his eyes were still snapping angrily. “Just a funny story.”
Draco did not deign to answer but continued downing the ice cold stew, occasionally dipping torn off chunks of his roll into it and chewing them with smooth contempt. In a few minutes, Flint simply got up and went away, leaving Draco the master of the Slytherin table. Granted, the table was now empty except for him, but an empty victorious battlefield was still a victory.
Leaving the dirty bowl on the table, he checked the clock hanging in the Great Hall. It was just 2:30. He had half an hour to get ready for tea with his dear godfather. What a joy that promised to be. Since Professor Snape’s office was in the dungeons (what was with this school and sticking Slytherins in dark, dank, fetid holes in the ground?), Draco had a sizable walk with his somewhat imperfect leg. His jaw set in grim determination, Draco set off for the torturous experience of tea, hoping against hope that at least there would be decent biscuits. Somehow, though, he doubted it.
On to part 11 here.
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