You might believe that being the closest friend of the wealthiest and most socially powerful wizard in Britain “ if not Europe “ would be a comfortable position. You would probably assume that prestige transfers, that interesting people are often available for idle chitchat, and that the dinners are excellent. You would be correct in that assumption, as far as that goes.
You might not stop to consider that if Lucius Malfoy makes a request of his closest friend, the correct answer, no matter how odious the task, is “Of course, Lucius.”
“Severus, the other guests will be arriving soon. Kindly put Draco to bed.”
You might also choose to call it a request. “Of course, Lucius.”
The little brat balks, of course, and why wouldn’t he? ‘No’ is not a word in his parents’ vocabulary. He is a born Slytherin “ cunning, shrewd, and convinced of his own supremacy “ from his little blond head to his toenails. At the tender age of five, the boy is more spoiled than James Bloody Potter ever was.
“Go along, Draco,” says his mother, as if she is being helpful. “Perhaps, if you are very good, Professor Snape will tell you a bedtime story.”
You might be astonished to discover that it is possible to produce a creditable smile while clenching teeth around remarks that should never, ever, under any circumstances be directed at Mrs. Malfoy. Particularly if she already feels that she might owe you a little something. “Perhaps, Narcissa.”
You might find it in you to wish she had bribed her son with a broom, so he could break his foolish young neck on his parents’ indulgence, but she already has and he hasn’t. He is coming along willingly enough now, of course. It seems he also has the Slytherin greed for information, or for easily-gained entertainment.
This is, of course, not the time to admit that the only bedtime stories you know are the ones you memorized by reading them to this same boy over and over when he was a toddler. He is older now, and prefers fresh stories. Mercifully he is also old enough to put on his own pyjamas and see to his toothbrushing and toilet needs, and you have only to loiter about browsing his little bookshelves for inspiration.
“Not one of those,” he demands when he catches you at it. “A new story.”
“Prayers first.” You can stall him a bit, at least.
Young Draco turns stubborn again. “Daddy doesn’t make me.”
You notice an absence in the assertion and make use of it. “Your mother does.” Whether his mother actually believes, or whether she believes that little boys need a respectable ritual, or whether she actually thinks that even a Malfoy should say thank-you to someone “ and who else stands higher? “ is a question for another time. For now, it is your task to fold your arms, look stern, and imply that prayers are on the logical path to bed, story, and sleep.
The boy folds himself beside the bed, places his hands together, and bows his head in the classic pose. Then, being a true Malfoy, he looks up instead, to the line where the wall meets the ceiling, facing the Almighty with all the arrogant directness of his heritage. “God bless Mommy,” he commands, “and God bless Daddy.” He hesitates momentarily on the hard part. “Thank you for what we had today, and what we have tomorrow.” The tone implies that the good things had better keep coming, or Draco will want to know why. If God exists, it might occur to you not to envy his job. “Amen,” he concludes, and you echo him with the one social nicety you know far better than his father does. The boy glances sideways. “Oh, and God bless Professor Snape too.”
You may take this either of two ways. You may be offended at being an afterthought or flattered that your godchild has deigned to show a flash of consideration. The latter is the healthier option, even if the former comes more naturally. “Thank you, Draco.”
“You’re welcome,” he chirps, because that is the correct response, and because in his mind your gratitude leads to a better story. He bounces into bed, burrows his way under the covers, and fixes an expectant gaze on you.
There is nothing for it but to sit on the bed and begin, and hope that the sentence finds its own ending. “Once upon a time…”
“I’ve heard that one.”
Interrupting little monkey. “There was once an old…”
“I’ve heard that one too.”
You sigh, just deeply enough to let him know that he is a trial, knowing that a scary story will send him running to his father to complain, and so will a dull one, and so will a ‘girly’ one. “Once,” you say, and wait for him to have anything to proclaim about the word.
Draco waits gleefully for a chance to pounce, then looks quite crestfallen. “Once what?”
“You have heard that one.”
“I haven’t.”
“Very well. ‘Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered…”
“You told me that one last time.”
And he even remembered it. The boy might be a good student someday, if you both survive that long. “Meanwhile, on his island, his father’s shore, that kingly man, Odysseus…”
“The time before. And it was boring, too.”
“It is an ancient mariner, who stoppeth one of three…”
“Boring and preachy. And last time it was 'There is'.”
Bratty and utterly without literary tastes. And with far too good a memory by half. “Have your parents told you anything of Hogwarts yet?” Aha. A gleam of interest.
“The Founding, and a little about Dumbledore.”
Damn and blast, he’s already heard about the Founding. “But did they tell you anything about being there?”
Draco digests the remarkable idea that his parents were once young enough to be students, and shakes his head. You could choose now to consider the prospect that you just might get yourself into deep trouble in the next few minutes, one way or another. You might want to tell stories that could have come from anywhere, events that occurred spectacularly in public places, and tales you have second-hand yourself.
“Do you promise not to tell who told you these stories?”
The boy nods impatiently. Then he realizes this might not be sufficient. “I really promise.”
Really promise, as opposed to pretending to promise “ the boy is way too much like his father. And his mother. And everyone else in his environment, including his godfather. To buy a little time, you give him the setting first: a huge castle where his playmates Crabbe and Goyle (never, for some reason, Vincent and Gregory, or Vince and Greg, as normal boys would be called “ already they are henchmen, not friends) will be permanently lost if he does not steer them right. This goes over well, so you add in the Forbidden Forest and its werewolves (only one actually, and he finished school years ago, but no matter; the boy is eating it up.) You tell him about the graveyard, right there on the school grounds, and the lake with its intriguing denizens directly above Slytherin House.
Told the right stories now, of course, he will be a model student in six years “ if you should happen to have a vested interest in such things.
Eventually Draco frets. After all, so far his story is all setting, and lacks the promised main characters. Well, he is quite old enough to hear how his father first came to notice his mother.
“She turned him green? Really? ”
This merits a grave and serious nod.
“And what did he do?”
“Her older sister was watching, so he was a perfect gentleman about it.”
The only sister Narcissa will claim is in Azkaban for torturing two people to insanity, which says a great deal about Narcissa. Draco gets the idea, and is delighted. “Then what happened.”
“She took the spell off again, and was very proud of herself for getting the big boy to notice her. He’s quite a bit older than she is, you know.”
This is food for thought, digested for perhaps five seconds. “What else did they do?”
You could tell stories of both of them that would make their young son run away to live with the Gypsies, if any remained. Instead you ask if he knows they had both played Quidditch for Slytherin House. He does not.
There is an astonishing amount to be said about the Malfoy relationship to Quidditch, it transpires. Especially if the choice is between this riveted audience of one and the sea of corrupt Ministry officials in the sitting room. Eventually, however, you might be missed.
“Don’t go!”
Draco is demanding and imperious “ and suddenly very, very frightened. The Malfoy mansion is impregnable; you know that as well as anyone. If Draco is afraid of something real, it is something already here.
Whether he is indeed afraid of something real is a very good question.
So you may do the reasonable thing and check for boggarts. The wardrobe contains nothing but enough clothing for five boys. The toy chest, nothing but toys enough for ten. Looking under the bed reveals only that Dobby, the Malfoy’s unfortunate house-elf, is expected to sleep there to answer Draco’s every whim and worry. He is not there now, of course, with guests in the house. That he is permitted to sleep at all comes as something of a surprise.
The room is secured. There is a lit torch in the bathroom that will remain lit through the night. There is absolutely nothing here to frighten Draco Malfoy except himself. Unless…
“Your father and mother will check on you later.”
This pleases him. He does not fear his parents. Whatever worries at him resides entirely within his silly little blond head.
You might, once, when small, have been afraid. Not afraid of, but just afraid.
You might, possibly, stay another minute.