Demons Amongst Us:
Destiny is what you make it
 
 

"Sinclair, Draco."

He hurried forward, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.  Seating himself carefully on the stool, he caught a brief, terrifying glimpse of a hall full of curious onlookers before the brim of the hat settled over his eyes.

Hm, my, you're a stubborn one.

Stubborn?  His mother had said that on occasion, but it was hardly a quality by which to decide his future, was it?

Oh, I like to take everything into consideration, the Hat informed him.  Such as your determination to succeed.  Very Slytherin quality, that.

Slytherin?  His brow furrowed as he considered that option.

There's also a lot of loyalty here.  An interesting combination with your ambition.  You could do well in Hufflepuff, too, I think.

Hufflepuff?  The frown deepened.  He hadn't heard much about that house beyond what the Sorting Hat itself had said; but Slytherin...

Is that truly what you wish, to walk in your parent's footsteps?

What was wrong with that?  His mother was a good woman, although she had fallen on hard times.  His father...  He had no memories of his father, but the thought that he could live in the same dormitory as his father had roused his interest like nothing else could.

Yes, that would be best, I believe.  However, be wary of what you wish for, young SLYTHERIN!

He took the Hat off and smiled at the table of cheering students.  As he walked towards his new housemates, the Sorting Hat's warning seemed odd indeed.  It was only later that week he learned the lesson the Hat had imparted.

He learned it only too well.
 

"So.  Draco Sinclair."

The name hung ominously in the air of the Defense Against Dark Arts classroom.  Draco shook off the sense of foreboding to answer calmly, "Here, sir."

The professor pinned him in place with a glare that made him want to fidget nervously.  "So, that's what you're going to call yourself, is it?"

"Sir?"  He blinked, confused.

"I asked you a question, boy!"  Blue eyes crackled dangerously as the man stalked towards him, halting to loom over his desk.

"It's my name, sir!"

The professor snorted disparagingly.  "Your mother may have been a Sinclair, boy, but you are a Malfoy through and through."

Draco stared, as his classmates sent whispers rustling around the classroom.  Malfoy?  He'd heard that name before, once or twice, but had never connected it with his own.  Unless...

"The spitting image of your father, you are," the professor continued, seemingly half to himself.  His eyes continued to bore holes in Draco.  "No doubt you'll follow in his ways, too.  I'll be keeping my eye on you, young Malfoy, have no doubt."

Draco could feel the flesh of his cheeks and neck beginning to burn with a slow flush at the teacher's continuing intense scrutiny.  There was something about that accusing gaze that made him want to run from the room, from Hogwarts, and back to his mother's side in their little cottage by the sea.  Whatever this professor knew of his father, it obviously was not good.  He only wished he knew what that was.

'Your father made a mistake, my Draco,' was all his mother had ever said of his father, 'and paid for that mistake with his life.'  Mentioning his father had always upset his mother so that he'd eventually stopped asking.  Now he faced a class full of students who, judging by their knowing murmurs, knew more than he did about his own father, and a professor who already seemed to despise him based solely on his resemblance to a father he had never even known.

A hundred questions arose in his mind, but one look into the professor's eyes confirmed that this was not the man to ask.  His face still flushed, he lowered his head and swallowed his curiosity as best he could, maintaining his silence beneath the weight of his teacher's regard.  He sighed softly in relief when the man returned to the front of the room, calling the next name on the roll.  Yet the sidelong glances from teacher and students alike guaranteed that the matter was far from at rest.
 

He hated Hogwarts, mostly because everyone seemed to hate him.  People whispered and pointed whenever he passed by, and few people spoke willingly to him besides the teachers, not since that first Defense class.  The latter was why he was currently wandering the dungeons in search of the Potions classroom, since no-one would give him directions.

"Stupid school," he muttered angrily, kicking open yet another door, only to reveal yet another old, abandoned classroom.  Still, at least this one looked like a Potions laboratory, with its oddly shaped glassware on the tables, the bottles and jars lining the walls.  A layer of dust coated the paraphernalia, however, so Draco turned to continue his search.

A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he hesitated in the doorway.

"Is someone there?" he called out softly, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.  He started to leave once more, only to sense movement in a darkened corner of the room.  "Hello?" he tried again, and stepped into the room, his eyes fixed on the suspicious shadows.

"My, my.  How the years pass us by."

Draco couldn't help but shiver at the bitter overtones of the otherwise melodic voice.  The dungeons were chilly in any case, but the unknown speaker's words managed to freeze him to the bone.

"Draco Malfoy.  What a surprise."

Draco had been about to flee as fast as his frozen legs would carry him, but the sound of that name sparked a rush of anger that made him clench his fists, while his cheeks flushed with blood.

"My name is Draco Sinclair!" he stated furiously, glaring at the shadows from which the voice had emerged.  "I'm not a Malfoy!  How can I be, when I don't know anything about them!"

Laughter echoed through the old classroom, and Draco found his temper cooling abruptly in its wake.

"So Narcissa reverted to her maiden name.  Not terribly surprising, I must say."

Draco felt his stomach lurch.  "You know my mother?" he whispered, eyes wide.

"We were acquainted," the voice informed him.

"Did you know my father, too?" the boy pressed, when no further information was forthcoming.  Laughter again, making his skin prickle and the hair on his arms stand on end.

"Yes," the voice confirmed bleakly.  "I knew your father."

"Can you tell me about him?" Draco asked urgently.  "Can you tell me why everyone hates that name?"

"Indolent child.  Look it up yourself.  This school does possess a rather comprehensive library, you know."

"But I don't know where to start!" the young boy blustered, not willing to admit that the idea had never even occurred to him.

"November fourteenth, nineteen eighty-one," the voice stated.  "I suggest you start there.  Now go!"

Draco ran.  He did not look back.
 

The library was all but empty, as classes were currently in session.  Draco sneaked passed the librarian, Madam Pince, in order to avoid unwanted questions about why he wasn't in class like the other students, and wandered around, trying to find a section that covered recent history.  This took some time.  His previous experience with libraries was the collection of books at the back of Mrs Baker's grocery shop.  It had seemed quite large to him then, but Mrs Baker's entire library had fit - just barely - into two large, old bookcases.  There were considerably more bookcases at Hogwarts.

Eventually he discovered a wall of books where the word 'History' appeared frequently in the titles, and started checking for more recent ones by pulling out books at random as he moved along the wall, and checking their contents.  He followed the historical trail around a corner and was startled to find a dark-haired boy sitting at one of the desks, an open book before him.  He started to back away, only to be catch the boy's attention by knocking a book from a shelf.

"Shouldn't you be in class?" the brown-eyed boy asked him, frowning.

"Shouldn't you?" Draco retorted indignantly.

"I don't start here until next year," the boy informed him calmly.

"Oh," said Draco.  He wondered what the boy was doing here in that case.

"Were you looking for something?" the boy asked after a moment's silence.  Draco worried at his lip, as he debated what to say.

"November fourteenth, nineteen eighty-one," he repeated the date the mysterious voice had told him.  "Something happened then.  I want to find out what."

The boy looked back at him dubiously.

"Something to do with a man named 'Malfoy'," Draco added, then wished he could take it back as the boy's eyes lit with comprehension.  He waited for the boy to say something against him, or to run off to tattle on him to whoever his friends were, but the boy did nothing of the sort.

"Here," he said, closing the book he'd been reading and handing it to Draco, who raked his eyes over the title.  The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts.  He flipped to the table of contents, then turned to the timeline listed there.  He skimmed through the numerous listings of murders and massacres, battles and bloodshed, until he reached the date he was looking for.

14 November, 1981
Elizabeth Longbottom murdered by supporters of the Dark Lord

 Blood draining from his face, he looked up 'Longbottom' in the index at the back of the book, and found the corresponding entry within the text.

Wife of Auror Frank Longbottom, Elizabeth Longbottom (nee Forester) was murdered by a group of the Dark Lord's supporters two weeks after the downfall of the Dark Lord himself.  It is believed that the group were seeking an explanation for their master's disappearance, and targeted Frank Longbottom due to his status as a high-ranking Auror.  However, Longbottom himself was not at home during the initial attack, and the group took their anger out on his wife, subjecting her to torture and death by Unforgivable curses.

Lucius Malfoy, Frederick Lestrange, Amanda Lestrange, Bartemius Crouch and Samuel Burke were convicted of her torture and murder, and sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban.  Subsequent investigations led to the Lestranges and Malfoy also being convicted of several other murders, including that of Emily Longbottom (aged 5) earlier that year (22 May, 1981).

Draco tore his eyes away from the page, and found himself looking into the steady gaze of the brown-eyed boy.  He didn't know what to say.

"Don't think that your father's actions define you."

Draco spun around, to see a tall man gazing down at him solemnly, with the same brown eyes as the boy now behind him, although the man's eyes were shielded to some extent by round, wire-framed glasses.  A darted glance between the two convinced Draco that they had to be relatives of some sort, if not father and son.

The man gently removed the book from Draco's hands, setting it down on the table.  Catching Draco's wrists before he could drop them to his sides, the man turned his hands palms-up, and traced the creases on his skin with his thumbs.

Draco looked up at the man, somewhat disconcerted, only to stare at the strangely glinting eyes that were no longer focussed in the here-and-now.

"You will hold the future in your hands one day," the man spoke almost absently.  "Yours to guide, and craft, and protect.  Choose your path wisely, for you will not walk alone."

The young Slytherin stared at the man, who dropped his hands and walked off without another word.  Turning around he found the boy following the man's path with watchful eyes.

"Who was that?" Draco asked him, once the man had disappeared behind the bookshelves.

"My father," the boy answered quietly.  "Professor Potter.  He teaches Divination."

Draco stared at him.  "Are you telling me that was for real?  He's a real fortuneteller?"

"He has the Sight," the boy confirmed, scowling at him, then brushed past him, following after his father.

After several moments, Draco followed.  He took the book with him.
 

"Mr Sinclair," the Headmaster's voice was firm.  "I'm sure you can understand that detentions are not optional."

Draco could accept that.  What he was not so willing to accept was that he'd been given seven in his first two weeks of school.

"Professor Longbottom assigned those detentions to somebody with the name Malfoy, sir," Draco answered adamantly.  "My name is Sinclair."  The Headmaster's blue eyes twinkled with what Draco could only hope was amusement.

"Indeed it is," he murmured softly.  "I will endeavour to convince Professor Longbottom of that point."

Draco wasn't about to hold his breath in anticipation.

"In the meantime, I believe Madam Pince would appreciate assistance in shelving books for the remainder of the week."

"Yes, sir," the Slytherin student sighed with minimal dismay, well able to recognise this as a better alternative to suffering Filch's torments for a week.  Besides, learning the layout of the library could be useful, and he had passed by a number of interesting books when he'd been searching for information on his father.  How To Curse Your Foes And Get Away With It, for one.

He smiled grimly to himself as he left the Headmaster's office.  Even if Professor Dumbledore wasn't able to talk some sense into Longbottom, he would find his own way to make it clear that he wasn't going to suffer the burden of his father's crimes.  As far as Draco was concerned, Potter's 'one day' was now, and his future was in his own hands.  He wouldn't have it any other way, nor would he pretend to be anyone other than who he felt he was:

Draco Sinclair.