Tracey couldn’t help giggling at Malfoy’s description of his friends for all that she couldn’t tune-out the little voice in the back of her head sneering that she was acting like Pansy, gushing over Draco Malfoy’s witty observations – but while this one wasn’t particularly witty, or even requiring of a great deal of observation, the mere fact that Draco would openly insult his friends to someone like her was enough of a surprise to conjure a few giggles. Maybe it shouldn’t have been; maybe he talked like that all the time. Tracey had never paid him much attention (she had had other pure-bloods to study in her attempts at assimilation, and her private little obsessions hadn’t required secondary players) and certainly they had never been prone to sharing confidences – so she couldn’t say whether this was characteristic venom, or something new.
It made her giggle, regardless.
It was slightly more surprising, and much less amusing, that Malfoy didn’t sound particularly proud or pleased about the fact that so many of his classmates were being regularly tortured. Given his position at the top of the pecking order, and his family’s now very public affiliations, shouldn’t he be happier about that? Tracey was intrigued in spite of herself, and sat forward a little to get a better look at the pale, pure-blooded prefect. It meant meeting his eyes straight-on as he inspected her in turn, as though she wasn’t afraid of him at all – and just in that moment, Tracey was too curious to be afraid. (That was the sort of thing that was going to get her in very deep trouble someday – but pragmatic prudence could only carry a person so far. Sometimes a little risk was required…and sometimes, it was simply more entertaining.)
“So you think that’s what it is? Retaliation? A smear campaign against your reputation – or against Parkinson’s?” Tracey shrugged. “Both of you at once, maybe? Or maybe it’s one of those nasty rebels trying to drive a wedge between the two of you. That’s what I would do, if I were in their filthy shoes.” A risky statement to make, but Tracey wasn’t in league with any of Neville Longbottom or Ginny Weasley’s nasty little friends and she wasn’t overly worried that Malfoy would think she was. As long as he didn’t know the truth of her blood-status, he wouldn’t think she had anything to gain from allying with those idiots – and so far, it didn’t seem like she did have anything to gain from them, regardless of her lineage or lack thereof. She wasn’t sure she was ready to take the risk of throwing in her lot with Malfoy’s side, but if push came to shove and she had to pick a side, she expected she’d be better off with them than against them.
She grinned again at the image of Draco Malfoy crooning some wizarding love ballads to Potter, like the wizarding equivalent of a lovesick ex showing up with a boombox on his shoulders. Too bad there was no chance of him understanding the reference if she tried to share it. Instead Tracey settled for a nod and a smirk and a dry, “That might be the way to do it, actually. He probably wouldn’t be able to help himself, attention-seeking twerp that he is.” Her smile widened as she added, “And we know he likes your singing, given how thrilled he was by that tune you wrote for his ugly ginger friend in fifth year.” True, the Gryffindors had managed to take Weasley Is Our King and make it their own, which had been a great annoyance – but it had still been a clever song. It had reminded Tracey of a football clubs’ chants – yet another reference that she didn’t dare share with Draco Malfoy.
Tracey was abruptly reminded of how dangerous talking to him really was when he suddenly sat forward, threatening – or at least warning her. She recoiled, cringing back in her chair like a skittish first year, and couldn’t even be embarrassed by the cowardly behavior. “No,” she said quickly, holding up her hands – whether to fend-off an imagined blow or to show that her own hands were empty, harmless, she didn’t know. “No, that isn’t – that’s not at all what – no.” Tracey swallowed, hard, and forced herself to meet Malfoy’s pale eyes with her own wide, worried brown ones. “I was just…talking. Really. I’m not…I’m not that ambitious. That sort of thing is…it’s too big for me. I would never.” Maybe she sounded pathetic, stammering about her own lack of consequence like that – but better pathetic than put on the list of people Draco Malfoy considered a threat, wasn’t it? These days he didn’t even need to call for Crabbe or Goyle to pound his enemies into paste for him; one idle gesture in class, or a whisper in the ear of Professor Snape or one of the Carrows, and Tracey would find herself in a world of pain at the next available learning opportunity.
“I just thought…” She hesitated, wondering if she’d already pushed her luck too far and if it would be better to just retreat. But she’d gone too far for that, hadn’t she? The only way out now was through. “I thought you looked like you wanted to talk, that’s all. Sorry if I intruded.” She shifted, hands on the armrests of her chair, ready to push herself to her feet for a quick exit if he snarled something dismissive – or to throw herself sideways out of range if he went for his wand. But she didn’t move yet, waiting on his reaction. Because if he did want to talk…well, even if all he wanted to do was throw a few insults at her and laugh, that would still leave a favorable impression of Tracey as somebody who was amusing to have around, wouldn’t it? And she could use all the favorable impressions she could get these days, regardless of the state of her dignity afterward – especially from a boy who was rumored to be a Death Eater already, and certainly well on the way to joining those ranks even if he wasn’t.
If she thought she could get away with ingratiating herself via a groveling apology, she’d have even confessed to authoring the tart observation on the greenhouse window – but that would doubtless do more harm than good. Better to keep her mouth shut…or better yet, find a scapegoat. Tracey made a mental note to pick one of those right away.
Draco watched her scramble for the right words to get out of this hole she had dug for herself–the hole she had dug using the shovel he had as good as handed her. It was pleasing to be reminded he could still have this effect on people. He could still make them squirm if he wanted to; could still make them stammer. He hadn’t lost his magic on the younger students, that he knew, but his peers were another matter. Crabbe and Goyle were becoming more autonomous with every passing day, Pansy was…well, Pansy… and the others? They had followed in the example of their parents and taken to deriding Draco just as their parents derided Father. But unlike Father, Draco had something to bargain with, otherwise he’d have been stripped of his wand too. He was still valuable.
Tracey, though… she had not left her manners at the gates. At least she knew how to respect a Malfoy. With flattery and fear. Was it terrible it made him like her just a little more? Not that he would show it. He took a deep breath in through the nose, steadying himself against his compulsion to smile. Flattery and fear and then… You looked like you wanted to talk.
Draco couldn’t believe what he had heard. There was something so simple about that statement, but Draco knew better than to think anything was ever that simple. No one was that selfless. Did she pity him? Was that it?
“No,” he said. Too quickly. Draco raked fingers through his hair, forcing his body to relax. Not everyone was a threat, though it felt like it, every fucking day. He would sooner drink a vile of polyjuice potion spiked with a hair from Filch’s balding head than say anything so sentimental aloud–that he wanted to talk, that he wanted to talk to her–but she was right about one thing: he wanted to hear something, anything but the voice in his head that never seemed to shut up, not even to take a breath. “You’re good enough to attend this school under its new leadership, aren’t you? You’re a Slytherin just as I am. You’re not intruding, but I just spent the Christmas holidays in a house full of Death Eaters and Snatchers and… people who were snatched…” His eyes flickered towards Tracey’s. It was an uncomfortable topic. The state of some of the people who ended up in the cellar… It was nauseating. “Such an environment encourages suspicion. Rewards it.”
Was he apologising? Ugh. Time to change the subject. “Let’s take your theory. Were someone attempting to drive a wedge between dear Parkinson and I…” He paused as a cackle rung out from the comfy chairs by the fire behind him; Pansy, right on cue. “How would you repay the favour?” His lips broke into a smirk, nothing forced this time. He held the word for a moment—favour. It was disgusting really, when Draco thought about it; what had actually changed in this past year, putting distance between him and his peers? The answer was Draco himself–he was the one who had chosen to sit here instead of joining them in the warmth and glow of the fire.
“I’m curious.” It was not a common feeling for Draco, who so rarely thought about anything but himself. “How would you exact revenge against your foes?” Tracey looked every bit the coward she professed to be, but then Draco had learned courage was more difficult to come by and more valuable than he’d previously suspected, and the Sorting Hat had placed her in Slytherin. He didn’t believe Tracey was empty of ambition, not for a second. It was a common trait among his housemates. Even Crabbe and Goyle had it, late bloomers that they were.
