Draco looked around him and immediately wished he hadn't.
All the eyes on him were glaring, curiously fascinated or disgusting; he wasn't sure which expression hurt more. Disgusted - even he was, so he could understand that. The glares he'd been expecting, but the curiosity was putrid. How could anyone be curious about his left arm, where more of the eyes were trained? How could anyone be fascinated by magic so dark it permanently branded something that moved on your arm? How many Dark wizards needed their own Mark? Grindelwald, Draco excepted, but Voldemort was truly one of a kind. 'Lord' Voldemort, preaching about pure-bloods and how much better they were than anybody else, being a half-blood himself. Not like Potter, who was counted as a half-blood because his mum had had Muggles for parents; an honest-to-God half-blood, whose mother had run away with the Muggle boy. He'd killed his father, taken his bones unwillingly to bring himself back into a humanoid form of existence; whenever you hear about the Super Villians in any of the storybooks read to the younger children, they always had some sort of tortured past that made them turn bad, ad you could always empathize if not sympathize. Voldemort's mum had died at childbirth, yes, but she'd loved him - his father had left, yes, but he never should have gone to begin with. That part of his past was slightly bad, but nobody could account for what he later became, and forced others to mimic. Aunt Bellatrix, his father, his mother, Uncle Rodolphus... him...
And now the world saw him as either a sign of what should have been or what shouldn't have. His left arm was forever the part people would gasp at, point at, stare at. He was the odd one out on this stage where all the prefects stood, and he looked utterly vile next to Hermione, who beamed at everyone as though nothing was the matter, althouh Draco knew that she was crying inside. Hermione was never very tough. Brave, yes, passionate, yes, but not tough. She could withstand a lot, but that was because of passion for living, not simple toughnes; she could take anyone down, but that was due to her brains and bravery, not her toughness. She was always soft, cried a lot. Although, thought Draco bitterly, given recent events, crying seemed almost mandatory. He'd cried enough lately, he'd done it plenty at home. Probably lost about ten pounds with all the crying he'd done since the Battle of Hogwarts.
The other schools were the worst when it came to his arm, but Hogwarts was just as bad. He wondered why he'd been named Head Boy. He was a terrible person, nobody ever thought to tell him differently or deny it when it came up. He was the odd one out up here. He'd be better placed in the dungeons. The D.A. members had become all chummy with the other Slytherin prefects. They laughed and talked and smiled at one another as if there was no barrier between them... as if there never had been.
Forgiveness was never one of Draco's strong points. He knew for a fact that it was one of Hermione's. Yet another reason he should be hiding in a closet, away from everyone. But their eyes continued to burn a hole through his left arm, causing him to hide it behind his torso.
Hermione saw the movement and frowned.
Nobody expected her next move.
She grabbed his left wrist and held it above their heads, almost as if declaring the winner of something. Everyone fell silent. Draco was tired of silence. The word in his head was brought into being too often; loud and noisy was when he was forgotten, so it was when he was happy. But this year had brought nothing but silence and quiet, when most people would break it with whispers and glances at his thin sleeve, which they could usually see the ink through. But they saw it clear as day now, no sleeve to hide it, as it had slipped down to his elbow. The snake came out of the skull, but was frozen. It hadn't moved since that night. People hissed, but mostly they waited for her speech. Everyone knew it was coming, she had that air about her one did when about to address a large crowd.
"You all see this tattoo."
It wasn't a question.
"When you see this tattoo, you see the Dark Mark."
Again, it was no question.
"As of the night Voldemort died - oh, for Merlin's sake, he's dead, stop wincing - this is just a tattoo for people who made mistakes."
Utter pandemonium.
People screamed futiley at her, at him, people threw articles of clothing, or textbooks, or ink bottle, or quills, and a rather large shoe hit Draco's right temple. But Hermione was unphazed. She opened her mouth, and Draco realized she was to resume speaking.
"Shut up, Mudblood!" someone in the crowd yelled.
The effect was immediate.
Potter and Weasley whipped out their wands and pointed them at the crowd. Weasley's didn't seem to intimidate too many people, but Potter's shut them all up. Of course, the Boy who Lived 7 Time In a Row, or the Chosen One, or whatever they called him now, would threaten them enough. But every person on the stage but Hermione and himself had also pulled out their wands in response.
"You will never call her that again!" roared Potter.
"Everyone put their wands away," ordered McGonagall.
Very few people did. Potter kept his out.
"Harry," Hermione whispered, "You'll get a detention. Prefects aren't supposed to get detentions."
"Do I care?" he yelled. "They will never call you that again!"
"I am a Mudblood, Harry," she whispered.
Had consistent drilling from everyone have her actually believing she had dirty blood running through her veins? They were purer than his, he knew that for certain. She was a ure creature.
"You are a Muggle-born," Potter corrected her through clenched teeth. "There is nothing filthy about your blood."
"Perhaps Draco would like to disagree?" yelled someone in the crowd. "Maybe he'd like to say something he's said on previous occassions before? Maybe he'd like to say 'filthy Mu-"
"I said never to call her that again! Petrif-"
"Protego."
Draco had cast the shield spell, and watched as Potter faltered uneasily.
"See?" the person yelled. "He still thinks that, he's still the-"
"I do not think that," said Draco quietly. "I just didn't want any of your filthy blood making Potter so angry he ruined his own blood by killing you. He's killed the Darkest wizard of all time, you know."
Nobody knew how to respond. Hermione cleared her throat again, simultaneously pushing Harry's wand down to his side.
"He has screwed up his life," she continued, as if nothing had happened. "He has messed up time and time again. He's made awful choices, done awful things. But he is one of many who were being controlled by fear."
"If Voldemort had - oh, for the sake of Saint Mefburdel, give it a rest with the wincing - tortured you what would you do?"
"Died instead of do what he's done!" yelled someone else.
There were nods and murmurs of agreement.
"Fine," said Hermione. "What if he threatened to torture your family?"
"I've no family left thanks to him!"
More nods and murmurs.
"So you're angry at Voldemort, not Draco," said Potter.
No agreement. "He's just as evil -"
"Just as evil?"
And then Hermione broke into a fit of laughter. Potter soon joined her, and Weaslette after a moment of hesitation. Weasley joined after that, and soon, all the prefects were laughing. He couldn't suppress a chuckle either.
"I'm sorry," said Hermione, wiping tears from her eyes (in a good way, Draco noted), "But you actually think he's just as evil as Voldemort?"
"Yes."
Another fit of laughter.
"Nobody is as evil as Voldemort," Potter laughed. "Voldemort was so twisted, so warped, that nobody could ever - be - as - evil - as... him!" he doubled over laughing.
"His followers are just as -"
"Nobody is as evil as Voldemort!"
Shouting. Draco thought he'd like it before, but now it seemed worse than silence. The laughter had died down. He noted dully that Hermione's arm holding his lowered by a fraction of an inch any time somebody spoke. He scrutinized the fact carefully, and began to pull away.
she didn't stop him.
Potter continued.
"How much yelling will it take?" he shouted. "He is dead! His followers are being rounded up! This boy has been through more than even I have, because he knew and loved his family and had to kill someone to save it! Kill someone! All I had to do was die, which is a hell of a lot easier than killing someone!"
"Language, Mr. Potter," McGonagall reminded dryly.
He ignored her. "That Dark Mark on his arm is a symbol of strength! He was able to withstand the torture of having it basically carved into his arm, just for his loved ones!"
"The Malfoys don't love," someone argued weakly.
"Excuse me?" Draco asked, pulling his arm completely out of Hermione's grasp.
"Don't," she warned him.
"The Malfoys don't love?"
He wasn't sure who said it, so he addressed the whole crowd.
"My father was a cruel biggot who thought himself and his family above others. Notice: his family. If there was one thing he loved, it was his family. My mother was a mean snob who thought herself and her family above others. Notice: her family. If there was one thing she loved, it was her family."
"So no, I didn't grow up with the perfect parents. No, I didnt have the greatest love in the world. But he threatened to murder me and make them watch unless they joined. So they did. And then he threatened to murder them and make me watch if I didn't join. It's a one-way system. You care too much about the people you love, flawed as they are, and he fed himself on that love, even by ruining it, because he didn't have any."
"We Malfoys don't love? It's one step from Malfoys to Slytherins, and then the rest of your are prejudiced and stereotyping one group of people. So you've fought this war against the people who discriminate against others. And then you turn around and do it right back. This hypocrisy is the slimiest, filthiest, most digusting, vile and putrescent thing I've ever seen, and believe me, I've seen a lot of things that fit that description."
"This mark on my arm shows I loved my family and I was going to save them, no matter what I had to do. This mark on my arm is my tattoo of love. So suck my -"
"Mr. Malfoy," warned McGonagall.
"- Great Aunt Marie's dirty socks if you think the Malfoys don't love."
He didn't wait to see how his speech was recieved. He turned and strode out of the hall, not caring about the Welcoming ceremony anymore. He wasn't going to participate in the games, so why should he be there to the idiots who wanted the chance? And if that wasn't 'Head Boy' behavior, so what? She should've appointed someone else Head Boy anyway.
"Ferret."
Draco paused, hearing Ginny behind him. "What?"
"You did well in there," she said. "I can see why you're Head Boy."
"Really? Because I can't."
"You got through to them when we couldn't," she explained. "That's something you have to believe in, and while we do, you seem to have experienced more than -"
"Stop. I'm not taking pity compliments."
He could sense her growing anger. "Stop moping and feeling sorry for yourself. You're lucky your parents aren't going to Azka -"
"They are."
"There was no trial date in the papers."
"There will be tomorrow."
Silence once again reigned. Draco was really starting to hate people in general, because they always made him feel compressed.
"It wasn't a pity compliment," Ginny said at last. "You did really well in there. Walking out didn't help, though."
Ah, so she'd finally put it in balance again. "I'm not much for helping."
"Right."
He began to walk again.
"I'm sorry about your parents," she called after him.
He paused again. "I'm sorry about Fred," he called back softly, walking on as if nothing had happened, though he could see, without any use of imagination, that she looked something like a Dementor's victim of a Kiss - standing there, shell-shocked.