Disclaimer: Ha, I wish. But sadly, no Harry Potter and all characters therein belong to the honourable J.K. Rowling.
Spoilers: Possibly for Order of the Phoenix and probably Goblet of Fire, too, just to be safe.
Draco Malfoy cursed his family. He swore sweet revenge if it was the last thing he were to do. Glancing down at his bare left forearm, he half-heartedly hoped to see the Dark Mark there.
"Anything would be better than this," he muttered.
He wanted to run, fast and far away where no one would ever find him. The feeling of being trapped was overwhelming, even though there was nothing keeping him from walking out of the dormitory, through the Slytherin Common room, and out into the hall. There was not a single thing holding him from freedom.
Except for the knowledge that if he did leave, he would be hunted down and tortured with those damn kisses.
For a fleeting second, Draco saw a shadow in the far corner of the room and started. An instant later, a hand was clamped over his mouth. A hand that was as cold and hard as marble.
Somewhere in the depths of his mind, Draco heard a clock chiming, one . . . two . . . twelve times. He could even see it, so real that it seemed he might just reach out and touch it.
Draco glared up at the shaded figure looming over him, knowing the vision of the clock had come from this man.
Twelve o'clock, said the intruder without speaking. The hour of the dead.
