By special request, the (incomplete) sequel to Boggarts In The Closet. It was written before Half-Blood Prince, so it's fem!Blaise again.

A Step Back From Perdition

By Raine Lionheart

Winter nights were the worst for Draco Malfoy, who resided with the rest of the sixth year Slytherins in their dungeon suite. For them, winter brought a furious cold that latched onto the stone walls during the night and refused to let go until the bitter end, when the house elves of Hogwarts lit a fire in the fireplace. Colds ran through the dorms pell-mell, never skipping a resident, some even enjoying their stay in a person so much that they'd come calling again. But never did Draco Malfoy feel such a loathing for winter then he did now.

His sixth year had been so absolutely terrible so far, that he was occasionally on the verge of absolute breakdown. Sleepless nights had started off too warm by the summer heat, and had descended to becoming too dry with the autumn crisp, and finally become frigid and deathly near year's end.

Of course, the cold was not what had kept Draco awake these nights, not entirely anyway. Other things, not-so-nice things had haunted him. Such as his dreams. Horrid nightmares of his father, returning to Hogwarts to settle his score with his son, a constant return to a dream world from which he emerged damp and shaking.

It had been Potter, as usual, who had done this to him, who had forced his father into hiding, revealing him to be one of the recently returned Lord Voldemort's followers. Goody-goody Potter and his band of noble idiots.

Draco hated the loathesome bastard with a passion.

And as much as Draco had come to terms with his fear of his father, he was still furious with Potter for his meddling.

Added the cold of his dorm, he knew that he must have been provoked.

This night was no different. Only three days before Christmas, and Draco's face was becoming more and more acrimonious with each passing cycle. His mind was rocked by terrible images which never seemed to cease and fed upon his emotional storm.

Suicide was an option.

Murdering Potter, another.

Killing anything that moved.

Searching for his father himself.

Or putting up with it all.

Some of these options were appealing to him. But, deciding that since he was Draco Malfoy, of noble heritage, he'd simply put up with it all. After all, his father wouldn't need his help.

Draco gave up on his tossing and turning. He forced himself up from the sweaty sheets (oddly enough, he could sweat while being frozen), groped over by his bedside table and pulled his robe towards him. Bleary eyed, he slipped it on, Summoned his sheep-wool slippers and left the dorm, which he shared with Crabbe, Goyle, Nott and Moon.

The common room was no better. For a moment, Draco was certain that he could see his breath before realizing that it was, in truth, a steaming mug, in the hand of Blaise Zabini.

Draco froze in his place, wondering if she knew that he was there. He always had the urge to avoid the Muggle-born, for fear of her associating with him. But Draco was slightly relieved to see her remain focused on her tea, a thick magenta duvet wrapped around her petite figure, over her shoulders. He was impressed at how her cherry-red hair looked as perfect as ever, and wondered how she could possess such a wonderful gift.

He ran a hand through his own hair, scowling as he noted that it was unkempt. He hated it like that.

Quietly, Draco tip-toed along the wall, making sure not to step down too hard on any of the stones on the ground, and not to ruffled too much in his robe.

But he had the arrant misfortune of laying his hand down on a hot kettle.

Draco let out a strangled cry of pain and pulled his hand back too hard – he smashed his elbow into the stone wall. An odd numb spread up his arm before it fell limp at his side.

Blaise had heard all of this and was now looking over the back of the couch, her eyebrows knit together. Draco knew that she was smirking at his discomfort, which was curious to him, as he thought that she fancied him.

"Aw, did Baby Malfoy hurt himself?" she sneered in a voice that rivaled Pansy Parkinson. A thought that unnerved Draco.

"Shut it Mud-blood!" he hissed, still cradling his arm, but holding a furious glower on the girl, eyes narrowed to slits that burned with stony fire.

"Touche, Lord Malfoy," Blaise drawled, ignoring the Draco's insult. Stunned by her contemptuous demeanor,. Draco found himself tongue-tied.

"Pretty weak, Malfoy."

Draco mustered a weak sneer and stormed out of the common room without looking back.

Muttering under his breath about how much of a bitch Blaise Zabini was, Draco wandered down the hallway of the frigid dungeon, without any real purpose.

His thoughts strayed from Blaise back to the issue that still bothered him the most: his father, and the dreams that accompanied Draco's sleep. The nightmares of staring down his own father, whose wand was centered on his heart, as uttered the words Avada Kedavra.

"He wouldn't do that," Draco told himself.

Odd.

Draco never spoke to himself. He wasn't addle-brained. He didn't think much of it and tried to agree with himself, but his body didn't seem to agree and let out a sharp seizure-like shake.

Just the cold.

Stupid of him not to put on more than a damn robe.

But that was the least of his worries, as he could now hear footsteps in the corridor. Not that his worry was too intense; Filch was pretty much in his pocket now, having sneaked out of the Slytherin common room (or walked out, he figured, was a better description) many times over the past five years. He had bribed Filch to let him come and go as he pleased, and the dumb Squib had taken his offer.

But it was not a stocky, half-mad janitor, accompanied by his wild tattle-tale cat that came down the corridor. It was Remus Lupin.

Draco remembered the naïve werewolf, who had taught him Defence Against the Dark Arts three years before. The foolish professor who had, so it seemed, crossed Professor Snape one too many time, only to have the Slytherin Head spill the secret of his lycanthropy.

In the rough five seconds between spotting the teacher and having him approach, Draco recalled a time in third year when Lupin had sat down with Draco, hoping to meddle in his business. He had prodded Draco about his father when it was discovered that day in a practical lesson involving Boggarts that Draco's worst fear was his father himself. The meddler, daring to ask questions, such as if his father abused him.

Of course, Draco would never share that information with anyone, no less the filthy werewolf professor.

Five seconds later, Lupin was standing in front of him, an inquisitive look on his face. Draco just stared back at him, an eyebrow arched.

"Going somewhere Draco?"

***

In a game of chess, a stalemate is the occurrence of an impossible standing – the active player's king is positioned on a safe tile, yet surrounded by others by which he will meet his end.

A stalemate is an impasse, as two persons cannot outmatch one another, and are forced to forfeit.

***

Draco and Lupin stared at one another, each running through options in his own mind.

Draco's thoughts: I can run I can talk to him I can attack him do I curse or punch I can distract him I can walk off I can call for Filch…

Lupins thoughts: What is he doing out of bed? It's awfully cold down here. I should talk to him. Be nice, don't provoke him.

The stalemate lasted about ten seconds before Lupin broke it, saying, "Couldn't sleep?"

Draco was slient, still considering his options. His glare, which he had perfected around the same time as he did his sneer, was useless against this filth bag, who'd faced up to You-Know-Who's followers, the Dark Lord himself, and had even watched Sirius Black, who was rumored to be one of his closest friends, be killed. Draco realized that all indignant expressions were likely ineffective on him.

"Cold?" Lupin pressed.

Annoyance flaring, "No! Now move pauper!"

He took a step forward, but Lupin refused to move, so Draco attempted to shoulder his way around the wiry man. But Lupin, stubborn as ever, moved in front of him. Draco looked up and was slightly startled to see a hardened expression on his face.

"Listen Draco," Lupin breathed, "you're lucky that I don't report this to Professor Snape or Dumbledore, because I'm a kind bloke. But," he stressed this word not only with his enunciation, but his eyes, which narrowed as well, "I will ask you to follow me right now to my quarters. I want to have a talk with you, and here is not the best place to have it."

So now Draco was down on his options. He could follow and talk to Lupin, run, call for Filch or attack. However, he had no energy for the latter three, so grudgingly, he nodded (eyes rolled) and said, "Fine. Have it your way."

Lupin's face twitched, as if he were to smile, but did not. Instead, he turned around and began to walk, Draco trailing slowly behind.

As Lupin was not a professor this year, but rather a School Guardian, he had different quarters than any of the adults at Hogwarts. They were located on the main floor, in the same corridor as the Hufflepuff common room, along with the rest of the School Guardians (Alastor Moody, Nymphadora Tonks, Dedalus Diggle, and Mundungus Fletcher – Kingsley Shacklebolt was serving as Defence Against The Dark Arts professor and kept to his office). Lupin's quarters were on the left side of the hall, third door.

Lupin muttered the password he had placed upon the door, so lightly that Draco could only make out a partial word, "--ane." The door clicked as it unlocked and Lupin pushed it open, gesturing for Draco to enter ahead of him.

Draco was quite surprised to find a cozy room before him. A large oak desk in one corner of the room, beside a roaring fireplace; a handsome four-poster in the other corner, draped with crimson and gold hangings (most likely to show his old school colors). A trunk was seated by his chest-of-drawers and oddly enough, beneath a painting of a beautiful young woman, lay a small pile of straw.

Bedding for his transformation, he thought darkly.

Lupin Summoned a chair from the desk for Draco, then walked over to the fireplace, sprinkled a small amount of Floo powder into the flames (which turned emerald green), then stuck his head in as he said, "Kitchen".

Moments later, he backed out, a tea tray in his hands, which he placed on the desk He poured two mugs and handed one to Draco, who, while grateful inside, showed disgust at the thought, but accepted the steaming beverage anyway.

"Drink up," Lupin told him. "You look near frozen."

Draco raised an eyebrow as he sipped the tea. It was quite good, and it warmed him through.

"Now," Lupin said. "Why were you out of bed at two o'clock in the morning?"

"I could ask you the same," Draco sneered.

"I was returning from my patrol duty. Mr. Diggle relieved me, and I heard footsteps down the corridor where I found you."

Draco sat silently.

"Well?" Lupin pressed. He put his tea aside and said, "Why were you out?"

Realizing that he had come here by his own accord, Draco decided that it would probably be best for him to cooperate with Lupin. After all, being a Malfoy did not always call for indignity.

Finding the words readily available to him, Draco started to explain his night-time sojourn. He explained the cold of the Slytherin dorms in the winter time, as well as his anxiety over his father's arrest (not including his unsettling feelings over his escape from Azkaban afterwards, following Voldemort's take-over). Draco concluded that his night-time stroll had been to clear his mind.

"I see. So breaking the rules, as a prefect I might add, did not enter into your mind?"

Draco's face was at the point of a sneer, but he suppressed the urge and simply said, "I'm not very abiding to ridiculous rules, now am I?"

"You should be," Lupin remarked with a raised eyebrow. "After all, how does a rule differ from a law?" The glint in his muddy eye was unbearable, and its meaning was more than clear to Draco. "But then again, since when has a Malfoy respected such standards?"

Cogs spun aimlessly in Draco's mind, working up his anger, which flooded into his pales cheeks. Lupin's pursed lips betrayed his pride in his provoking jabs.

However, Draco avoided this mental pitfall and stared back coolly at his former professor.

"I know what you're doing Lupin, but it won't work."

Lupin's expression remained.

"You're trying to get me to say something, to reveal that my father was some sort of ogre to me; to say that I need your help desperately. That I was wrong three years ago when I turned down your offer to help me when I stupidly revealed my fear."

Draco's eyes narrowed into sickles as his mouth twisted and shifted into a frown. Quite suddenly, he stood from his seat, leaned over the gap between himself and Lupin, then spat in his face.

Whatever it was Lupin had expected from the headstrong Malfoy, this certainly was not it in the least. Nevertheless, Lupin, who had had his occasional spill with the lycanthrophobic of the wizarding world, pulled out his handkerchief and wiped Draco's spittle from his astonished face. Draco sat back, as defiant as ever.

"Vulgar actions won't get you anywhere." Pocketed his handkerchief, sat down once more.

Draco stayed another ten minutes with Lupin, who kept his line of questioning on a parallel. Draco refused to speak another word to Lupin, who finally gave up. Draco left then, slamming the door behind him. Dust filled the doorframe behind Draco as he stormed off down the corridor.

He passed Filch near the statue of Gilfred the Giddy, and the caretaker merely grunted to acknowledge the Slytherin. Mrs. Norris, on the other hand, narrowed her lamp-like eyes with obvious suspicion and growled. Draco had to restrain the urge to lash out and disembowel the foul, uncooth, dusty, ugly, sickly creature. Draco instead recited these adjectives as a mantra as Filch and his cat walked the corner.

Draco had an urge: to go up to the Astronomy Tower (hike up) and sit there till night's end, then head back to his dorm. But Professor Sinistra always sealed the door at night, after Potter and his whore of a School Guardian's late night escapade earlier on in the year. This was, to Draco, a bust. He grudgingly headed back to the Slytherins' dungeon.

He muttered the password ("Serpentine") to the bare wall, which slid open noiselessly.

Draco was relieved to find that Blaise had gone back to her dorm. He needn't suffer the same harassment she had inflicted upon him earlier that evening.

Too bad, entered into his drowsing mind, she seemed to pose an intellectual threat to me.

He passed into the boys' dorm where he fell asleep as soon as he had felt the soft, smooth green sheets in his hand.

He dreamed of fear.

***

Draco's mother had told him in a recent letter that he would not be coming back for holidays, as she was extremely busy with Ministry officials interrogating her about Lucius' activities with the Death Eaters. Therefore, Draco would be forced to endure another miserable Christmas with his Slytherin colleagues and the rest of the godforsaken school (or what was left of it, as many of the student body population left during this time). This included Potter, the arrogant bastard. Draco decided not that he would not attend the Christmas Dinner, but rather stay in the dorm and have one of the house-elves bring him a meal.

The mood in the castle was a tad more exuberant than usual (it had been rather sullen since the previous summer), a point that annoyed Draco. Having a Hufflepuff come up to him and place a garland of soft holly on his head like a crown sickened him; he found great pleasure in hanging said person with their garland and threatening them to tears. Even more disturbing was the way the halls had been decorated. Bobbles and ornaments were streamed up and down each corridor, and Professor Flitwick, with help from Professor McGonagall, had enchanted a length of tinsel to float overhead like some long, silver hairy worm.

Classes were becoming lighter to handle, however. The only high point of the season for Draco was the last day of classes, especially with Professor Snape, who liked to take his own Christmas gift by tolling points from the Gryffindors. Seventy points that day, a fact that brought a smile to Draco's face for the first time in what seemed to be years.

But the smile disappeared only ten minutes later, when rumor spread through the school as wildfire, that Potter had collapsed on his way to the Great Hall, complaining of pain in his scar. And Draco knew what that meant for the Boy Wonder. Voldemort was near.

And if Voldemort was on his way, so was Lucius Malfoy.

Draco's instincts told him that his father would not harm him, but these instincts were not quite reliable. In fact, they had been known to fail him before.

It came to no surprise to him that he ran away.

Draco had known about this hiding spot for years, since his second year in fact (he had searched for the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets by his lonesome and had thought that this cavern was as good a place as any to hide a chamber and a beast). Draco lifted the trap door and slid down , letting the door slam down over him. He fell for several moments before landing on a soft pile of mattresses and cushions. Draco rolled off and got to his feet.

The darkness was suffocating, but Draco needed this more than anything right now. At least in the dark, he wouldn't see a thing, no matter how unnerving it might be. He cautiously padded his way across the dank chamber and let himself slide down into a sitting position against a wall by the door which led to the next room. The air was a bit warmer than it was up in the rest of the castle. More comfortable and soothing.

Now Draco let himself cry. He hung his head blindly and let the spasms of sobbing rock his lithe frame, unabashedly. There were no eyes nor ears to eavesdrop on his moment of emotion. He feared no intrusion, which was foolish, as his father had constantly drilled it into him that an enemy could very well lie in the same bed as he and wait until his vulnerability showed.

He all but had an attack when a voice – a decidedly female voice – murmured, "Lumos," a mere foot from in front of him. A brilliant globe of light spread from the tip of the voice's wand and illuminated the chamber.

"Dra—Malfoy?"

Draco needn't have shielded his eyes to realize that Blaise Zabini was standing over him with her wand out, casting that dreadful light. He felt horror spread through him at the thought of her listening to him weep in the grim darkness of this chamber, miles below Hogwarts. He was Draco Malfoy, the proudest Pureblood Slytherin of the school. And he'd been discovered, in tears, by some treacherous Mudblood who would perish under normal circumstances.

Draco was transfixed at the impassiveness on Blaise's pale face. They stared at one another, wordless under the light of her wand. Draco's face felt hot, owing to both fury and embarrassment.

As suddenly as she had been there, she had spun around and was making haste. Draco broke from his paralysis and stumbled to his feet. He had his wand in his robe, and was pulling it out as he shouted to her.

"Get back here Mudblood! Get you're a—"

But Blaise seemed to take exception to the insult and again the chamber was plunged into darkness. Lucky for Draco, he had his hand pressed against the wall to support him as a wave of vertigo threatened to overtake him. He could hear Blaise across the way from, breathing heavily, but trapped beneath the school without a clue as to how she could get away from Draco, whose own breathing was increasing with his rage. Draco knew of only one exit, a particularily difficult one that involved flying back up through the trapdoor (there were left over broomsticks in the next chamber). He wondered if Blaise knew this.

Apparently not. She was on the other side of the chamber, far from the door leading to the key room. Draco had the advantage here, and grinned maliciously as he raised his wand.

"Lumos!" he hissed. Light flared from the tip of his wand and he hoped to blind Blaise, to stun her as she had done to him moments before. It would give him sufficient enough time to strike. Maybe he'd outright kill her for the sake of it. Or perhaps a dose of the Cruciatus Curse – feeble as he may be in casting it – would tighten her lips for good.

But as the light from his wand reached the far wall, he was shocked to realize that Blaise wasn't there. He frantically searched the bare chamber, looking upwards as if expecting to find her scaling the wall toward the trapdoor above, but found no sign of her.

"WHERE ARE YOU ZABINI?" he roared. "WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU GONE YOU FILTHY CREATURE?"

The only response was the echoing of his own voice.

There was a chance that she might've dashed down the path to the key room without his noticing. He tore off down the path and found the door closed and locked. He let out a colorful string of curses as he hastened back to the trapdoor room, which was still quite empty.

"I know you're here!" he snarled to nobody. "You can't have escaped, there's no way you could have. You're in here some—"

A thought crossed his mind; an unlikely situation, but possible nevertheless.

"—where."

He raised his wand and shouted, "Impedimentia Furor!"

A wave of red light erupted from his wand and flowed forward quickly, noiselessly. He heard a tiny shriek and suddenly, a pair of booted feet appeared on the ground just before the far wall.

"Accio cloak!"

The illusion of invisibility seemed to shimmer as Blaise's invisibility cloak was swept from under her prone body. It flew into Draco's grasp as Blaise scurried up against the wall, a dreadful look on her face.