His fingers shook slightly as his sweaty palm attempted to keep hold on his wand and flick it about in time with his muttered words to cast the spell – impossible. How had he done this before? So easily, as if it was second nature – the wand merely an extension of his arm.
It wasn't just because he was out of practice from the summer. No, it was because he was different. Worse so, the wand was different. No one would believe him if he spoke the words out loud, but the second the wand had been returned to his hands, he knew it was different. No longer his wand. Not even just a wand, just a piece of wood with which to do magic. It was someone else's wand. His wand.
Flitwick had the decency to move on to another student without criticism after Draco failed to perform the spell properly, or any spell at all. Was he trying to be nice, thinking he was doing Draco a favor by not calling him out in the middle of class? No, Flitwick wasn't surprised, he thought Draco was weak. Everyone did. He did, too. Whether that was the most important or least important, Draco didn't know. With a wave of his wand, his books all slammed shut, quills flew back into line, and ink bottles sealed themselves, then all tucked neatly into his bag – he was too frustrated to be nervous or anxious about his magic and wand.
Then, Flitwick caught his attention with his squeaky voice. "Mr. Potter, please try this spell for us."
Draco scowled at the reverence in which the professor spoke the name, as if Potter were a god among them. Yet, involuntarily, his mouth went dry in anticipation. All thoughts of leaving drained away, leaving only pure desire. Desire spurned by Harry Potter, the Boy Who Conquered (as the Daily Prophet now dubbed him). It wasn't clear which was more astonishing, the fact that he had conquered the dark Lord or death itself by obtaining the Deathly Hallows. Draco would never lay himself before Potter like a dog, as so many students and teachers seemed to be willing to do these days, nor would he use his mouth to caress the name gently with exultance, or step back from him and bow his head in respect, but he recognized the one thing that mattered about Harry Potter: power.
The quiet power was just oozing from every action he took, no matter how small or awe-inspiring. As Potter softly cleared his throat to prepare for the spell, Draco felt the same strong presence as when he witnessed him come back from the dead (for the third or fourth bloody time, it seemed). Unlike his father, who had to drag people down with his words to feel superior or the Dark Lord who had to torture and maim to create fear as a show of power, Potter did nothing. His body and magic silently demanded recognition. The only person it reminded Draco of was Dumbledore. The man who had been wandless and at Draco's complete mercy, yet managed to be the one in total control of the situation. He had never felt more helpless in his life than during that exchange.
His tongue quickly wetted his lips as his eyes ran over Potter. Unlike Dumbledore, Potter wasn't untouchable. He was right here, within reach, as Draco had insisted on proving to himself many a time when he provoked Potter. Not that he dared to act in any way against Potter this year. Yet, he was constantly aware of Potter. That unmistakable strength was always within reach, and Draco so badly wanted to simply grab it and keep it to himself.
A shudder ran through Draco as he realized what this meant. Flitwick had called on Potter – to perform a spell, meaning he was going to be using his wand. But, no, not his wand. The wand. The Elder Wand. He licked his lips again in anticipation. Draco's eyes traced every movement as Harry fumbled to grab his bag and dig through it for his wand. Wouldn't he want it on him at all times in case someone attempted to attack him or steal it? Of course, he probably used that same undefeatable wand to charm the bag against thieves. Then no unwanted soul would ever be able to lay hands on it.
Draco fidgeted nervously. Potter could walk out of this classroom and declare h8imself the next Minister of Magic. He had the power and support to act on any whim he wanted, yet he returned to Hogwarts to finish his schooling. Even the Weasel had used his leeched fame to…weasel his way out of school. Merlin, he was off his game if that horrible pun was the most he could come up with. Could it even be called a pun? Using the word weasel for a Weasley then using it as an apt verb – pathetic.
Firm words broke his inner monologue, Flitwick's loud, squeaky exclamations of encouragement only serving to annoy Draco further. Shit, the wand. Grey eyes flicked over just in time to see Potter quickly deposit the wand into his pocket. That hadn't been it, had it? Draco hadn't been able to spot any of the signature bulbs on the wand. But, why in Merlin's name would Potter not use the Elder Wand? He would love the daily reminder to everyone how great he was – St. Potter. Potter even liked to flaunt his wand in Potions, lazily stirring his point with it, something that Snape would have never allowed. That was probably Potter's way of celebrating Snape's demise. Draco sneered in Potter's direction at the thought. Wait, he did stir his potion often. And the wand he used had none of the markings of the Elder Wand at all. It was simply the old wand Draco had become familiar with over seven years.
Draco slowly slumped down in his seat, filled with disappointment.
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"Potter!"
Draco strode purposefully through the hallway towards the Golden Boy, trying to remain unaffected at how different this was from any time he had chosen to call out Potter before the war. Now, he had no fellow Slytherins to play off of, henchman to accompany him, and, worst of all, his crowd clearing skills were gone. Rather than walking confidently up to Potter through a parted crowd of onlookers, he had to shove and elbow his way to him.
As he neared Potter, Draco withdrew his wand. It was brilliant, of course. Why would Potter use the Elder Wand for simple spells in class? Everyone knew he had it, obviously, but no one knew exactly what it was capable of, and why would Potter clue everyone into its powers unnecessarily? No, Potter would keep the wand for special uses only, such as being attacked.
Potter adjusted his bag as he sized up the approaching Slytherin. As his eyes fell upon Draco's wand, he raised an eyebrow and stared at Draco. "What? Are you going to attack me, Malfoy?" His tone was stuck between surprise and disbelief. "After seven years, you really haven't changed at all?"
Draco raised his wand and sneered. "What do you care?" True. "You know nothing about me." Also true. "I can do whatever I please." Sort of true. "And, currently, your presence disturbs me." Not exactly true. "I hate you, Potter." Well, since when did lying affect him? It was hard to remain in the childish mindset he had held about Potter for years and lay the blame solely on his shoulders for everything that went wrong in Draco's life, but the Chosen One still pissed him off more than any other person he had met.
Attesting to that, Potter merely crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "Go on, then. Show me."
Falling back into an old rhythm easily, Draco leveled his wand at Potter and silently cast a spell, flicking his wand and casting a red light towards Scarhead. Names were as hard to kill as old habits, but Draco did need some fresh material.
Green eyes widened in surprise. Of course he wouldn't think Draco had the courage to strike. Potter drew his wand quicker than Draco's eyes could follow and cast a shield around himself, deflecting the spell. Only that flash of movement was needed to see that the wand Patter was using clearly wasn't the Elder Wand and the same wand he had used in class. Disappointment lanced through Draco, and then it was his turn to stare in shock as the spell came hurtling back at him. Final thought: shit.
After that, it was hard to think much of anything. Tears streamed down Draco's cheeks as he helplessly writhed on the floor before Potter and the crowd that had formed around him. The sounds pulled from his throat were nothing less than shameless. How long could this spell last without being directly controlled by a caster? Potter stood there, mouth open, unsure what to do.
After cursing himself for being more ticklish than any person had a right to be, Draco shakily got to his feet. The Rictumsempra was slowly wearing off, leaving Draco with a few last hiccupping laughs. Shame painted itself on his face in long, red strokes. Not knowing where to cast his eyes or what to say, Draco did the smart Slytherin thing when facing such an unknown situation and tacitly retreated, leaving behind a stunned audience and gob smacked Potter.
This time, the crowded students did part for him.
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The quiet scratch of quills was one of the most comforting noises that had ever graced Draco's ears. This was only made better by the sea of bent heads as far as the eye could see. Ancient Runes did not allow for wandering eyes and loose lips to follow Draco's every move. Each student was buried up to their wands in foreign symbols and too mentally exhausted to bother with him.
For once, Draco could commend the old bat, McGonogall, on the new changes she had instated since becoming Headmistress. The temporary dissolution of houses allowed for a mix in each class between age and house so that no one group was visibly formed. Thankfully, he didn't have to deal with a concentrated group of Gryffindors daring to send him questioning stares or various Slytherins subtly undermining him.
Not that any Slytherins dared to talk to him openly. As it was, only Parkison, Zabini, Goyle, and Greengrass dared speak with him in private, and, of course, each of them had their own reasons of self-interest for still speaking with him. Not that he could blame them, or any of the Slytherins for that matter. It's what he would have done, had he been in their positions. It was the smart thing. Identify an infection and eliminate it. As Slytherins, it was a matter of choosing the smartest thing to do, no matter if their house name had been stripped and they were forced to live in a horrible rainbow assortment of décor.
Of course, Draco's recent incident hadn't helped his standing whatsoever – with all four of the non-houses. All he had gotten so far were questioning stares and defensive appraisals, but those were merely signs of what was to come. Draco's hand mechanically went along drawing out the runes on the board and slowly deciphering them. This was the one class where he could truly think and work in piece. Ancient Runes had always come easily to him. While concerning himself with his thoughts, his brain would slowly decipher the runes without much maintenance or attention needed.
Setting down his quill, Draco slowly rubbed his forehead. He would need to go to the library after this. The library had always been a sanctum of sorts, a place where gossip and school dramatics were hard-pressed to reach, even the fallen Slytherin Prince. Yes, he had lost himself many a night in the labyrinth of loosely bound texts. Not that he could delude himself to the point about the library. It wasn't a tactical retreat; it was a hide and survive method. He had nothing with which to plan or plot his move. No power associate to his name, no assets, no friends, not even proper minions – nothing. Draco had nothing. Draco was nothing. And Potter was everything.
Bells chimed happily, drowning out the professor's orders finish their translations tonight. Draco was already done with them. He pulled on his bag and handed the work in with a curt nod before darting along between students and glares.
Fucking Potter.