Draco eased into the Slytherin common room, and tiptoed to the shadowy
stairwell, leading down to the boys dormitory. He'd just set foot upon it
when a voice spoke.
"You've been out late, Mr. Malfoy."
Draco jumped at the words, and turned to see who'd spoken. His fingers curled guiltily around the stolen letter. It took a few seconds for his eyes to focus in the wavering darkness, but then he spied his potions professor sitting in one of the high-backed chairs near the fireplace.
Professor Snape held a cup of tea in one hand, a leather-bound book in the other. He raised an eyebrow at Draco's aghast expression, and, setting both to the side, stood up. As always, Draco inwardly marveled at Snape's effortless grace, completely unlike Draco's own calculatedly flamboyant movements.
"Yes sir." Draco shifted slightly, carefully concealing Potter's letter inside the deep pockets of his sleeve. "I couldn't sleep, sir," he said, more quietly.
"Indeed," Snape murmured.
For the first time, Draco recognized the weariness in his favorite professor's voice. He searched the sallow face more deeply, taking in the drawn skin and the shadows encircling the beetle-black eyes.
"It does seem to be a night for sleeplessness," Snape said, studying Draco with inscrutable eyes. "I spoke to Mr. Filch only moments ago. It seems he's spent half the night chasing a student through the halls. He didn't catch him, unfortunately, but it seems the unfortunate youth dropped this in his travels."
Snape lifted a wand, Draco's wand, from a pocket hidden in his robes. Even in the candle-light, Draco could read, "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes,' stamped into the side in gold letters.
"It's a fake wand, sir," Draco said quickly. "The Weasley twins made it."
"Indeed." Snape ran his fingers down the wand, then he shrugged, and replaced it in his pocket. When his gaze returned to Draco, it was heavier, filled with meaning, and Draco felt his heartbeat quicken.
"It wouldn't do for you to get caught on these late, night wanderings, Draco," Snape said at last. "There would be a certain amount of . . . embarrassment for me as the head of your house. Especially since I submitted your name for Head Boy next year."
"Really, sir?" Draco breathed, all thoughts of Potter momentarily washed from his mind. He'd known, of course, that he would get Snape's recommendation. But knowing was quite different from hearing the news.
"Yes," Snape said, and one of his rare smiles moved along the corners of his mouth. "I've found you a gifted and devoted student, Mr. Malfoy," he said. "Given time, I expect you to do great things. But," and his voice lowered a note. "One must ascertain beforehand, Mr. Malfoy, whether the deeds we intend to do are great . . . or merely noteworthy. Do you understand me?"
A chill went up Draco's spine, and he clutched the letter tightly. "Yes, sir," he said.
Snape nodded, and rested a hand on Draco's shoulder for a fraction of a second. "Good night, Mr. Malfoy," he said. "I trust you will stay in your dormitory the remainder of it."
"Yes, sir," Draco whispered, and escaped.
The boys' dormitory lay as still as he'd left it, with only Goyle's muffled snores disrupting the silence. Draco shed his robe, and folded it neatly across his trunk. He slithered into bed, and drew the curtains around him.
His wand - his real wand - still lay on the bedcovers where he'd left it. Draco picked it up, stroking his fingers along the smooth familiar surface.
"Lumos," he whispered.
Faint light filled the space created by the bed hangings, the thick fabric casting a greenish glow to it, while at the same time, shielding the light from the other boys in the dormitory. Draco leaned back against the piled pillows, and once again reached for Potter's letter. He read it, more slowly this time than he had in the hall.
Harry,
Congratulations on the Quidditch captaincy! If your father were here, he'd be proud of you. I know I am.
Remus reminds you not to forget about your school work. I say, the school work can wait. Buckbeak sends his love.
Sirius
Draco traced his thumb along the smooth writing, lingering over, "I know I am." For a moment, his hatred of Potter grew from a simmer to a raging boil.
Draco knew who Sirius Black was - not a child in the wizarding world didn't know the name. The day Black escaped from prison, Father spent the morning in his office, holding long, hushed conversations with shadowy faces in the fireplace, and downing cup after cup of tea. When Draco demanded to know what was happening, Father had waved him aside, with the usual words of caution. Don't ask so much about the past, Draco. It won't do to know too much about Sirius Black. At the time, Draco thought Father's nervousness meant no more than that another Death Eater was free, another Death Eater wouldn't appreciate Father's apparent shift to the opposite side. A year later, he met Peter Pettigrew, and learned of Black's innocence. But Draco remembered Black's photograph in the Daily Prophet, and eyes that burned, even diffused by camera. Sirius Black was a madman, no matter which side he was on.
And Potter loved him.
Draco twirled his wand in his fingers, wondering how Potter had learned of Black's innocence, and why he himself hadn't noticed when it happened. Wondering how Potter's eyes would look when Black was locked in Azkaban again. Poor, pathetic little Potter. The dementors would probably kill Black when they joined up with Lord Voldemort.
Draco smiled wickedly and bent his head over the parchment. "Duplicatum," he whispered.
The wand trembled in his hand, and the letters on the parchment grew bright, as though lit from within. Black's messy handwriting flickered and glowed brighter, and for a second it seemed to lift from the page, hovering above itself like a reflection of words written on a mirror. Then a shock like a snapped rubberband traveled through the wand and into Draco's fingers, and the letters dropped back into place. The light in the paper died, save for a single word, etched across the page as though burned there.
Protected.
Well, fine. Draco released an annoyed gust of air, and brushed his hair back from his face. He'd have to do it the muggle way.
Once again, he considered the letter, this time moving past the message, to shape of the words beneath it. Black's handwriting would be difficult to copy, but not impossible. He had six days to practice.
"You've been out late, Mr. Malfoy."
Draco jumped at the words, and turned to see who'd spoken. His fingers curled guiltily around the stolen letter. It took a few seconds for his eyes to focus in the wavering darkness, but then he spied his potions professor sitting in one of the high-backed chairs near the fireplace.
Professor Snape held a cup of tea in one hand, a leather-bound book in the other. He raised an eyebrow at Draco's aghast expression, and, setting both to the side, stood up. As always, Draco inwardly marveled at Snape's effortless grace, completely unlike Draco's own calculatedly flamboyant movements.
"Yes sir." Draco shifted slightly, carefully concealing Potter's letter inside the deep pockets of his sleeve. "I couldn't sleep, sir," he said, more quietly.
"Indeed," Snape murmured.
For the first time, Draco recognized the weariness in his favorite professor's voice. He searched the sallow face more deeply, taking in the drawn skin and the shadows encircling the beetle-black eyes.
"It does seem to be a night for sleeplessness," Snape said, studying Draco with inscrutable eyes. "I spoke to Mr. Filch only moments ago. It seems he's spent half the night chasing a student through the halls. He didn't catch him, unfortunately, but it seems the unfortunate youth dropped this in his travels."
Snape lifted a wand, Draco's wand, from a pocket hidden in his robes. Even in the candle-light, Draco could read, "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes,' stamped into the side in gold letters.
"It's a fake wand, sir," Draco said quickly. "The Weasley twins made it."
"Indeed." Snape ran his fingers down the wand, then he shrugged, and replaced it in his pocket. When his gaze returned to Draco, it was heavier, filled with meaning, and Draco felt his heartbeat quicken.
"It wouldn't do for you to get caught on these late, night wanderings, Draco," Snape said at last. "There would be a certain amount of . . . embarrassment for me as the head of your house. Especially since I submitted your name for Head Boy next year."
"Really, sir?" Draco breathed, all thoughts of Potter momentarily washed from his mind. He'd known, of course, that he would get Snape's recommendation. But knowing was quite different from hearing the news.
"Yes," Snape said, and one of his rare smiles moved along the corners of his mouth. "I've found you a gifted and devoted student, Mr. Malfoy," he said. "Given time, I expect you to do great things. But," and his voice lowered a note. "One must ascertain beforehand, Mr. Malfoy, whether the deeds we intend to do are great . . . or merely noteworthy. Do you understand me?"
A chill went up Draco's spine, and he clutched the letter tightly. "Yes, sir," he said.
Snape nodded, and rested a hand on Draco's shoulder for a fraction of a second. "Good night, Mr. Malfoy," he said. "I trust you will stay in your dormitory the remainder of it."
"Yes, sir," Draco whispered, and escaped.
The boys' dormitory lay as still as he'd left it, with only Goyle's muffled snores disrupting the silence. Draco shed his robe, and folded it neatly across his trunk. He slithered into bed, and drew the curtains around him.
His wand - his real wand - still lay on the bedcovers where he'd left it. Draco picked it up, stroking his fingers along the smooth familiar surface.
"Lumos," he whispered.
Faint light filled the space created by the bed hangings, the thick fabric casting a greenish glow to it, while at the same time, shielding the light from the other boys in the dormitory. Draco leaned back against the piled pillows, and once again reached for Potter's letter. He read it, more slowly this time than he had in the hall.
Harry,
Congratulations on the Quidditch captaincy! If your father were here, he'd be proud of you. I know I am.
Remus reminds you not to forget about your school work. I say, the school work can wait. Buckbeak sends his love.
Sirius
Draco traced his thumb along the smooth writing, lingering over, "I know I am." For a moment, his hatred of Potter grew from a simmer to a raging boil.
Draco knew who Sirius Black was - not a child in the wizarding world didn't know the name. The day Black escaped from prison, Father spent the morning in his office, holding long, hushed conversations with shadowy faces in the fireplace, and downing cup after cup of tea. When Draco demanded to know what was happening, Father had waved him aside, with the usual words of caution. Don't ask so much about the past, Draco. It won't do to know too much about Sirius Black. At the time, Draco thought Father's nervousness meant no more than that another Death Eater was free, another Death Eater wouldn't appreciate Father's apparent shift to the opposite side. A year later, he met Peter Pettigrew, and learned of Black's innocence. But Draco remembered Black's photograph in the Daily Prophet, and eyes that burned, even diffused by camera. Sirius Black was a madman, no matter which side he was on.
And Potter loved him.
Draco twirled his wand in his fingers, wondering how Potter had learned of Black's innocence, and why he himself hadn't noticed when it happened. Wondering how Potter's eyes would look when Black was locked in Azkaban again. Poor, pathetic little Potter. The dementors would probably kill Black when they joined up with Lord Voldemort.
Draco smiled wickedly and bent his head over the parchment. "Duplicatum," he whispered.
The wand trembled in his hand, and the letters on the parchment grew bright, as though lit from within. Black's messy handwriting flickered and glowed brighter, and for a second it seemed to lift from the page, hovering above itself like a reflection of words written on a mirror. Then a shock like a snapped rubberband traveled through the wand and into Draco's fingers, and the letters dropped back into place. The light in the paper died, save for a single word, etched across the page as though burned there.
Protected.
Well, fine. Draco released an annoyed gust of air, and brushed his hair back from his face. He'd have to do it the muggle way.
Once again, he considered the letter, this time moving past the message, to shape of the words beneath it. Black's handwriting would be difficult to copy, but not impossible. He had six days to practice.
