Chapter Two: Tending
Two nights later found Draco in the library an hour before curfew, glaring across the stacks at Granger's customary table. The Mudblood had been monopolizing Hogwarts' only copy of Air and Water Magicks for hours. Draco's head drooped momentarily; he caught himself before his chin hit his chest and he snapped upright. At the rate things were going, he was liable to pass out before getting the book. His arms ached from another fruitless crack at the Vanishing Cabinet, and now he resented going to the Room of Hidden Things at all; if he hadn't, perhaps he would've reached the book before the know-it-all got it in her head to memorise the entire thing.
He could Incendio the entire room and laugh while it burned. While he burned with it. He could almost envision flames licking at the edge of his vision. No, his mistake – it was Weasley-red hair. Draco growled in frustration as Ginny Weasley popped into his line of vision.
"I thought I told you to get some sleep," she said lightly.
"I would if I could," he muttered as he glared at Granger.
"What is it?" she asked, trying to follow his eyes.
"Go. Away."
"If you try anything with Hermione, I'll hex you," she said calmly.
Draco sighed. "If I wanted to try anything, I would've already. I'm just waiting. I need that book."
She sighed, clearly doing an impression of him, and strolled away. Draco snarled at her retreating back, then went back to boring a hole in Granger's skull with his psychic powers. He suddenly found his view interrupted by Weasley's red hair once again; she was sitting down at Granger's table with a charming smile. He hated her easy manner, and the way Granger broke immediately into congenial whispers. Well, of course – she didn't have anything to worry about. Her essay was likely finished; her family wasn't in danger.
He hated them both.
"Hey."
He hadn't realised that he'd closed his eyes again. Weasley was approaching him with an armload of books. She laid the top one on his table as she passed. "You're welcome," she muttered, continuing on to the book return without breaking her stride.
"What is this?" Pansy whispered moments later as she slid into the seat across from him. "You've taught Gryffindors to play fetch now?"
"Apparently so," he murmured, opening Air and Water Magicks. "Who knew that her dearest ambition was to become a librarian?"
It was so dark that when Draco looked around he saw bursts of colour instead of shadowy shapes, his eyes compensating for lack of stimulation by inventing a nonsensical landscape. He could've lit a candle, or his wand, but instead he remained still, his coverlet pulled up to his chin, hoping that the Dreamless Sleep residue he'd licked from his last empty phial would do something. He couldn't risk asking Professor Snape for any more, considering the interrogation he'd received from his Head of House before he'd provided the last batch, the condescending offers of aid. Snape didn't understand. This job was for Draco alone.
Here in the dark, Draco could be honest with himself: he was terrified. Before, he had shed tears in the shelter of his bed, had wept bitterly over the smallest hitch in his plans. Lately a sort of bald horror had taken over as he came to accept his fate, and all he could do was clutch his pillow and stare dry-eyed into the deceptive calm of his surroundings, guilt wracking him as he thought of the price of his failures. If he failed, his mother was forfeit, and failure was looking more probable with every passing day. How was he supposed to accept that? How could he prepare himself? He worked in the Room of Hidden Things every chance he had, plodding along relentlessly, no longer becoming excited about his successes or moody when faced with setbacks. The work was coming along, but so slowly.
Sometimes he allowed himself a bare sliver of hope, a brief delusion that something might change and break the pact he'd been forced into. Perhaps the old man would just die of his own accord. Perhaps the Dark Lord would see it fit to add someone else to the mission. He touched his forearm, the symbol that was supposed to mean that he'd never be alone again, that he was a part of something bigger. He'd never felt more alone in his life. He couldn't speak his plans aloud to hear how they sounded, something he'd always used Vince and Greg for in the past, and confiding in Pansy was out of the question, no matter how shrill she became over the issue. Does Potter ever feel this way? he wondered suddenly, and dismissed the thought with disgust. What could he possibly have to hide? His job was to survive. It was a much more sympathetic occupation than Draco's. Everyone openly supported him, and Weasley and Granger always had his back. Potter and Dumbledore had an army, for God's sake. Draco wondered what that felt like. He wanted an army. He wanted anything.
