A/N: This has always been my chapter focusing on more minor characters: my own Boor and Blaise Zabini. Therefore, a lot had to be done to revamp it as, when it was first written, we were not even certain of Blaise's gender, let alone his appearance, social standing, and family history and I got, well, everything about him wrong but his gender. Ah well. Also, somehow I got off the plan I had originally set for myself as far as dates go. I think this second time around I shall not be so anal about that and will allow the story to take me where and when it will. I hope you can as well. Enjoy!
Yours forever, Tsona
Draco awoke with a groan and his hand went to his temple. His head felt ransacked, as though someone had been rifling through his thoughts in the night. When he shut his eyes, he saw the night's dreams as quick, vivid flashes, but overlaid now with Catherine wheels of white light set off by his pounding head. Behind the fireworks, though, he thought he caught glimpses of a man in a black robe; a dark room; a low-burning fire; narrowed, scarlet eyes. Draco shuddered and opened his eyes onto the green velvet drapes and cotton-lined quilt, the thin stripe of orange firelight between the curtains. He was clearly still in his Slytherin dorm and that ought to have been a comfort, but those eyes had pursued him over the last few days, since Saturday when he had sat beside the lake with the Gryffindor, O'Toule. He could not seem to escape them and feared they had witnessed his confession, that the mind they opened onto might even now be plotting vengeance. He wrapped his arms tight about himself. Like the burning of the Mark, he figured, this afterimage, the fear that sent an icy chill down his spine and caused his blood to race just had to be waited out, let to subside.
When his heart at least had relaxed into its normal rhythm and the Dark Lord's eyes become a thin film across his vision, a shadowy memory, he sat up and pushed back the drapes, blinking a bit in the full light of the fire, relit earlier this morning. His body ached as he heaved upright, his limbs tingled, felt heavy, oddly disassociated from his body. It was a horrid feeling. He levered himself off the bed and shuffled to his trunk with no enthusiasm, still desperate to escape the fiery stare of those awful eyes.
And yet.... He ran a hand along the glossy ebony wood, threw open the lid. Everything in tact, nothing touched. It had appeared in his dorm, there when he had returned to it, after his stay in the hospital wing. He still did not know who had sent it from Durmstrang. He had not had time to grab it himself, would not have been able to flee with it. And who had access to his room but the--
At a noise from his left, Draco looked up from the folded contents of his wardrobe. Blaise Zabini was looking at him from beside his own trunk. The tall, black boy had already dressed in a white, button-down shirt and a black tie, decorated with the Slytherin pin of a silver serpent on a green shield. Dark eyes looked down a long, thin nose at Draco and Zabini sniffed. Draco watched as the boy grabbed his cloak off the footboard and left the room.
When Draco entered the Great Hall, later than usual, the usual halt in conversation followed in the wake of his arrival. He sighed and looked around the Hall, searching for something he knew to be beyond his reach as well as beyond his recollection.
His wandering, grey gaze paused in its pursuit. Alana was seated not far away, at the Gryffindor table, trying desperately to catch his eye. Draco blinked and stared resolutely in the other direction. The sight of her conjured the memory of their last meeting, the feeling of kneeling on the glass shards of his painful remembrances, the walls he had erected to keep others out. He had decided Alana was right about that. He had not wanted others near him. The Dark Lord, his father, and mother had been near him, too near him, and they had only harmed him. Having people close could be dangerous. It gave them too much control. But he remembered too the warmth of Alana's hand in his, the brush of it, like satin. He remembered her arms closed about him, a tourniquet working backward to suck his pain from him. Was there a chance-- ought he to--
Draco shook his head-- the idea of approaching her, of allowing himself to be approached was laughable. He began to make his way toward the Slytherin table. He saw Alana's smile slip slightly as she realized that he was turning a blind eye to her attempts, but as his own mouth slipped to a frown, he thought it was probably for the best, that maybe she would realize he wanted to put distance between them again, to forget what had happened by the lake, what she had done. He collapsed, suddenly miserable, upon the long, wooden bench and pulled a single piece of toast toward him. He examined it with an almost moony aspect, his head resting in one hand and his eyelids partly veiling his stare, but he did not eat. He hadn't much felt like it recently.
A cruel and amused drawl sounded from beside him, interrupting his lament. "So, Malfoy, what's there between you and the Gryffindor girl?"
"Bug off, Boor," Draco muttered wearily. He knew that voice all too well so turning his attention toward the speaker was needless; it had harried him far too often to be unfamiliar by sound alone. Callous Boor was a sixth year and was treated with respect bordering upon reverence by most of the House. It stemmed probably from fear, Draco thought. Boor was known to be quick of temper; highly gifted in curses of all sort, both lawful and illegal; and to have a bulk and brawn that would have intimidated even those who had not heard of his reputation. He could have easily taken on any of the elder students in a fight, fist or magical, and won.
"Zabini said you've been talking in your sleep these past couple nights, Malfoy." Boor adopted a mocking, high-pitched voice, "'No. No. I won't.' Who've you arguing with-- your girlfriend?"
Draco froze, a bit of torn toast, which he had finally begun to consume in tiny bite-size pieces, halfway to his mouth. He turned, horrorstruck, to gape at Boor. His mimicry had brought back to Draco the dream of the previous night and he suddenly understood why he was so tired. He had spent the night battling wills with the Dark Lord. He was filled with regret at the fact that there was simply no dodging Boor; if he tried to run, he would be stopped, whether by use of wand or physical force he was unable to say-- either way, it would be painful. By Boor's glittering eyes and evil smirk, Draco knew immediately that he would have liked nothing better than an excuse to pin the younger boy to the floor and coerce him tell the whole Hall of the dreamt argument. "Oh," Draco said at last, very slowly as he searched for any means of escape, "that.... I was-- I was-- It was nothing, nothing at all." He said the last bit in a rush and returned to his toast in hopes of curbing any further interrogations. He knew that it was a vain hope, even as he tore off a large wad of toast with his teeth.
"Oh, it is something, Malfoy," Boor sneered, his voice soft and threatening. "And I intend to find out just what."
Draco felt his insides writhe in fear but refused to give Boor the pleasure of knowing his terror. He had learned well over the years how to hide his emotions. As a Malfoy he was expected to be cold and unfeeling while still presenting a respectable figure to the general public. And, of course, Death Eaters had no emotion whatsoever save joy in pain and suffering, death and destruction. But I'm a failed Death Eater, Draco reminded himself forcefully.
He tried to finish his toast, but it might have been a piece torn from the common room cork board for all the taste it had. It was just as dry and difficult to swallow too. Draco left the crust and a good deal of bread crumbs on his plate, washed it down with several great swallows of Earl Grey, and drifted on a wave of other students, being buffeted this way and that, out into the corridor with Boor's words still echoing in the chambers of his mind: Oh, it is something, Malfoy. And I intend to find out just what. It was not a threat to be scoffed at. Whether Draco feared more that the whole school would find out the full story of his betrayal of the Death Eaters or that they would discover that he seemed unable to banish a Gryffindor girl from his thoughts, he could not be sure. Either prospect seemed grim.
Most of the crowd was headed toward the marble staircase and the upper floors of the school and Draco, forcing his way through the tide to the other side of the entrance hall, was left standing beside the banister alone and exposed. His eyes scoured the marble and stone hall. He could feel the pins on the back of his neck that were the students' stares and their murmurs echoed in the high-ceilinged room. Shadows seemed to lurk in the corners of the room like hulking figures in black robes. How well connected was Boor? Points of reflected sunlight from off the hourglasses and gems that kept tally of the House points seemed like glowing eyes and followed Draco as he darted across the marble toward the narrow side passageway where Binns held class. Gryffindor's rubies seemed particularly ominous, flashing scarlet as the Dark Lord's in his mind; Draco gasped and had to drag his eyes away. For a moment, he was glad to reach the safety of the first floor corridor. But this hallway was darker; the sunlight that swamped the entrance hall through the great, glass clock face floors above, did not extend more than a few yards into this passage.
Draco drew his bookbag toward his chest as he crept along, not daring to glance at a suit of armor that stood at attention just beyond the sunlit strip, wondering about Legilimency. Its metal visor squealed as he passed it and Draco, jumping and looking back, had to remind himself that this was normal. He nearly tripped into the sunlit classroom with its sweet odor of dust, books, and warm wood. Most of the class was already there. Pansy Parkinson turned steely eyes on him at the sound of his footsteps and steadying breaths. Her pugnacious face puckered into a scowl and she threw her short, black hair as much as she was able as she turned pointedly back toward her friends, Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode. Draco was sure they were gossiping. Ildi Moon was listening intently, though she didn't seem to have been invited to join the conversation. Blaise Zabini, though he had his parchment spread out, a quill lying across it, and an inkwell open, seemed, not unusually, too absorbed in a book open on his lap to even notice Draco as the latter collapsed into the seat beside him just as Binns himself drifted through the blackboard to float behind his desk. The ghost professor did not say a simple "Good morning," or even clear his throat before launching into his droning lecture.
Binns' voice was stupefying on the best of days, though Draco usually struggled through it better than the others as he was interested in the subject. As per usual, almost as soon as the professor began to speak, the girls began writing notes to one another, scratching away on a single scrap of parchment. Today though, the ghost's drone sank to the low buzz of wireless static almost immediately for Draco too; his mind obviously thought what it had to say was more important than the giant wars. It was running away even as he bent over and pulled a piece of parchment, a quill, and ink from his bag. When he had laid them on the table, it was only by propping his head in his hand that he could keep it upright at all and his eyes glazed over, watching the motes of dust in the thick stripe of sunlight from a high window.
The warmth might have been pleasant, but it only made the back of his neck prickle with cold, as though someone-- Draco decided quickly that it felt like the Dark Lord himself and, as soon as he did, his head whipped around-- was standing so close behind him that he could feel his exhaled breaths. But there was no one there. Not physically. But Draco wasn't alone either. He felt the cold lacing his blood, pulsing through him, filling him, and it made him shudder. The Dark Lord had bound Draco to him, the Dark Mark was proof of that. What that meant exactly, Draco didn't know, but the fact made him feel as though he could not be safe, even here inside Hogwarts, with walls of enchantments and stone and Albus Dumbledore mere storeys above him. Surely the eyes of that skull could see, surely they watched Draco as he picked up the quill he had laid out and began to fiddle with it, running his fingers along the vane. And if he wasn't alone, he wondered briefly, what could that mean for those who tried to get near to him? What if he allowed her near? What could happen to her then?
His constant internal battles with himself and with other's wills for him had run him down completely, both physically and emotionally. He felt worn, drained, faded almost, as if a part of himself had remained locked in his dungeon room at Durmstrang Institute, staring mournfully at the barred door. He sometimes wondered, in the silent hours of the early morning and late night when he fell to reflecting upon his past-- and now in the sunlight, when his mind was wandering over paths beaten through a dark and tangled wood, whose overgrown briar and nettles scraped his skin as he ploughed deeper-- whether things could have turned out differently. Could he have found himself more willing to kill and torture had he not been subjected to it himself, known what he was causing, seen living examples of what it had done and could do? Had he but known what would become of him after rebelling, had he realized then that any kind of real escape was mere fantasy, would he have been here still today? There had been times, toward the end of his stay with the Death Eaters, when he had felt he simply could not go on any longer, when the Dark Lord had toyed with him as a cat with a mouse, when he had been declared dead one moment and left to breathe great gasps the next, then let to fall into an agitation for the cat's next swipe. But Hogwarts had then always shone as a distant beacon of hope. Now that he had found it, returned to it, he wondered how he could have mistaken the scorching flames of hatred he experienced daily for rays of bright hope.
"The devastation left in the wake of this giant army was catas--"
Draco dipped his quill into the ink bottle and pulled it out again. Lustrous, black ink trickled from its pointed tip, falling back into the bottle in droplets and looking oddly sinister. It fell as blood does, drop by drop, slowly sucking the life out of a person as it ran, forsaking them to death. That's what they think of me, he thought mournfully as he watched it drip slowly into the dark pool below, all of them. They think I'm contaminated with all that vile filth they've got. All that cold darkness.
Ah, said a second nasty voice from inside him, cold and high. But who is to say you are not? You cannot run from it. It is part of you. You cannot escape it. The fight against it will kill you in the end.
Draco shuddered involuntarily, then looked quickly around the classroom to see if anyone had noticed. He had the feeling this baleful voice was right. He didn't want to admit it, he refused to admit it; to do so would be to condemn himself to death because he was not going to go back to the Dark Lord. With his father. He put the quill back into the silver pot and there let it rest. He glared at it. What right did it have to mock him? What had he ever done to deserve all this? This life he had been chased into, forced to live out?
A sharp elbow jabbed him in the side and Draco, jumping, turned to find Blaise Zabini's dark, slanted eyes fixed on him, vivid in his coffee colored face. "Are you all right?" Zabini muttered.
Draco hadn't thought anyone had noticed. He'd thought he had been in the clear. "I'm fine," Draco hissed back.
Zabini's eyes slipped to Draco's desk. "Your notes say otherwise."
There was nothing on Draco's parchment. "Where are your notes then?" Draco challenged, hoping to distract the other boy.
"I don't usually take any, as you've probably noticed in nearly five years' acquaintance, Malfoy." He spoke with annoying superiority and Draco knew that Zabini was enjoying being better liked than Draco for once and had been since Draco had returned from Durmstrang, maybe even since that September when Draco had failed to show up at Hogwarts. "I'll read the book later. I only need to know what subject the old ghost is ranting about to keep caught up."
Draco frowned and nodded toward the book open on Zabini's lap. "If that's not A History of Magic, what is it?"
It was a bold step, far from their usual conversation canon. Draco had always shunted Zabini toward the edge of the group he kept, never sharing with him the stories and opinions he shared with Crabbe, Goyle, Theodore Nott, and even Pansy. Draco had not grown up with Zabini, as he had with the others. The Malfoys and Zabini's mother were not close. Zabini's mother-- whom Draco never knew rightly by what name to call-- was a singularly beautiful witch who, after the death of her first husband, had taken to marrying rich men, all of whom died not more than a year or two later, leaving her mounds of galleons and once (to the disgust of the Malfoys, who thought she was sullying her pure-blood and the blood of any other wizard she snared afterward) Muggle money. She had no connection to the Ministry. Nor was she a Death Eater as all the other boys' parents were. Most of her money was new rather than old. Draco had only ever really tolerated Zabini.
Zabini had always seemed content with this arrangement, had not stuck his unusually long and slender nose into Draco's business and let him hold his private conversations while he slunk off, usually to a book. Answers and questions between Draco and Zabini were usually curt and given purely on a need-to-know basis. Neither had ever been open with the other. Draco, when he was in a good mood, had always treated Zabini with a formality he knew was not normal for two boys who had spent most of their school years living in the same room.
Zabini seemed to think this question was a step too far too. His dark eyes narrowed and he slammed the book shut with a snarl of "Nothing!"
"Zaharias!" The ghost seemed to have jumped at the sudden report and was straightening his out-of-fashion, translucent suit and ascot. "What's with all this noise?"
"Sorry, sir," Zabini said, looking up and smoothing his face. "It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't," Binns snipped. "This is a class, Zanuck, not a study hall, and I don't think book-slamming is tolerated even there."
"Of course, sir."
"Now-- the giants turned then toward the Plains of--"
Draco had to marvel at the professor's ability to pick up mid-thought as he picked up the quill, this time without looking at its dripping tip, and had to guess how much room to leave on the top of his scroll.
Zabini too bent over his parchment for a few minutes until the ghost's attention was again so riveted in his own subject that he no longer noticed the class. When he sat back and buried his nose back in the pages of the book at issue, Draco glanced sideways, but he saw no more than sketches, albeit quite good sketches, of giants crushing cottages and fleeing villagers. Draco had thought Zabini, like himself, had been taking notes on the lecture.
Draco darted a quick glance at Binns to ensure he was absorbed in his lecture, then ventured to ask, "Why'd you tell Boor about that nightmare, Zabini?" He had been wondering all morning.
Zabini did not even look up from the neat, printed text. "Hm?"
"Why did you tell Boor I was talking in my sleep?" Draco repeated irritably.
"Oh, that," said Zabini vaguely. "I dunno. Does it really matter?"
Draco felt a rush of anger sweep through his veins. "Of course it matters, idiot! You got him on my case! Trying to figure out what I was dreaming about--"
"McAvoy!" Binns snapped. "As I've already reminded Zapata, this is a class and you will both kindly refrain from talking."
Draco grumbled, "Sorry," while Zabini answered with a sharp, "Of course, sir," that made Draco glower.
"Good, because if I have to speak to either of you again, I will have you in here this Saturday doing the house-elves' work."
Zabini waited, watching from beneath lowered, long lashes, until it was safe to talk in front of Binns again. "There's no need for name-calling," he said, then suggested offhandedly, "So tell Boor and be rid of it."
Draco's eyes and mouth fell wide, but Zabini's dark eyes seemed sincere. "I can't do that, dolt," Draco hissed finally, careful this time to keep his voice down. "Otherwise I would have done already. No one wants someone like that tailing you!"
"Why not?" Zabini asked.
"Why not what?" Draco snarled through clenched teeth.
"Why can't you just tell him?"
So, Zabini was going to try to pull it from him too, eh? Moron. They should both mind their own businesses and leave him alone. Well, Draco would tell no one about the dreams he'd had; there was no one he wanted to know anyway, not really. "I just can't, all right?"
To his surprise, Zabini just said, "Sure. Whatever," and returned his full attention again to his book.
---
Draco didn't want to face Boor at dinner, he didn't want to have to sit through his probes. He didn't want to have to endure any more conversation with Zabini. He wasn't sure he wanted to see anyone, in fact. He thought he might do better on his own. Yet, shadows still resolved themselves suddenly into cloaked figures, even as late as this and Slytherin House, as he sat still in silent in one of the black leather armchairs and the House emptied around him, was full of shadows, oddly alive in the underwater light from the lake-facing windows and the firelight. So, feeling as though he was in a daze, head and body aching, Draco pushed himself off the seat and set off wearily for the refuge of the kitchens. There, neither Boor nor Zabini nor Alana would find and haunt him. There he knew Dobby would be waiting and able to give him all the answers he desired, able to chase away those shadows, scare the monsters from his closet and from beneath his bed. As he always had been able.
He pulled open the painting that concealed the kitchens and crawled through the breach in the wall behind. The smell in the air was delicious as house-elves darted to and fro beneath great trays of roast turkey, towers of butter dishes, bowls of turnips, and baskets of breads. Draco glanced around, smiling sheepishly at the elves that peeped from behind their loads to see who had entered, but on looking toward the great, brick fireplace at the back, he froze.
He could just see the red head of a Weasley over the long duplicates of the House tables. With trepidation, Draco crept closer, wondering which Weasley it was and what they were doing down in the kitchens during dinner. Nicking food no doubt, Draco thought irefully. The Gryffindors had a reputation for throwing the best House-wide parties and food was always a major contributor. It was also a known fact that the Weasley twins, Fred and George, were the ones who arranged for them. But what was the occasion? Two more months of school till the graduation of the the party's backers? But there was only one red head he could see, so it couldn't be them, could it? Where was the other twin?
Glancing around one of the long, wooden tables, luckily to the backs of the most unwelcome visitors, Draco saw that it was not just a Weasley after all and his mouth dropped in horror. Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter were all squatting comfortably on the stone hearth of the large kitchen fireplace with what seemed to be a picnic feast of pasties, puddings, and tarts spread before them. And worse still, they were talking genially to Dobby, laughing pleasantly with him. The elf's face went pale when he saw Draco staring open-mouthed at the four of them, all seated about the fire. He gave a frightened squeak, his hands shot up toward his mouth, and his green eyes went wide and fearful as they stared.
Seeing Dobby's distress, Potter, Weasley, and Granger all turned, Potter drawing his wand from his pocket out of instinct. When he saw Draco though, his tension relaxed and his face broke into a broad and evil grin. "Malfoy," he said softly. "Excellent."
Weasley was glaring at him with slitted eyes and pressed lips, and Granger's mouth was opened wide as her brown eyes.
Draco forced his dropped jaw quickly closed in a scowl and narrowed his grey eyes in a glare, resigned to the fact that he would now have to face them rather than run for the exit. So much for escaping interrogation. "What are you lot doing down here?" he asked, his slitted eyes traveling from fierce face to fierce face.
"We could ask you the same question," Granger reminded him. Ron nodded stiffly beside her, the tips of his ears growing red, his infuriated gaze never leaving Draco.
"You could," Draco agreed. "But that doesn't mean I'd answer."
"Yeah, well," said Potter, caressing his wand, running a hand up and down its short length. He looked up at Draco, provokingly tranquil. "I'd be happy to loosen your tongue for you if you won't answer willingly. No teachers around here, are there, Malfoy?"
"Shut up, Potter," Draco hissed. "I know curses far beyond your feeble imagination. You're no match."
"Oh, like curses that could get you a life sentence in Azkaban, perhaps?" Potter questioned coolly. "Besides, Malfoy, after Voldemort you ought to be cake."
Draco flinched at the sound of name and Harry laughed cruelly. "What, Malfoy? Afraid to hear your master's name? Pathetic. And you call yourself a Death Eater?"
"No, I don't!" Draco cried, his blood boiling once more. He balled his hand into fists to keep from reaching for his wand too. "And you've no idea, Potter! None!"
"Oh, well, in that case-- don't let us stop you, Malfoy. Do go on. I happen to know a few Aurors who'd love to find out what's going on in Voldemort's headquarters." Harry smiled at him encouragingly with a look of feigned cordiality.
Draco glared back, his mouth clamped shut in defiance. Fine, if Potter was going on the offensive, was going to act so superiorly just because of some stupid scar, some lucky escapes, then Draco wouldn't tell them a thing. He shivered to think too of what Aurors would do to him. He hoped Potter was only bluffing, he suspected he was.
Draco rounded on the house-elf, who had been cowering beside the four students, watching the conversation like a tennis match through globular eyes. "What were you doing with them, Dobby?" he pressed. He folded his arms across his chest, trying to make himself appear more collected. "Go on, then."
Dobby looked at the floor. His pointed ears drooped slightly. "Dobby is sorry, Master Draco. But Harry Potter is freeing Dobby. Harry Potter is Dobby's friend, sir."
"Of course," Draco muttered scornfully. "Saint Potter."
"Oh, come on, Malfoy! Get a grip on yourself!" Potter snapped. As an afterthought, he added, "If you can. I don't suppose your arms would fit around your overlarge head, would they?" Then he too turned to the elf. "You don't have to tell him anything, Dobby, you know that. He's not your master anymore."
"Dobby knows it, Harry Potter, sir," the house-elf muttered, staring gloomily at the stones of the hearth, a tension like a rod between his narrow shoulders. "But Dobby is trusting Master Draco and Master Draco is trusting Dobby, too, sir."
The trio of Gryffindors all laughed heartily. Draco glared at them. Childish prats, he thought.
Weasley was first to speak, through gasps for air. "Trust him! Dobby, you've gone off your rocker, mate!" Then he roared with laughter again.
"But Mister Wheezy, sir, Dobby is telling the truth, sir," Dobby argued. "He does trust Master Draco."
"Ha," Draco said beneath his breath. "You see, Potter, some people-- or elves, ar least-- know who they can trust and who they can't."
"But, Master Draco, Dobby-- Dobby trusts Harry Potter, too," the elf squeaked, gazing up at him in that awful way that expected punishment, that begged mercy.
Draco flinched, but continued grimly, "A fool's move, Dob. You're likely to get your heart broken as soon as the Dark Lord gets his wish and I really doubt Potter's luck can hold out much longer, do you?" Here he gave Potter a withering look.
"So he is planning something!" Potter said quickly, excitement overcoming his hatred. "Come on, Malfoy, tell me-- how's he trying this year?"
"And even if I did know, would I really be likely to tell you, Potter?" Draco asked scathingly. "Do use your common sense! If you've got any, which I tend to doubt given your history of rash decisions." He shifted his gaze back to Dobby. "Sorry I disturbed you in the middle of company, Dobby," he said with a bite of icy displeasure. "I'll come back later, shall I? When you're not busy entertaining dirt clods."
With that, Draco turned on his heel and stormed from the kitchens, the house-elf calling, "Wait! Master Draco!" after him, Potter calling, "If that's the best insult you can come up with, Malfoy, you're losing your touch!"
---
Draco stomped along the deserted corridors in a fury. He just couldn't believe Dobby would turn on him like that! He had been the only living thing he thought he could trust. Apparently, Dobby had taken advantage of Draco's absence to make friends with his enemies. Or had they always been friends, but kept it under wraps? Maybe Dobby had never deserved the trust Draco had shown him! Maybe he'd always been plotting against him, refusing to forsake him purely out of fear?
An echoing shout rent the stillness of the empty corridor, bringing Draco's train of thought to an abrupt and screeching halt. "Draco! Draco, wait up!"
It was Alana, back again to harry him. She was running towards him, looking relieved.
Draco however ignored her and kept walking. As he past her standing in the middle of the corridor, waiting for him and apparently under the impression that he was walking towards her rather than away, he growled, "Don't talk to me, O'Toule."
Alana looked puzzled for a moment but remained persistent. She caught him up, keeping pace with him. Draco would have broken into a run to escape had he not thought this a cowardly course of action. "Draco, please?" she pleaded. "I only wanted to apologize for whatever I did that made you not want to talk to me. If it was that hug-- or asking you about--"
Draco stopped as abruptly as if he had run headlong into an invisible wall. He spun sharply round to face her. Alana stopped too, looking hopeful. But her expression quickly fell at the sight of his face, pale brows knit with fury, grey eyes narrowed to slits, and his mouth twisted in a scowl.
"You want to know what you did wrong?" he snarled. "I'll tell you what you did, O'Toule. You tried to help!" He started walking again, even quicker than before out of rage.
"Draco! I'm sorry. Really! I never meant to make you hate me!"
"Yeah, well, that's exactly what you did," Draco shouted, turning around once more to face her, for she had remained rooted to the spot.
"So then how can I make you stop hating me?" she asked keenly, swiping away a fallen lock of tawny hair.
"You really want to help, O'Toule?" he asked acidly. "Turn the world right-side up again. Then we'll talk."
A/N: So, hopefully that was a satisfyingly long chapter and your as excited about the emergence of new characters as I am. As an interesting line of thought, I might suggest comparing the scene in the kitchen with the last of Snape's worst memories. (Forgive me, I'm at college now and must return to that comparative literature/ this will drive along the discussion mode of thinking.) I want to thank Neighpony, who actually reviewed Death Eaters Don't Cry, not its sequel, but all the same, her kind words have been pushing me toward working on this series these past few days. However, I'm not sure how good an editing job I did on this, so I will beg you all to leave me your reviews, comments, suggestions, etc. in hopes of producing a better and better fanfiction. Cheers!
Yours forever, Tsona