A/N: I know it's taken ages to get this update, but rest assured that is because I've spent all my time writing ahead and finishing the chapter outline which will result in speedier updates.
A Curious Pursuit of Knowledge
The sky was grey and murky as the weak afternoon sunlight succumbed to the pull of dusky evening. No rain had fallen but the threat lingered thick and moist in the air. The sound of chirping birds and the ruffling and flapping of wings was almost melodious. They were the sounds that stopped the silence which seemed to roar perpetually in his head.
There were some less than pleasant elements to be endured when one spent their time amid the columned structure of the Owlery: the smell, most notably. It was the cloying odour of sweetened owl treats combined with straw and excrement. No amount of the cleansing air that rushed in from the open walls of the towered room could seem to relieve it. This was a necessary evil to be endured when one wanted easy access to an indistinguishable school owl.
Draco Malfoy, the only occupant of the vast space, had a beautiful eagle owl, which had been gifted to him by his mother when he first arrived on the hallowed grounds of Hogwarts. It was a magnificent creature, but one that was far too easily identifiable as his own. Although Draco's correspondence with his mother was relatively innocuous, he and his family drew suspicion with their every breath. And if Harry Potter was still spouting off said suspicions to Dumbledore and his many other allies, then there was all the more reason for Draco to be discreet.
The tall, pale-haired boy stroked the underbelly of his selected courier, and the diminutive creature ruffled his feathers and hooted in response. After a small missive was attached to his outstretched leg, the owl flew off toward Wiltshire. Its intended recipient was one Narcissa Malfoy, matriarch of the Manor. Draco knew, however, that she was no longer mistress of those walls. There was a guest at the estate: one who had taken control of all the goings on there.
The letter sent was a response to one he had received only that morning. It was one of the many concerned inquiries that had accumulated since he arrived back at the school for his turbulent sixth year. He leaned against a free wall as his hands instinctively slipped between the folds of his robes to extricate the letter. The sheaf of parchment was well worn already from multiple readings.
It was in times like these when he wished that the ability to put all on his parents was still possible. There were many reasons for why it simply was not. Not least of all was the fact that his father had been imprisoned in Azkaban for the entire duration of the summer. Draco did not like to think about that, for reasons more than just pride. As a result, however, the Dark Lord had deemed it appropriate for Draco to move into service in the wake of his father's absence. This was the primary reason for his mother's horror, and despite Draco's pretence of swagger about the induction, his feelings were quite the reverse.
Still, in spite of his situation and his awareness of Narcissa's, he drew comfort in her words. They were a reminder of what he strived for, and cleared his priorities for a time. Her letters were increasingly concerned because she knew what it had taken him some time to acknowledge: that the Dark Lord had not expected for Draco to be successful. The mission was nothing more than a punishment for the errors and failures of his father's own service to him. It also stood as a warning to other Death Eaters that even the illustrious Malfoys could be held in low esteem. No one was safe within the ranks.
His mother was resilient, in spite of the slightness of her frame and her polished demeanour, but he still did not like to think of her and the peril that would come of another Malfoy failure. Draco's stroke of genius with regard to the Vanishing Cabinets was fast becoming outweighed by the realisation of the near impossibility of the task. But the veiled threat should he fail was one he could not bear. The weight of his family hung around his throat like a noose, tightening each day. His home was now a place to be feared, and that fear of him burnt through the black ink on his skin and seared Draco to his core.
He did not relish the prospect of returning to his family home come Christmas. Whatever stresses he faced within the grounds of the school, they were preferable to what lay beyond. From that there would be no escape.
His gaze scanned the signature from his mother before he stuffed the parchment back into his pocket. He turned then and gazed out at the gloomy sky, which hung over the lush landscape. He would have liked to fly then, to feel the rush of air against his face, and the comforting texture of wood beneath his fingers.
He had no time for such frivolities, though.
The pale boy squared his shoulders and made to leave the Owlery. He paused at the sound of a creak nearby. The loud plodding of footsteps would not have worried him, just an errant student writing home. No. It was the quietness that disconcerted him. He wondered whether Potter was watching him again from beneath his favoured cloak.
Draco was startled into reaction when he felt a finger tapping his shoulder. Turning swiftly, Draco wrenched a wrist toward him, one that was too fine to be Potter's. He was startled at the flash of wide ochre eyes and wild curls which greeted him. It was her. He narrowed his eyes, wondering immediately if she was now in cahoots with her friend.
"What?" he hissed rather viciously, to which she responded in shock. She yanked her wrist from his grasp, and with her other hand held up a carefully folded piece of parchment.
"I was just checking whether you dropped this." It was his mother's letter. Draco swallowed, nodding curtly at her before taking the missive and putting it in his pocket with more care on this occasion. She was rubbing her wrist and he watched the motion for a few seconds before turning on his heel.
He cursed himself for his rash behaviour; the last thing he needed was to make her suspicious in the way Potter was. The soft texture of her skin beneath his was a revelation he should not dwell on. It also disturbed him to know that her touch, something he had always feared, had not caused him physical harm – though, perhaps something more perilous altogether.
He increased his pace.
Once distance had wrought a calmer frame of mind, he relaxed to know that it was not entirely unreasonable for her to be there. After all, he had seen her earlier that day, as he made his own way to the tower. It was the first time in some weeks that he had stumbled upon her on one of her reading sessions. It was in one of the unused classrooms in the West Tower. Draco found it strange that even in cases such as this, when he was not in search of her, he still seemed to cross her path.
He had walked right past the room at first, before the soft sounds of turning pages caught his attention. And there she was, curled up by the far window, allowing the light to fall across the pages of a small, much worn book that was held tenderly between her fingers. To say that he had been intrigued would be an understatement. It made him wonder, with a ferocious sort of curiosity, what it was that she read, for he knew quite clearly what it was not. Only the previous Friday had he guaranteed another disruption to the flow of her reading habits.
He had arrived very early that evening to peruse the shelves in search of her desired volume. He had elected on that occasion to hide the book instead of borrowing it. Whilst he had derived great pleasure from her knowing he had what she wanted the time before, he also did not want to give the game away quite so quickly. So, employing his inherent deviousness, Draco hid the book in an entirely different section, and applied a clever sticking charm to its well preserved covers. That would ensure that even the most well wielded summoning charm could not disturb it.
There was, of course, the additional thrill of knowing just how Mrs Pince would fret over the mistreatment of such a valuable item. The memory caused Draco a rare smile. In any case, he had elected to sit and work on his Transfiguration homework, or at least to pretend to, while he waited for everything to unfold. As predicted, Granger and her ally had looked quite flummoxed over the missing book, and the former had even cast a curious look toward him. He feigned ignorance but had revelled in the moment.
The knowledge that he had again caused her the inconvenience was the main reason for Draco's curiosity when he had stood outside the classroom door watching her. When she eventually did tilt the book at such an angle to reveal its cover, it became clear that whatever its content, it was for Muggles. Draco could not fathom the knowledge she intended to derive from such a book, and it was a riddle he had yet to solve.
He wanted to, though. Muggle or not. His yearning to know the truth of her, each flittering thought which danced across her mind, was ever increasing.
No matter how many enchanted candles lit the dungeon common room, nor how close one sat to the vast hearth, could the all pervasive draftiness be dispelled. One grew accustomed to wearing as many layers as possible when that someone was a Slytherin.
Draco was seated on one of the long sofas situated near the crackling flames. He was surrounded by some of the other sixth year students, who had been apprising him of the castle gossip. His inattentiveness of late had not gone unnoticed. This was perceived as strange behaviour from him, given his general predisposition toward the mocking of others.
Pansy had chastised him for ignoring her, a crime of which he knew he was quite guilty. She was seated right next to him, leaning close and trailing her fingers across the downy skin of his neck. She had always been fascinated by his hair, and it was not uncommon to find her playing with its silken ends. He did not mind this so much. In fact, he found it somewhat soothing.
Draco had always been a rather tactile creature; one who relished physical comfort in whatever form it was presented.
Although he tried, with particular effort on this occasion, to appear intrigued by the flow of conversation, the constant pull of darker thoughts lingered at the frayed edges of his mind. Indeed, his interest was not called away from those worrying thoughts until a name was uttered, one that he could not help but focus on.
"-huge argument, apparently. Hannah Abbot – you know that dreadfully loud Hufflepuff girl... the one with the voice? Well, anyway, I overheard her talking about how Granger and Weasley were fighting in Herbology and-"
Draco swiftly interrupted the streaming flow that fell from Pansy's lips.
"Abbot is an imbecile... surely not a reliable source..."
She rushed on. "Oh, I know that, Draco... but she was talking to one of the other girls and... Well, anyway apparently Granger was crying!" The flush which usually came over Pansy's face at the misfortune of someone she greatly detested was unfurling across her cheeks.
"Whatever about?" Queried an only slightly interested Blaise Zabini.
"Well," she said, "apparently it was about that Christmas party for Professor Slughorn's little club." Her tone was intentionally derisive, and out of the corner of his eye Draco saw the quick glance she shot his way. She was loyal, even if only to him and very few others. He appreciated it nonetheless.
He craved, most fervently, to know whether it was true. He could think of no reason why someone as complex and intricate as Granger would care about anything that Weasley had to say, or perhaps didn't say. He felt no sympathy for her, of course, just a curious resentment that it was someone other than himself to cause that visceral reaction.
He wanted to be the one to cause a flush to creep across her features, salt tears to track her cheeks. According to the black ink which marred his skin, it was perfectly natural to wish pain upon someone like her: someone apparently so inferior. But it wasn't so much the knowledge of her being hurt that he craved, it was the heady thought of yielding that sort of emotional power over her.
She had only ever been collected around him, full of disdain at him and all he represented. And he wanted nothing more than the knowledge that he could, if he chose, hurt her deeply and irrevocably.
That desire thrummed through his veins when he thought of her. It terrified him.
"So, given that we've digressed to talking of little clubs, I wonder..." Blaise Zabini's coolly laconic voice interrupted the flow of Draco's thoughts once more. "How goes your vital mission? Has the Dark lord built a statue in your honour?"
The taunting tone was unsurprising. Draco had never really liked the other boy; he was too quiet, always assessing. One never really knew what he was thinking or where his loyalties lay. This, Draco knew, was a dangerous quality in a Slytherin because of their inherently devious nature. His mother's tendency for choosing husbands that died shortly after the wedding made Draco all the more weary of the boy.
He responded with a dismissive tone. "I rather think that is between the Dark Lord and his trusted… of which you are not one, Zabini." He sneered in response but the other boy ignored the rebuff, seeming to sense that he had struck a nerve.
He turned away at the gentle stroke of Pansy's fingertips across the nape of his neck.
"Draco," she whispered softly for only him to hear. "I want to talk…"
"Now?" he questioned in a harsh response, immediately regretting the tone when he saw the pull at her features. He could not afford to alienate all around him. So he sat up, lifting his form from the comforting embrace of the sofa, and extended an arm toward her. She smiled, appeased, and took his arm, leading him toward the sixth form boy's dormitory where she knew they would not be disturbed.
He blew out a weary puff of air, which tickled the errant strands of pale blond about his forehead. Pansy immediately sat on his bed, and turned her clear gaze up toward him. He sat down next to her, and did not shift when her small palm collected his, brushing circles over its surface.
Above all else and in spite of much, Pansy was his friend and he had known her for much of his life. He did not think he could clearly define that friendship, because she was a girl and that always meant the lines blurred just a little. This was increased by the times when he had kissed her at his family's estate, and when she had allowed him to brush curious fingers beneath the folds of her skirt.
In spite of these things, she was his friend and one that he counted as important, among many he did not. She knew him well; it was a blessing and a curse.
"You're not yourself, Draco," she whispered finally. "I know you won't tell me all about it - that you can't… but I want to know that you're alright."
She shrugged and he could see the sheen across her eyes that suggested she was more worried than she admitted. It made him wonder just how obvious his manner was. Pansy could read him far better than most, but if she was as worried as this then perhaps that explained Potter's tenacity and Granger's strangely inquisitive looks.
He could not allow for that. He had to be strong. His father would tell him to push his shoulders back and hide his thoughts. And this had never been a problem, because Draco had always excelled at compartmentalising. Until now.
"I know," he said to her. "I know I haven't been all there… but it's better now. It will be better now."
She brushed her fingers through his hair and when her wet cheeks slid across his own, and her soft lips clung to his mouth, he tried to convince himself that it was true.