I don't own Harry Potter.
Seven.
"You're being too obvious," Hermione whispered to Harry, who was staring at Malfoy.
Harry blinked and looked down at his plate, frowning. "There's something wrong with him."
"Yeah, when hasn't there been?" Ron asked around a mouthful of cake.
"Something different," Harry muttered. He looked disinterestedly down at his plate, and picked up his goblet instead.
Hermione tried to keep from looking at Malfoy, but her eyes ignored her thoughts and traveled to the Slytherin table. Not finding him there, she looked to the doors, and caught just a glimpse of him as he strode out, the door slamming behind him.
"He's gone," she murmured, and both Ron and Harry turned quite blatantly to look. She sighed and rolled her eyes. "You really can't watch him like that and expect he's got no clue what's going on."
"Well then he's aware we know something's up," Ron protested, crossing his arms.
"Yes, meaning he's going to be more careful from now on."
Ron scowled.
"You see what I mean? Subtlety is key. Remember how they followed us around last year and we didn't realize what was happening until it was too late?"
Harry nodded. "Right." He rubbed at his scar.
"I'm off to the library," she said, and pushed up from her seat. "Do you want to come too?"
Ron snorted. Harry shook his head.
"I'll see you later, then. Tell Ginny where I'll be, if she comes along, please."
"Aren't you going to Hogsmeade with us?" Ron asked.
"Of course," she said. "I'll meet you at the gates at four."
He'd just come back up from the Great Hall, where he'd hurriedly eaten a small meal. The room had been half empty, seeing as most everyone except the lower years was off in Hogsmeade, so he'd taken the opportunity to have some food in peace without prying eyes. It was the first proper meal he'd eaten in days but afterwards he felt so sick, he wished he hadn't eaten anything at all. Draco looked down at the velvet box, and felt his insides twist so tight, to the point he felt he couldn't draw breath. The indistinct bag from Borgin and Burkes lay crumpled on the floor, his features still tingled from the disguise spells he'd put upon himself to mask his identity having worn off. The leather gloves on his hand kept them from shaking, at least, despite the cold that hung like ice in the dormitory.
It was still early, and everyone else would remain in Hogsmeade for hours, until dark, even. Pansy was on a date. The last he'd seen of Granger, she'd been in the library with Longbottom. Potter and Weasley were off probably spending all their pocket money in Zonko's, as if they were still in First Year. And the only company he had was a cursed necklace and a poisoned bottle of wine.
Draco shed himself of his coat, and then his robes. After walking through the snow and wind for what had felt like ages, it was good to feel the air against his skin no matter how cold it was. His skin was damp from the trek back to the school; he peeled off his shirt and put on a fresh, warmer one that he'd had lying by the little stove in the center of the dorm.
The packages he hid in the secret compartment of his trunk, and warded it off with the most powerful guarding spells he knew. He settled onto his bed, warm and strangely peaceful, but within minutes he was up again and tore the items from his trunk, convinced that it was the stupidest place to hide anything important. It didn't matter that no one ever looked through his things. It happened to everyone else, even Blaise, but never to him, but that was no comfort.
He pictured Potter with his accusing eyes, remembered that damned cloak. He had a penchant for nosing around, and Draco would be damned if he was the one who brought light to his intentions. The lid of his trunk hung wide open, like the unhinged jaw of a serpent preparing to consume its prey.
This would be the first place anyone would look.
The items looked innocent enough. Perhaps not the wine, but it wasn't exactly a secret that students smuggled alcohol into the school. What was another bottle of wine? He was tempted to take some to let it all be over with, but knew he couldn't. The necklace, if found, he could claim was a birthday present for Pansy. Though it was really grand looking and people might think he was in love with her, it would keep them from seeing anything suspicious about it.
They can think what they want, as long as they don't touch it.
It was a risk, hiding them here. So out in the open, and what if someone didn't believe him? What if further investigation were called down? No, he couldn't leave them like that, and though he had his lies ready he preferred not to drag Pansy into it.
His head pounded with the force of a church bell. His head was the bell tower, empty and full of the aftershocks of the heavy swings.
Draco looked out the window. The sun hadn't even begun to set yet, but he'd begun to perspire as if he could already hear the others climbing up the steps that led to their dorm. He looked around, and his eyes landed on a letter he'd received that morning. Since he so rarely went to breakfast lately his owl had begun bringing his post to his dorm. It was another letter from his mother. She'd written to say first and foremostly that she loved him, and missed him. He'd sent her a note of his intention to stay on campus during the holiday, and she wished he would come home, but understood his wanting to focus on his schoolwork. It was not the reason he'd given her. He actually hadn't given any reason, but understood her message: stay where you are.
The wide open mouth of the trunk stared at him. Inside were books and clothing, miscellaneous items. His Quidditch gear. When was the last time he'd worn it?
It happened too quickly-he'd reached in to take the bottle and the necklace out, and reeled back, gasping, as the lid swung down viciously.
He stared at it in shock, his hand still in the air.
It had teeth!
Not now, not anymore-he blinked hard. Once. Twice.
It's only a trunk.
But when he'd reached for it he'd seen the teeth, blurring into streaks as the fangs had made a lunge for his arm.
They were gone now-they'd never existed-but what he saw had looked so real.
It wasn't real.
Draco reached back into the trunk, holding his breath, and this time nothing happened. He suppressed a shiver. Forcing himself to move slowly, so as not to admit fear, he took the wine and the necklace back out.
I'm losing my mind.
It didn't mean anything. Everyone saw things from time to time, and frankly it was to be expected when living on such a fucked up sleep schedule.
The soft, familiar voice reared up again, like a mother's whisper in his ear.
Throw them out the window. Destroy them. Tell someone. Anyone.
The bottle of wine was cold against his skin.
I can't. He'll kill me.
What if someone could help you?
Draco's eyes burned.
No one can help me.
His left arm began to burn. Draco grit his teeth and pretended it was just the heat of the sun coming in from the window.
Someone could help.
Who? Numerous faces flashed in his mind's eye. Who would ever want to help me?
An idea struck him, and he rushed to his bed and dropped the items onto it. Consumed in his task, and forgetting he was capable of magic, grabbed his bed by the end and dragged it away from the wall. The task was harder than it normally would have been; he'd lost weight and his muscles were weak; it had been too long since he'd last trained, and his lack of sleep and malnutrition only contributed to his poor state of being.
No one. Can't let anyone know.
He picked up his wand and knelt on the floor, feeling around for a loose floorboard. The one he found was only slightly loose, but he used his wand to separate it from the rest. He picked up the items again, more carefully this time, and deposited them into the dark space.
The voice returned.
Not even Pansy?
When he was done he pushed his bed back into place and sat down, massaging his temples in a vain attempt to relieve his headache. The bell tower stood cold, empty. A draft blew through. The bell had gone quiet.
Not even her.
It felt like he was outside of himself. It was so strange, and he was aware of his being irrational, but could do nothing to fix it.
Of course he could tell Pansy. He knew he should. But it felt impossible, and he wasn't quite sure why.
Oh, yes you do.
Draco looked down at his hands.
Red hands. Red hands. I can't take it back.
There it was—he gripped his head in both hands—the images were flooding back and he'd only just managed to calm down again. He forced himself to think of nothing, even when they pressed on, insistent, on the inside of his eyelids.
No.
Blank eyes. A limp, bloodied hand lying in shallow water.
He opened his eyes, breathing heavily.
You need help, the voice repeated.
I can't do this.
But you've done it before, said another voice in the back of his mind, tinged with malice. And you'll do it again.
Draco flinched. Red hands. Dead eyes.
I'm going to die.
Suddenly he couldn't stand to be there any longer. He grabbed his coat and left the room, walking as fast as his legs could carry him. It wasn't until he reached the Owlery that he realized there was someone up there.
A year ago he'd have gone up anyhow without a care and gone about his business. Now, he lingered around the top steps, where there was a curve in the wall of the tower so whoever was up there couldn't see him, but he could see them.
It's her. It's always her.
He was glad he hadn't gone all the way up, then. She stood with her back to him, facing the sunless, cloudy sky. An owl had just flown off, a thick envelope held between its talons. She had her arms around herself and for the strangest reason he had the absurd urge to stay there and watch her a little longer but apprehensive of her threats and of being seen, he went silently back down the steps and hid in a nearby alcove. He shrank into the shadows there, mind carefully blank of any thought until the sound of her footsteps cut through, growing louder and louder and when they passed, he allowed one more minute to pass, and then went up the cold tower, trying not to think about to whom her letter might have gone.
The cold bit into his skin and stung his face but he hardly felt it. It was beginning to snow. The dark grounds below were instantly obscured by the lacy sheets of white, as if they were nothing but miles long streams of wisteria hanging down from the heavens. The view was stunningly beautiful from that height; how it fell heavily from above was such a peaceful sight he felt himself relax almost immediately. The owls hooted softly above him but he didn't hear it—there was only the soft rush of snow falling.
Even through the peace he was aware that it might not last—that it could flee at any instant. He found himself almost suspicious of it. Wet, icy flakes of snow stuck to him and melted in place, leaving damp spots all along his coat and face, but he didn't want to move. Not when everything was still.
He was used to the quiet. There were so many different kinds, but of late the only kind he knew was the maddening type, the type that followed him to bed and kept him from sleeping because all he could hear was the whispers in his head. The doubt. The fear.
But here, now, his mind had gone quiet. It felt like floating on water. It was such a great relief that his eyes smarted at it, the calm. He let his eyes close, let the snow fall on him, and tried to sleep.
