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Draco finished counting the cracks in the crumbling ceiling above him for the fifth time, before looking down to examine his nails, which of course, were perfectly manicured. If his father saw those cracks in the ceiling, he would have a hemorrhage! Hogwarts wouldn't stand a chance against his wrath, he thought boredly.

History of Magic was a complete drag. I mean, who in their right minds would actually willingly sit through one of Professor Binns lectures on the Goblin's Rebellion of 1418.

An image of an eager puffy haired Granger popped into his brain. Yes, of course she would, the little bookworm. But she is not in her right mind anyway. Hell, she does not even a person, so that does not in anyway count in the tally, Draco thought smugly.

What had happened last night? Her reaction the previous night did not allot him sufficient information to make her life more miserable than it was. Evidently her life was pretty dang pathetic if she had to go and cut herself first night back from Hogwarts. Or morning should he say. He knew not the exact time, but he did know it was past three a.m. or so. Why was Miss. Perfect out of bed after dark. He pegged her as the sort to turn in at seven p.m. or so.

His mind flashed back to what he had said to her on the carriage ride to Hogwarts. "It would have been easier had you bloody bled to death this summer, paper-cutting yourself to death when you read one of your stupid books."

To be frank, he could care less if the girl caused herself bodily harm. But in all honesty, it confused him. And Draco Malfoy did not like being confused.

Granger wasn't a stupid girl. Well, not completely stupid. What would cause her to be so utterly pissed off that she resorted to cutting herself. Her life seemed to be fine, as pathetic as it was. She could usually be found skipping about the castle, Potty and Weasel in tow, with a sickening smile spread across her features. And don't forget the books, he thought. There were always books!

Why hadn't the pumpkin and scar head noticed a change in her behavior. Or at least the cuts on her arms? Were they really that thick? Of course they bloody were! They probably had thicker sculls than Crabbe and Goyle. Draco resorted to looking more closely at her arms next time they shared a class. Not that he cared or anything. He just wanted more proof to make fun of her with.

Draco pulled out his schedule, skimming down the list of classes beneath Monday. Care for Magical Creatures. His next class. He couldn't decide whether or not he was excited to go to his next class or not. He despised the bushy haired girl and her imbecilic toad-brained friends. The the prospect of annoying her was quite alluring.

When Draco recalled first making fun of her, he did it only to set her place; because she annoyed him to no end just with her existence. Well, she still did. But now, he had to admit, it had become rather entertaining to watch her struggle under his humiliating and derogative comments.

Next class would only give him more ammunition to up his entertainment for the rest of his life. He would never let it go.

He yawned loudly, not bothering to cover his mouth as he kicked his feet up, resting them easily atop his desk. He placed his hands behind his head and began to watch Professor Binns as his professor floated around the front of the room, as if on tracks.

The ghost looked up upon hearing the yawn erupt in his class, not missing a beat in his lecture. He continued to speak as he glared at the blonde boy whose feet were resting on the shining oak desk in the back left corner of the room. It was evident that the ghost was more than used to the idea that no one really wanted to be in his class because he did not press the issue. He merely continued to float about the room, seeming to be caught in his own trance of his own words.

He was like a bloody record, thought Draco. If only he could fast forward through the parts he deemed boring and useless. This class was useless his thoughts countered. Where could he actually apply this information? Where could he apply the information he learned in any of his classes? It was too simplistic. So elementary in fact, that half the time Draco felt sick to his stomach or his brain actually began to ache at the prospect of having to relearn all of the knowledge he had obtained years ago.

He had already learned all this information from the many lectures his father forced upon him, his little chats with his mother, grandparents or other relatives. As well, he absorbed a great deal of information on his own from the countless times he contented himself with reading away many afternoons he was left alone in Malfoy Manor.

The extensive library found in Hogwarts was absolutely nothing in comparison to the library at the manor; a mere page, no, a mere smudge in a full book of information. In addition, the majority of the books had either gone out of print or were one of a kind. For this reason, even one book in the manor would be worth the value of the entire library at Hogwarts. A bookworm's paradise. Though Draco would admit it to no one, he loved books.

Draco slid his hands into the pockets of his Slytherin robes and repositions his legs in front of him. Absentmindedly, his long pale fingers slowly stroked the smooth length of his hawthorn wood wand lovingly.

As he continued his caress, his fingers brushed against another piece of wood, not belonging to his wand. Curious, his fingers closed easily around the thin oval piece and pulled it into view. Draco immediately recognized it as the piece of wood he had stepped on in the hallway of the Hogwarts Express.

It was made of a light weight wood material that he had never seen before. So light in fact, that he questioned whether or not it really was wood. On its pale, flat surface, a hand painted design glistened.

The image glistening on the surface was of, what Draco assumed, a very peculiar looking...tree? The stump was long, thin and ragged, and bent slightly under the weight of wide array of thick foliage painted in vibrant green shades sprouting from the top. They appeared to be blowing in the breeze, but the leaves did not move. Why didn't they move? The whole scene on the piece of wood seemed to remain trapped in that one moment of time. Frozen. It puzzled him.

Draco pulled his wand from his pocket and pointed it at the image, tapped it, expecting it to move, to do something. It did no such thing. Frustrated, he slid his wand back into his pocket and resumed staring at the bright scene depicted.

In the distance, he saw clear, sparkling blue water rippled by the waves washing over a sandy beach, and high in the cloudless sky, he noted a war, sun shining brilliantly.

In small slanted letters in the bottom left corner, Draco studied the black paint that had curled into the funny letters. He lifted his index finger to trace the script Dominican Republic? What in Merlins name was a Dominican Republic?

"What have we got there Mr. Malfoy?" a voice asked quietly from behind him. Draco jumped, nearly dropping the object in his hand. Professor Dumbledore.

Draco looked around and noticed, to his dismay, that the classroom was empty and Professor Binns was also missing. Class must have ended without his notice.

"Nothing Professor," Draco said stiffly, standing to leave.

"It was not my intention to startle you Mr. Malfoy, I was merely wandering the halls and happened upon you sitting alone in an empty classroom," Dumbledore waved his hand to point out the empty desks. When he did not reply, the bearded professor bowed his head slightly and looked over his half moon spectacles. "Is something troubling you Mr. Malfoy?" he questioned softly.

Draco didn't reply and continued to glare at his headmaster, his mouth forming a harsh line across his pail face. Dumbledore nodded, seeming not to notice and turned away. "Very well. You best be off to class young man. I doubt that Hagrid will be pleased if you are late for his class."

"I don't even know what it is so it doesn't matter," Draco replied quietly, answering the first question that Dumbledore had asked him moments before. He asked the question more so to himself than his professors retreating form, but regardless, his headmaster paused in the doorway leading into the corridor, placing a long, veiny, withered hand on the frame.

"That picture of the Dominican does not do the country justice." Draco stood swiftly and walked toward the exit of the classroom in the direction of his headmaster's retreat.

So Dominican Republic was a place, pondered Draco. A beautiful place. With unusual trees and sunny beaches.

Dumbledore turned his gaze back to Draco, his eyes sparkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "Don't look so surprised Mr. Malfoy."

The pair walked slowly into the empty corridor.

"Why have I not heard of it?" Draco eyed him suspiciously, walking past several classes that were still in session. The break between classes gave Draco enough time to walk to his next class without the bother of being late. Not that he actually cared about being late. At least his next class Care for Magical Creatures was outdoors. If he had to sit through another lecture inside the pathetic school, he thought his head would explode. Though listening to the giant oaf Hagrid grunt about something unimportant for an entire period just might prove to induce the same result.

"I wish I could stay and chat, but I must find Professor Snape, I have some matters to discuss with him. Why don't you have a little chat with Professor Burbage. Perhaps she could clear up some of your questions." Dumbledore turned to leave but stopped. "Oh and whilst I am here, how could I forget. I intended to send you a message in tomorrow morning's post, but seeing as I happened upon you so...unexpectedly," Dumbledore smiled lightly, "I may as well use this perfect opportunity to invite you to my office. I would very much like you to join me for tea tomorrow evening?Possibly around seven-thirty or so? Give Hagrid my regards." The headmaster did not wait for a reply, and turned his back to Draco, who's face was etched with confusion.

Give Hagrid his regards? How did he know what class he had next? He was certain he did not mention it. Occlumency was the only other option, and he had been sure to close his mind as his father had taught him to the moment Dumbledore looked into his eyes.

This had been a peculiar morning. First, the piece of wood. It was just a simple item yet he felt oddly fascinated with it, and for the life of him, he could not deduce why. The image remained stationary, another point that he found rather strange. Eery almost.

But what really troubled him to no end, was that he could not figure out the purpose of this small piece of wood. Why was it produced. Whose was it?

Draco massaged his temples. Why did he even care? He moaned internally, his brain now hurting from the sudden jolt of lack of brain activity to the sudden surge. It shouldn't even matter. He was above all of these pointless questions.

The arrival of his headmaster was another strange occurrence. And even stranger was his knowledge of Dominican. And then his invitation to tea? Never, through the many years he attended Hogwarts had Dumbledore invited him to tea. That should have been Potty, his favourite little student that sat and ate sugar sprinkled butter biscuits, sucking up to the old man.

When he was called to Dumbledore's office, though it was a rarity, it was always for wrong doings done on his part. Usually he was able to remain clear of being reprimanded - the students were to frightened to tattle on him to their professors.

Draco chuckled at the thought. 'And so they should be!'

Should he take the old bat's advice and seek out Burbage? Draco shuddered. Burbage. Burbage! What good would finding the professor of Muggle Studies be able to help him? That lady was short of a brick she was.

He had, more than once, caught her singing and dancing her way down the hallway without a care in the world. She was almost as much of a nutter as Trelawney. That comparison said enough. And her odd fascination with the dirty muggles and their repulsive way of life revolted him. No. He didn't care anyway. It was just a stupid chunk of wood.

All the same, he slipped the piece of wood back into his pocket and continued walking down the corridor toward the Slytherin common room, absentmindedly smoothing his thumb over its glossy surface. Yeah. It was just a stupid chunk of wood.

Just a stupid chunk of wood eh Draco? We will see about that...

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At that moment, Hermione wanted nothing more than to take the knife from Hagrid and run it though his throat. He thought that she was physically causing herself pain! That the primary reason for her late night excursion to the prefect bathroom was to slit her writs! How dare he!