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Blowing Smoke
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It's amazing how much can change in five days.
"You alright in there, 'Mione?" Harry murmurs from behind his butterbeer, eyes shifting to the direction she's sitting in. Even though he's wearing his signature spectacles, no lenses could ever hope to reveal her from the cloak she's huddled under.
In response she takes a loud slurp of her own butterbeer, drawing a snort from Harry. In the process, he accidentally inhales some of his drink and splutters loud enough to draw some heads of the villagers crowded in the pub. The residents of Hogsmeade are used to the antics of Hogwarts students, primarily on the weekends, so most roll their eyes and resume their conversations. As Harry beats his chest with his fist, Hermione struggles to hold back her giggles. She watches Madam Rosmerta bounce towards their table, a deep, rich, spicy sort of cloud following her.
She gives Harry a slap on the back, making him go pinker than he already is. "You'll get there!" she hollers, grinning with the roaring approval of some older wizards occupying a table nearby. "Would you like another?"
Whether it's because he wants some more fake alcohol or due to the fact that he's feeling a dumb sort of masculinity pressure, Harry orders another two butterbeers.
"You'll have another one, eh?" he asks. Hermione rolls her eyes, even though he can't see. It's good to see him back to normal again, on his feet and zipping around on his broom whenever he gets the chance. She's about to tease him about not being able to hold his liquor until the way he stiffens draws her attention to the direction his eyes are pinned on.
She rolls her eyes again.
On a table diagonal to them, Cho Chang has taken a seat with her friends. Ravenclaws have been the least aggressive to her in term of 'stealing Diggory's glory', but one of the girls who's next to Cho, the blonde one with a bob — who is the only one of her friends sporting a 'Granger's a Thief' badge on her cloak — still takes a great amount of pleasure out of calling out a taunt or two towards Hermione whenever she passes her in the corridors.
Krum had warned her about the taloned woman, and boy did Skeeter deliver.
But that's not the point — they can't see her. What they could see, if they decided to shift their gaze a few centimeters to the right, is Harry gawking like an idiot, on his own, with three butterbeers on his table.
From under the cloak, Hermione elbows him; he jerks, glaring at the spot she's sitting on with furrowed brows. "Seriously, Harry?"
"What?"
"Just talk to her." She raises her eyebrows with each darker shade of pink Harry goes.
"I dunno what you're on about," he mutters, now looking very interested in his three drinks.
Hermione scoffs. "Come off it."
The corner of his lips twitches upwards. "Nope. No idea."
Scoffing again, she still decides to let it go. She lets Harry sneak glances in Chang's direction, swirling the amber liquid of her butterbeer in the glass on her lap. There's never really been a moment in her life where she's needed to be invisible… apart from the time she accidentally put a cat's fur into her Polyjuice potion instead of Millicent Bulstrode's. Though, she's never really been normal either. Even if she wasn't a champion, she would be outside of this cloak, with both Harry and Ron, and the pair would be nattering on about Quidditch while they laugh indulgently at her S.P.E.W campaign. Which would be funny, if her campaign had been a joke.
Nobody takes her seriously. The nerdy bookworm teacher's pet. Bit of a priss. Not the cool, 'popular' girl movie trope that literally every Muggle girl aspires to be. Yet another similarity between the two worlds.
She's well aware that she should be preoccupied with more pressing matters — such as the first task looming way too close ahead. But it's not the first time she's put her mind into completely irrelevant topics. And taloned reporters can bring out the worst in people.
At least, Hermione's not the only one who's been 'exposed'.
She can't help but smirk at the image of Malfoy, skulking alone in the corridors, an outcast even in his own House.
Nor can she forget the confused grin on Harry's face as his eyes travelled lower and lower on the article. Even when his cheeks went pink with sentances like: 'Hermione is in a deeply passionate relationship with an adoring Harry Potter', he had still laughed at the highlights of her lies. "I'm not surprised I'm a feature, but what's she been digging for Malfoy?"
"I dunno," Hermione had lied, and really it was half truthful. Whatever that woman's sources were, she's extremely talented at stalking her victims; then she obviously stretches the truth beyond recognition. Or maybe Hermione hasn't spent long enough in the Wizarding World yet. What she does know is that Krum only got a feature as her potential third love interest (a droll contrast to Harry's perfectness and Malfoy's 'troubled' nature) , Delacour was mentioned briefly with a misspelled name and Diggory wasn't referenced at all. The tournament had as much relevance in Skeeter's article as the Hufflepuff Champion did.
The fact that this woman is still getting paid speaks volumes about the Daily Prophet's priorities. Ancient tournament or teen drama? Apparently the latter is the one that brings in the Galleons. Well she supposes anything that involves 'Potter' and even 'Malfoy' would, a combination of fame and controversy that can fire up gossip in dispassionate Ministry offices; unfortunately for Skeeter, neither of those names are associated with the tournament, so she essentially improvised an entirely new story.
"Huh," says Harry, drawing her out of her thoughts. She drags her stare from the butterbeer on her lap to Harry. "It's Hagrid." Following his gaze, she catches sight of the unmistakable tall, large form of Hagrid, with his shaggy head bending down slightly. As he leans low and disappears in the crowds of heads, Hermione's eyes hover over his table (where he has his usual large tankard) to his companion, Professor Moody. An interesting duo but she supposes Moody would have plenty of tales of dangerous magical creatures to keep her friend entertained.
Moody's guzzling out of that hip-flask he always has, much to the disdain of Madam Rosmerta, who shoots him insulted looks every time she passes his and Hagrid's table. Anyone from his defense against the dark arts class could identify his rudeness as that constant vigilance he's always growling about. Nobody can poison food or drink that's been prepared by oneself.
Hagrid gives a few more words to Moody, before taking another hefty swig out of his tankard. It re-greets the table with a clang she can hear from where she and Harry are sitting, even over the buzzing of the Three Broomsticks crowd. As Hagrid and Moody get up to make for the door, Harry raises his arm and waves.
Hagrid's beetle eyes turn and a large beam emerges. Moody, however, has his magical eye pinpointed exactly where Hermione is sitting. Just for the fun of it, she gives him a sarcastic wave; her heart skips a beat at his wonky grin. He mutters something to Hagrid, who's eyebrows twitch before he approaches the table. Moody hobbles after him. Playing games with a dog that hasn't been trained seems rather dangerous, but Hermione's been lacking common sense of late, dodging the eyes that have been exposed to Skeeter's article and she's got a task with some wacky creature coming up ahead so honestly she doesn't think it can get worse than it already is.
"Alrigh' Harry?" Hagrid bellows, making some of Chang's friends, including blondie, to wrinkle their noses in their direction.
Her best friend responds animatedly, but she's too preoccupied with Moody to listen in. If she wasn't sure before, she's certain now he can see her; he limps around the table and bends over it, bulbous blue-eye twitching upwards slightly. "Nice cloak, Granger," he mutters, baring those crooked teeth in another grin while confirming her suspicions. .
"Thanks," she says casually, staring at the large chunk of his nose that's missing. Her palms start to sweat slightly at the way he barks a laugh. If there's one thing Hermione most certainly doesn't enjoy, it is unpredictability. The fact that she's not getting some sort of idea for what to study for the first task is literally killing her; Harry had to drag her all the way to Hogsmeade from her swimming pool of books in a nice isolated corner of the library and the only reason she'd agreed was when he'd tempted her with the invisibility cloak, some butterbeer and sweets from Honeydukes.
"This," Moody says, tapping the area surrounding his magical eye, "has been very useful, I can tell you."
Hermione imagines some criminal hiding, thinking they are safe, not knowing Moody's watching them trembling in some shadowy corner from the other side of a wall. It takes a lot of effort to not shudder at the thought, criminal or not.
Now Hagrid leans over the table, too, and whispers, very low, "Hermione, meet me in my cabin, at midnight and wear that cloak." With that, he straightens up, looks down at the butterbeers and chuckles. "Blimey, Harry, you should calm down a little." Even as Harry laughs and waves them goodbye, he is now a record-breaking pink — Hagrid had gone from extremely quiet to extremely loud, and now Chang and her friends are goggling Harry, a few giggling.
His mind elsewhere, it leaves Hermione alone with her thoughts as she tries to figure out what on Earth Hagrid wants her to go to his cabin at midnight for.
It's only when the stupid Ravenclaws leave the pub that Hermione can get him to snap out of it. They leave soon after, Harry offering his untouched butterbeer glasses to a pair of warlocks who are playing a game of wizard's chess. Hermione decides she no longer has the appetite for sugary snacks, so waits impatiently outside of Honeydukes under the cloak until Harry comes out with a bag of sweets. God knows how he'd finished all his get well gifts in the span of less than a week —.she suspects Ron had something to do with it, but the thought of him brings a pang in her stomach so she stops dwelling on the matter.
"He's up to something mental, I'm telling you," Harry says through a mouthful of chocolate frogs, as they trudge up a hill on the path back towards Hogwarts.
"Another terrifying pet, I suppose." Hermione sighs.
Harry snickers at that. "Nah, 'Mione, he'd make sure you, me and Ron would —" he pauses mid-sentence, grin faltering. She smiles wryly as that pang returns.
"Yeah, he'd make sure all of us would be there to see his pet dementor." There's a small chuckle from Harry, but after that they trudge off in relative silence.
With each breath exhale, Hermione watches the mist billowing from Harry's mouth like a dragon's yawn. "You guys haven't had any time to talk?"
Hermione scoffs at that.
Harry leaves it at that.
That night, he lets her keep the cloak and even opens the portrait hall of the common room so that she can get out without drawing any suspicion, or, more likely, unwanted attention, from people slumped on the sofas beside the crackling fire. There's the Creevey brothers sitting in a corner with a pile of 'Granger's a Thief' badges, attempting to change the message, it would seem; as soon as they catch sight of Harry in the portrait hall, though, they leap to their feet and hurtle towards him, Colin already clutching his camera in his hands. With a whispered, somewhat apologetic, "Thanks," Hermione makes her escape, slowing down on the stone staircases as she's in no particular hurry. Whatever it is Hagrid has to show can't be any good.
When she's on the grounds, though, the chill persuades her to speed up her pace across to Hagrid's cabin. The grounds are bathed in moonlight, but it's the only part where there's a warm shining glow spilling from the hut's windows, illuminating the nearby, enormous Beauxbatons carriage. When she reaches his cabin, she knocks on the door, making out the heavy voice of Madame Maxine from the carriage several feet away.
"Yer o'er there, Hermione?" Hagrid mutters once he opens the door.
"Yeah," Hermione replies, pulling the cloak over her head as she slips into the cabin. It immediately engulfs her in its familiar stuffy warmth. "What's up?"
"Got somethin' to show yer," says Hagrid, eyes gleaming with excitement. There's a flower that looks like an artichoke pinned onto his large moleskin coat, and she resists the temptation to raise her brow. There's some broken comb teeth entangled in his hair; Hermione feels a surge of empathy, understanding full well the tyranny of untamable hair.
Even so, she wearily scans his cabin for any signs of creatures with stingers, claws or fangs. "Is it a new magical creature?" she asks, somewhat hopefully. If anything, she never wants to see a blast-ended skrewt in her life again.
"No, no!" Hagrid exclaims, as if appalled at the very prospect. Then, his voice lowers considerably. "Come with me, keep quiet, and keep yerself covered with that cloak. We won' take Fang… he won' like it." Hermione glances over to the hound curled up by the fire crackling in his tiny fireplace; the dog's massive, but he's a softie, so she's not sure something he 'won't like' is a bad thing or irrelevant.
As Hagrid yanks the door open, striding off into the night, Hermione scrambles to follow suit with his fast pace only to blunder to a halt when, to her surprise, he stops outside the Beauxbatons carriage. Mouth opened, Hermione's brows do raise this time when he knocks three times, answered by the imposing figure Maxine and her silk shawl.
With a smile, she asks, "Ah, 'Agrid, is it time?" while taking his hand to help her down the golden steps. Oh dear.
They start walking around the perimeter of the Forbidden Forest. Rather puzzled, Hermione follows as her mind races with what Hagrid's got to show. Whatever it is, it appears Maxine is also as oblivious as her, saying playfully: "So where is it that you are taking me, 'Agrid?"
"Yer'll enjoy this," he says gruffly, "worth seein' trust me, only, only, don't go roun' tellin' anyone I showed yer, yer not supposed ter know."
Maxine flutters her long lashes, purring, "Of course not." Hermione isn't sure if she should gag or scowl. She has half a mind to leave Hagrid to have his moonlit stroll with the Beauxbatons Headmaster. It's a shame that she never learned the lesson of curiosity killing the cat.
As the walk inches longer, the night colder, Hermione's irritability rises. Under her breath, she casts a warming charm so it's as if she's put on a heater in a car. It's only when the castle and the lake are out of sight that Hermione's ears catch the shouting of men up ahead. It's as she turns to its direction that a deafening roar nearly makes her trip over her own feet. Hagrid leads Maxine around a clump of trees, and Hermione scuttles forwards; she positions herself close to him, but not close enough for him to accidentally trample her.
When Hermione looks up, a blaze of flickering orange light scorches the indigo sky, dissipating into smoke that fades with the inky blanket above. She's numb, and even if she hadn't cast a warming charm it would have nothing to do with the cold.
As men dart around the enormous, lizard-like creatures, Hermione momentarily forgets how to breathe.
She has a terrible hunch as to why they're there. It doesn't exactly take a genius: four champions, an upcoming task, a tournament notorious for putting students in perilous situations. How Hagrid got the information is beyond her — but then again, he is the type of person to buy dragon eggs from sketchy people in shady pubs.
What she's gaping at right now, however, most certainly aren't dragon eggs.
It's one thing to expect something horrific; it's another to witness it with one's own eyes. What the judges for this tournament are going to get is a barbecue because Hermione's read about the kind of spells needed to handle a fully grown dragon and there's no way she's even capable of conjuring the simplest one, which is the one that makes the dragon feel like it's been pinched.
There's four of them, roaring and snorting, occasionally snapping at the wizards darting about on the ground. A green one is rearing on its hind legs, slamming its front feet to the ground with an almighty crash. There're at least thirty wizards attempting to control these four beasts with chains linked to the leather straps around their necks. Hermione whimpers at the thought of just one tiny, inexperienced student facing the billowing breath of the beasts.
Of the four dragons, though, only one has captured her attention so grippingly. It's black, with spikes all the way across its back, covering its malet-like tail, with two large horns protruding from its head. With its yellow eyes, it pauses its snarling when Hermione staggers backwards until she falls onto her backside; she gasps when its head snaps towards her. One of the men straining on its chain follows the direction of its stare and catches sight of Hagrid. He opens his mouth as if he's about to talk, but then, so does the dragon.
"Stun it!" he bellows, and not a second later so many red lights rocket towards the black dragon as a wisp of flame escapes its mouth, licking the fence where Hagrid, Maxine, and Hermione are a few feet away from. Its yellow eyes stay fixed on her, she's sure of it, her mind buzzing with the possibilities of a dragon being able to see through an invisibility cloak like Mad-Eye's eye. But then, the spells take effect, and the yellow rolls backwards as it loses balance and topples to the floor with an impact that makes the trees shudder.
Now, Hermione's breathing heavily. Stumbling to her feet, she takes several steps backwards as the men move to stun the other three to join their companion. Not daring to turn her back to the enclosure, Hermione starts skidding backwards faster and faster until she makes it past the clump of trees.
That's when she starts running.
The cloak sails over head, forcing her to snap her arm out to grab it before she loses it. Reintroduced to the relentless icy air of the night, Hermione's breath becomes more jagged as goosebumps erupt across her skin. They want her to fight that thing. Or one of those things. Or maybe they're particularly cruel and they're expected to fight all four of those things.
One stupefy, clearly, won't suffice. Dragon hides are thick, requiring quantity or power to penetrate it. Neither of which she will have.
Hermione hasn't noticed how quiet it's been until a scuffle from the Forest beyond makes her breath catch in her throat. As she whips her head to its direction, she trips over a tree root. Before she meets the ground, her hands fly out to break her fall; her wand and Harry's cloak slips out of her grip. Breathing in the damp, decayed leaves, Hermione bites her lower lip as her hands start to sting.
Snap.
Her heart starts banging against her ribcage as her eyes dart back to the opening of the Forest. All the rickety trees cling to each other, casting shadows over an expanse she can't make out without light. Of course, she's being paranoid. After what she'd just worked out… who wouldn't be? Next they'd unleash a pack of zombies into the arena. Maybe throw in a few vampires too.
Her arm stretches out, and she hisses slightly as the icy air kisses her stinging skin. Blindly, she tries to find her wand with her hand without taking her eyes from the rim of the Forest, paranoia and all.
There's another snap of a twig, and she freezes.
For one mad moment, she expects a zombie to stagger forward.
What ripples out of the shadows makes her blood run cold.
First, a large snout emerges, twitching sharply, accompanied by a slight snarl. The two yellow orbs that had been hovering above it are next, glinting like dull crystals in the moonlight. As it pads forwards, its hunched back is bathed under the moonlight; its haunches ripple with the prospect of pouncing. Its eyes are fixed on her.
Her eyes are fixed on the frothing of its mouth. Foam climbs down its fangs like a python on a ten-foot tree.
She wishes it was a zombie instead.
The image of Lupin howling to the moon is still ingrained into her mind. But this werewolf? It's smaller, more rabid looking… hungrier. Its large tongue swipes over the foam, and she's seen that look before.
It's the same way Crookshanks focuses on an insect before he pounces.
What a fine midnight snack she'll make.
...
It smells like he's been drowned in blood.
The sharp light pierces his eyes, and he blinks rapidly to try to understand where he is. In his blindness, Draco fails to stagger to his feet, and instead remains on all fours. Bile bubbles up his throat and he heaves onto the ground, the warm liquid piling around his hands doing nothing to mask that Merlin forsaken scent. His chest half wracked with compulsive heaves and erratic sobs, his eyesight slowly fades back to normalcy.
Apart from the disgusting mess of his hands, his vision greets brown, dead leaves and twigs. Slowly, his eyes travel upwards, from lines and lines of conjoined trees to a thick canopy above. The only opening is a hole, a few feet away from where he's crouched now. Draco stumbles to his feet, not even wincing when a sharp twig pierces the sole of his right foot. It's only now does he notice the chilling air that's settled on his skin — and only now that he realizes he's stark naked.
It dawns on him what's happened.
Fury races with his heart. It's never happened before. Not once. He'd gone to extremely vigorous measures to avoid it ever happening, even though, logically, he knew that was impossible. But then that Mudblood had to go and ruin it.
Blood.
Salazar's Grave.
Frantically, Draco checks his skin for any sign of scarlet; all he sees across the pale expanse is paler hairs sticking up in the cold. What in Merlin's name is that smell, then?
Perhaps something went hunting in the forest last night and left a carcass.
From textbooks, he knows he will never remember his prowling nights — but he has a hunch that the creature that's latched itself onto his body didn't go hunting last night. He'd be able to taste it in the crevices of his teeth if that was the case. Taking a few calm breaths while running his hand over his face, Draco then peers around the opening he'd woken up in.
He blinks. Then once more. For good measure, he does so for a third time. It's no imagination. The trail of paw prints leading away from where he'd presumably woken up, stop at the foot of a chunky, large tree. On the bark, some runes are scratched — furrowing his brows, Draco hesitantly shadows his paw prints up to the tree and scans the runes. It's nothing that he can recognize, but he knows it's not a human's doing. Glancing at his now human fingernails, he runs his tongue over his dry, numb lips.
Like every night claimed by the full moon, he had left his wand in his dormitory and huddled deep in the Forbidden Forest, watching the glow of the moon bleed through the canopy of trees. If he can get his wand, or even some parchment and quills, he can copy out the runes and do some research. Draco brushes the runes with his fingertips — he hisses, drawing his hand back at the burning under his skin.
A distant pounding makes his ears prick. Narrowing his eyes, he circles the clearing with his head as the rhythmic thuds grow louder. Draco narrows in his stare to the exact direction it's coming from — just over his left shoulder, that ugly scar glaring up at him in his peripheral vision — and he bares his teeth slightly, even though his bare palms are sweating with his rapid heartbeat. Hooves. It's either horses, hippogriffs, or centaurs.
As Merlin would have it, it's the spear wielding creatures that come trotting into the clearing, spilling out to form a circle around Draco. That iron scent is stronger than ever; his eyes dart over the ones carrying scaly limbs, bloody clumps of flesh or fractured bones longer than his own height. He snarls slightly, knowing full well he's a wandless, completely naked, shivering, fourteen-year-old boy without the fangs and claws from his parasite. They have powerful legs that can outrun his, hooves that can battle the forest ground, torsos and arms that could crush his skull. The centaurs merely regard him in a disinterested manner, bows slung over their shoulders and tips of their spears sinking into the damp Earth.
"You've had a difficult night, young human," the centaur directly facing him, with a deep, thick voice, says. Draco simply scowls in response. Filthy creature. "But you should expect to face much worse."
Draco sneers. "Get away from me," he advises, standing with a straight back, nose in the air, despite his current state. The centaur regards him silently for a little while longer, as if it can hear the way his heart attempts to escape his ribcage. In that time Draco listens to the scuffling of thousands of birds in the vicinity he can hear, some tweeting feebly in the watery morning sunlight, while he fights his body from shuddering under the icy air. When the centaur next opens his mouth, he speaks something that Draco cannot understand — he suspects they have a native tongue.
The sudden trampling of multiple hooves startles him, and instinctively he curls up into a ball.
Most of them thump away, out of the clearing, the reek of blood gradually fading; but the musky scent of the one that has spoken is still strong in the air. There's a horrible tearing sound — Draco leaps up from his defensive position onto his feet, gasping ferally. The centaur's arm is extended. His eyes follow the length of the arm to where he clutches a pelt in his human-like hand. Disdainfully, Draco's eyes move from the pelt to the centaur's face, but in the end he chooses self-preservation over pride. Once he wraps it around himself, he flutters his eyes closed at the warmth that engulfs him, giving him a relief that makes him momentarily forget his entire situation.
The centaur's voice breaks him out of his temporary bliss. "My people and I are skilled at reading the stars." Cracking one eye open, he takes in the sight of the centaur staring up at the sky like it's a gift from Merlin. Then, his head tilts down to the ground. Draco follows suit, catching sight of his paw prints in the ground. Nausea bubbles in the pit of his gut.
With a sigh, the centaur gazes lovingly over the trees of the forest. "We make it our mission to protect our land — hence, all of the runes we carve into our trees." Glancing once at the chunky, gnarly tree his paw prints ends at, indignation rises in his chest as the echo of the burn tingles on his fingertips.
"But these aren't your trees." The centaur's haughty face turns back into his direction, and a drop of sweat crawls down Draco's neck as his eyes travel over the rippling torso, the quivering bow.
He merely gives a cool nod. "It is not my business to convince a human of what is right or wrong." The Malfoy heir narrows his eyes, but says nothing further; it's not his business to do the same for a centaur. "I hope your journey will let you learn, Draco Malfoy."
Jaw slackening, he watches as the centaur gives a parting nod and gallops away into the dense line of trees. His eyes drag towards the rune as the thudding of hooves on a damp, decaying floor fade into the awakening life of the forest. Wrapping the pelt more tightly around himself, Draco lets out a shaky breath and watches it billow out like smoke.
It's not hard to find his way back. The musty dampness of the forest is distinguishable — Hogwarts is a mess of scents, an obnoxious array of good and bad trails for his nostrils to follow. Once he reaches the tree line, he keeps himself half-hidden behind a trunk. Up ahead, the grounds are relatively empty; only the Beauxbatons Headmaster and her most prized student are zipping up the hill of the frosted grass, towards the castle.
Despite their distance, he can make out their voices like the wisp of the wind. They're speaking rapidly in their native tongue. His mother has tried so hard to get him to learn French, and he supposes some of her efforts pulled through, because he recognizes "already a mess" before something else catches his attention.
That oaf of a teacher has shoved the door open to his cabin, chuckling as an ugly brute of a hound comes bounding out, its jowls quivering and snout twitching. Following its movements with his eyes, Draco tenses as its head moves into the direction of the trees, wet nose twitching. Hagrid has already started ambling after the Beauxbatons duo, though, and yells over his shoulder, "C'mon, Fang!"
Thank Merlin the dog is as stupid as it looks, giving a small bark before trotting after the oaf, tail wagging all the way.
Draco hasn't noticed the way his toenails have been digging into the dirt until he looks down and catches sight of it trapped in his toes.
Cautiously, he steps out of the tree line… he might not be naked, but having a half-ripped pelt wrapped around him like a shawl isn't exactly the most normal state to be caught in. Not to mention the fact that, as of late, he's been doing his utmost best to keep himself as scarce as possible. Being seen like this certainly wouldn't do him any favours. He'd written to his Father the moment he set eyes on that wretched article, and not a few hours later his Father's response came with a promise to sort that Skeeter woman out.
After casting a wary glance at the Beauxbatons carriage, which seems to be as sleepy as the castle up ahead and the forest behind him, Draco quickly pads up the hill. His bare feet go numb as they crunch up the frozen grass, and even with the pelt he begins to start shivering again. When he reaches the Entrance Hall, he waits a few seconds to detect any laughing or grumbling or nattering or silent footsteps coming in his direction — when the only thing he hears is Filch sneezing on the second floor, Draco bolts for the dungeons.
His feet slap against the stone, echoing in the empty hallways. A few portraits grumble in their sleep as he passes them. The Grey Lady floats through a wall, down the hallway past him, her face as sullen as ever and not sparing a glance in his direction. Draco, for the first time in his life, wishes that's how everyone would treat him.
Finally, Draco stops outside the stone wall to his common room. His mouth opens to utter the password, but then his ears twitch; there's voices inside. Under his breath he swears, clenching his fist into the pelt as he tries to figure out a solution. Solutions are very hard without a wand.
"Of course she's lying!" Pansy. Furrowing his brow, Draco strains his ears slightly.
Theo's chuckle follows. If Draco knows him well enough, he's shaking his head at her. "Have you seen the way he's been acting lately, though?"
Draco tenses. This isn't the first time he's eavesdropped on their conversations from behind walls, especially when their topic is himself.
"Yeah," Pansy says, "but it's not like, he's gone completely barmy or anything."
Dramatically, Theo clears his throat, adopting a high-pitched tone: "Young Mr Malfoy appears to be struggling with some internal issues—"
Pansy scoffs at the same time Draco glares at the wall. "You can say that about anyone—"
"He engages in self-harming acts, being caught in the bathroom slamming his head against a mirror—" When Draco had read that part — the article first shoved under his nose in a quiet corridor by a jeering Cormac McLaggen and his fellow Gryffindor Fifth-year idiots, the morning of its release — his blood turned to ice in his veins. He's been skipping potions lessons ever since and has been ducking away from Snape every time his traitorous godfather tries to intercept him in the hallways or in the Great Hall. They both know there's only two people who know of the mirror incident, and Draco certainly didn't go blabbing to Skeeter. He wonders what she offered him for incriminating information.
Pansy's tone is her usual indignant shrillness, "Again, where is her proof?"
"True, but you know there's something wrong with him."
"Maybe…" Pansy's voice falters.
Theo hums. "You worried about that Granger girl, Pans?"
There's a smacking sound, followed by an "Ow!" from Theo. Draco's now scowling heavily. Rapid footsteps coming straight towards the wall he loiters outside of. Blind panic seizes him, but then Theo calls out, "C'mon, Pans! I was just joking." The footsteps pause; Draco slowly releases his breath, though his shoulders are still raised and legs still poised to sprint.
"Well it wasn't very funny."
"That implies you're threatened by a Mudblood," Theo adds, snickering as Draco hears a whoosh of air and another smack. Acid-like shame bubbles in his gut with Theo's snickers. Even the concept of him pining after the likes of her… he daresay that's worse than his condition.
Their conversation lazily drifts into something Draco couldn't care less about, and when he realizes after ten minutes that they don't plan to leave the common room any time soon, in fact joined by more of his early morning Housemates, he curses again. Now he has to figure out another way to obtain clothes — the problem is, in the last half hour, the castle has been slowly growing louder and louder.
As he cautiously makes his way out the dungeons, in the shadows of a dim staircase towards the murmuring Entrance Hall, he thinks back to something his Mother had told him; her sisters and her attended Hogwarts together, and there was one room that always gave them everything they wanted. He knows it's on the seventh floor, "It was always easy to sneak up there, because the Gryffindors were so loud," his Mother had said one evening while tucking him into bed, giggling as she did. As a child he had thought his Mother's frivolous tales were too girly for him; now, the Room of Hidden Things is his only sanctuary.
A few days of unwarranted public attention and a nasty night has him ready to essentially live in that room.
He flickers in and out of shadows across the hallways, ducking out of sight of bleary-eyed, yawning students, sneering at portraits commenting on his strange attire. As he rounds a corner on the fourth floor, his heartbeat starts calming. Then, it completely skips a beat — Peeves is floating at the other end of the corridor, transparent lips already stretched upwards. Those translucent eyes absorb the Slytherin, bare-footed, panting under a pelt and otherwise naked. With an over-wide grin that would've hurt in his living years, he takes in a deep, exaggerated breath, and Draco runs before the first hollered word reverberates off of that Merlin forsaken poltergeist.