The owls streaked through the windows, their beating wings slicing through the bloated overcast clouds. But they weren't genuine clouds — no, they were a magical facsimile of the real thing: decoration above The Great Hall to reflect the current weather outside. Letters hailed as the birds soared across the long House tables, outstretched hands reaching above heads, eyes alighting from naive first and second years desperate for morsels of kind regard from their families. Draco glanced at the owls briefly before snapping his gaze back down to the unbuttered toast on his plate, utensils laid out on the napkin to his right. He prayed an owl never came to him, no matter how pristine the parchment appeared. It possessed invisible droplets and smears of blood stained and soaked through to the other side, rendering the words barely legible.
His head felt light.
He ran a finger down the cool metal of his fork, then before his skin could graze the warmer wood of the table, he whisked his finger back up. Cool, smooth, consistent, the fork caressed his finger in bitter cold that never warmed no matter how long he touched it.
The thrashing beat of wings grew cacophonous, and his heart suddenly rose in his throat, his skin prickling not from the fork's silky chill but from a sense of dread. A cool gust of wind and the stench of the Owlery assaulted his cheeks and nose, and Draco glanced up in time for an aggrieved owl to open its talons and release an envelope from its grasp. His arms jerked out, palms open to the overcast ceiling, and the letter did not crash over his dry toast but into his waiting hands.
The envelope wasn't flat—it didn't fold, so she must have written him a decent amount, but at the bottom there was a small object that felt ovular when he pinched it. At the sight of his mother's elegant cursive depicting his name on the back of the envelope, the tension in his chest coiled tighter, and the stinging in his skin became unbearable. A bird soared within his ribcage, wings beating against the curved bars—urging him to open it, and his heart too, pounding so hard he felt it battling for room within his chest. He glanced around him to see if anyone might consider the letter from his mother as leverage for something, but everyone was either preoccupied with waking up, eating breakfast, studying, their own letters, or avoiding meeting anyone's eye. Still, he brought the letter to his lap and hid it under the eaves of the table.
Glancing once more around the table, Draco grabbed his clean butterknife and sliced across the flap to unseal his mother's letter.
He took out the clean tawny parchment, folded in three equal portions, which did prove to be a considerable letter with three pages in total. At the bottom of the letter was a candy, just one candy, a chocolate covered hard caramel with a wrap twisted on either end like bows. His stomach lurched—every year he'd received a parcel overflowing with candy, but all he could think about now was how his mother managed to get away with sending not just the candy, but any letter—particularly one of this length at all.
He unfolded it partially to reveal the first lines, a glimpse, a guess, at the contents of the mysterious layers of parchment and ink.
My dearest son,
I love you and miss your warmth in the manor. Autumn has made it colder here, and I miss your tight hugs. Your father—
Draco snapped the letter closed, shoving it back inside the envelope so feverishly that the paper sliced his skin. He squeezed his cut finger in a tight fist, mind spinning, stomach churning and a sense of weightlessness lifting his muscle and bone. His father, his father, his dear old father. He repeated the first two sentences in his head, savored them, and wished the letter had stopped after those two lines.
Your father, your father, your father, your father, your father…
His chest hurt. His stomach churned, acid and bile roiling in his empty stomach. His body wouldn't settle, his thoughts would never quiet. Hundreds of students surrounding him in an ocean of eyewitnesses and rising above them, the long, imposing wood table where Death Eater upon Death Eater watched over the Great Hall; it pricked the hairs on the back of his neck, despite his place behind a bulky, broad-shouldered boy who could easier tryout for Beater.
He couldn't stay.
He had to leave.
He rose and grabbed his bookbag with a grace that betrayed the swirling, discordant ideas fluttering in his head. His father, his beloved mother, living in the cold manor, listening to the equally cold voice of He-Who-Must-Not-Be named.
Were he to wretch up not his breakfast nor his dinner, but yesterday's lunch, he'd tolerate only that vile ghost Myrtle attempting to seduce him to actual death.
He fled—not with jerky, sprinting strides, but poise and steadiness and class befitting a boy at the height of his life. All eyes were on him, even if no one looked away from their plates.
In the corridors, he picked up the pace, alone and unseen by human eyes. The scuffs of his shoes echoed over the stone tile. Twenty-five galleons, walnut cadet lace-ups. Gifted after receiving the Dark Mark. The scrape of his heel against stone sent shockwaves up his spine. The suits of armor remained silent as he walked past though their ghostly eyes spied at him between the slits in their forged metal helmets.
Ahead, a pair of red and gold ties turned the corner: two Gryffindors, coming for lunch, he bet. Ginny Weasley stomped carelessly forward, Longbottom to her left. When she noticed Draco, her eyes narrowed, and the fury of her gaze shot clear through the distance between them. Draco halted, waiting for her.
Ginny Weasley strode up to him, her hair as red as the bloodshot veins in her eyes. She fancied to believe that she ran the school now that Potter, Granger, and the other Weasley were off galivanting across the English countryside doing whatever nonsense that they thought worthwhile enough to fill their brains with.
"Fancy seeing you here," she said, lip curling, "Draco."
His blood boiled at the unwanted familiarity.
But regardless, he smirked. "Ginevra."
Call it habit, but red and gold always rankled him.
Weasley shook with fury as her little game came back to bite her, so easy to rile up.
"You know what's almost as red as your hair?" said Draco. His body buzzed with nervous energy that he fought to remove from his voice, the cadence steady, precision sure.
She raised an eyebrow, waving her hand to beckon him.
He took out his wand and curled his lip into a sneer. "Crucio."
Weasley flinched back.
But no sparks shot out from Draco's wand, as he hadn't cast the spell. A flicker of a memory—pale skin marred by a dark skull and snake—stole his senses for a brief instant. His heart hammered, but he kept a stare levelled at Ginny Weasley, waiting for her move.
She moronically rose to the bait, like any true Gryffindor would. She whipped out her wand, a hex on the tip of her tongue — Bat-Bogey, no doubt, her bizarre choice of a trademark. Lovegood and Longbottom followed suit.
"Try it, Malfoy," said Neville with a hardness uncharacteristic of the sniffling tagalong he'd been all his life.
"Is that supposed to scare me? Go on, then. Show me your worst. I'd love to see what I can do to you in detention."
Weasley sneered, lowering her wand.
They all knew of the house elves displaced from their manors, lurking behind tapestries, suits of armors, hidden behind glamor and watching, waiting. They couldn't touch Draco Malfoy, youngest Death Eater graced by the honor of his family's world-renowned guest.
He strolled between Longbottom and Weasley, barreling between their plaint shoulders, turned limp at his heavy threat.
As soon as he turned the corner, he cast a Silencing Charm and bolted.
He bowed over the toilet, door to the stall sealed shut with the lock latched, his tears hot and flowing, phlegm thickening the vomit which hurled past the impenetrable choking in his throat. His back shuddered from frigidness despite heat blistering his skin everywhere. Moaning Myrtle stroked him from shoulder to the middle of his back, floating beside him and cooing into his ear, cold hair making him shiver. "You poor, poor thing. But don't worry, I'll take care of you. Stay here with me, it'll all be all right."
The words both tangled his stomach into knots and alleviated the maelstrom in his mind. Her words were soothing, even if she was the one saying them. He liked her words, despise her. Merlin, he loved her words. If he closed his eyes and imagined someone else saying it…
He sobbed, but the cry lodged in his throat from the choking. His diaphragm convulsed, pressure on his abdomen. He heaved and vomited clear liquid.
Slughorn's hands shook with tremors, his neat, aesthetically rich handwriting not as solid as he listed the ingredients for a slow acting poison the N.E.W.T.-level students were to brew. Draco, however, wrote with ease despite the fogginess in his brain weighting on his eyelids. If he could just fold his arms over the desk and lay his forehead down, he would fall asleep before his eyes even shut.
Pansy rested her hand over his knee beneath the desk, drawing slow circles over his kneecap that sent pleasant waves down his leg. He used the sensation to anchor himself. She kept him grounded in that room and writing down hemlock, anamita phalliods, arsenic... like the studious pupil he'd always been.
Your father wishes you well and is impressed by the reports from your professors. I too am—
"Found you!"
Draco's hand stilled over the spines of the books. He stared at the shelf for the count of three breaths, then looked down the aisle of the library's bookshelf to meet the dark brown eyes of his girlfriend glimmering at him with her typical restrained glee.
"Congratulations," said Draco.
Her mouth curled up into a smile he would have once found to be cute. Her smiles often made him want to wretched as of late. She wasn't like the others—she didn't fawn over his Dark Mark or flagellate into his good graces. She was simply Pansy Parkinson, sardonic and sarcastic and kind to him because she loved him. But he had stopped loving her, not as a boyfriend should.
Pansy walked over to him and pecked Draco's cheek. His hair stood on end. He swallowed thickly, not knowing what to do. Pansy stroked Draco's moonlight blond hair, rubbing soft circles into his scalp. She kissed his ear just as sweetly.
"Your wand work in Defense was impressive," she said, eyebrow curving and lopsided. A joke, she knew how he felt. He knew how she felt. He knew about her nightmares and despair; how the dissolution of their world after You-Know-Who's return led her to turmoil just like him. "Tutor me?"
Draco closed his eyes, hiding the fluttering roll of his eyelashes as she scratched a sensitive area he couldn't resist.
His clout reached beyond the Great Hall's miraculous, sky-like ceiling. Pansy had been his girlfriend since long before last May, since before his life had turned to hell, back in fifth and fourth year. They snogged a little in fourth year, all of fifth year, a lot more in sixth year as the world crashed down around them, and Pansy was trying hard to keep it going in seventh year. Draco couldn't pinpoint the moment he didn't crave her in that way anymore. It developed gradually, after every Unforgivable and senseless murder of human beings, house elves, the peacocks he'd known since a child. His greatest achievement in life had been welcoming the Death Eaters into the halls of Hogwarts. But Pansy still saw him as that skinny child flaunting his Malfoy heritage. And he still saw her as a girl hoping she didn't have to bear the children of a cousin who had probably put chewing gum in her hair that was enchanted to resist removal.
He didn't crave her, but he did crave her all the same. She was the only nice thing left. He'd once enjoyed Pansy and her touches not only for the sensation but because they came from her and were given only to him. He remembered it so clearly, and yet when he tried to contemplate the individual memories, they slipped through his fingers like drops of water. But she caressed his face with delicate fingers, gazing at him with the purest kindness, and it awakened something small and painful in his chest that burst with the intensity of hex fire. He wished Pansy's love could last forever beyond this moment—but it could never. Regardless, he longed for nothing but to disappear within her.
He held the hand at her side, not disturbing the one stroking his cheek, and threaded their fingers together. Then he leaned downward to close the distance between them, and she tilted her face with an ease sewn into unconscious memory. Their lips brushed, then she rose to the tips of her toes to press into him, and he melted into the kiss.
His lips buzzed with a delight that streaked through his veins like the strong, rushing currents beneath the deceptive calm of a dark, massive lake. He sank his fingers into her angled bob, her short hair the purest silk over the sensitive nerves in his hands. He disappeared into Pansy, relished in the press of her breasts into his chest, the soft perfume of bergamot and lavender, her familiar warmth and the slight sway that signaled she lost herself in him too.
Tears threatened to fall, a prickling sting behind in the dark of closed eyelids. He broke away, afraid Pansy might taste them, and rested his forehead against hers.
"We ought to study," he said. "It's a library after all."
She gave his lips a quick parting peck and nodded.
Draco grabbed a book at random and they went to the stone wall just beside the shelf. They got into their familiar positions: Pansy sat with legs stretched out, ankles crossed, and Draco laid in her lap with his knees up, book leaning against them. But he wasn't reading it. He gazed blankly at the page, just staring at the words but nothing more.
Pansy waved her wand and silently, without a word crossing her lips, a fortune teller floated through the air and slowly travelled in front of Draco's textbook, blocking the mind-numbing text.
"Pick a dragon," said Pansy, a different species on each of the external four squares, her fingers softly combing through his hair.
Draco carefully assessed his options. "Horntail."
"Wonderful choice, Mr. Malfoy." The paper opened and closed, folding and unfolding in various ways, and revealed the different runes written inside in eight unique triangular locations. Pansy spelled aloud, each folding and unfolding corresponding to a letter: "H-O-R-N-T-A-I-L. Pick a rune."
"Wunjo."
"Wonderful."
Draco's lip quirked, and he glanced up to admire Pansy's light smile as she levitated the origami back into her hand and unfolded his rune. "You'll only have cherry flavor Bertie's Every Flavor Beans for the rest of your life."
"Wonderful."
Pansy tugged on his hair, smile widening. "Prat." Her thumb swept across his earlobe. "I have a gift for you. Would you like to see it?"
He smiled. "All right."
She tucked her knees underneath her. Draco rose from her lap and stood up. She lifted her hand up, and he grasped it, tugging her up. She squeezed his hand and began to walk away from their little corner. "Follow me," she said, and he did.
She led him past the bookshelf facing the walls into a shadowy corner where must thickened the air and tickled the back of his throat. She led him to a brick wall, running her fingers over the bricks until stopping at one that didn't appear in any way unique, but when she pressed into a side, the brick protruded from the wall, and she eased it out. Never releasing her grip on Draco, she set the brick on the windowsill and then reached deep enough into the hole that her hand and wrist disappeared into its depths entirely. Then her arm returned, and in her hand, she held an envelope grayed with dust.
She presented it to him. "For you."
Draco had to let go of her hand to open it, glancing at her little smile, but his stomach twisted at the sight of his name written in a chromatic green ink that shifted into iridescent colors whenever it caught the light. It was her favorite ink, used only on special occasions. A wax heart sealed the envelope, he broke it cleanly, careful not to tear it to pieces. Inside was just one piece of paper, folded in half.
Dear Draco, she'd written. I cannot express how much I'm thankful to have you in my life, as the best boyfriend I could've asked for and the one person who makes me feel true happiness after what life has become. I remember when we first kissed in fourth year and you told me I look radiant in my lipstick, that it brought out my eyes and the pink in my cheeks. I loved it when we enjoyed the quiet by the lake, it was the first time you placed your head in my lap and this year I cherish the trust that you place in me - that we can be unguarded with each other. I don't love you for what you're expected to do but I love you for your wit, creativity, and intelligence. Pansy comes from the French word "pensée," thought in the feminine. Its origin is to describe intelligent and thoughtful men. I love you from the bottom of my heart. Yours, Pansy
A knot ached the back of his throat. His eyes hurting from the tears he fought to remain as unshed. His heart pitter-pattered lightly, soft enough that he could still manage to get it under control. Clearing his throat, he said, "Thank you."
She wrapped her hands over the nape of his neck, petting the short hairs there. "I meant every word."
She gazed up at him with so much evident love in her eyes, and it broke something within he didn't know could break. He looked away, averting his gaze to her shoulder. He didn't return the gesture.
He didn't want to lie to her.
They never kept secrets. If one of them hurt the other, they listened and apologized that very day. The idea of leaving this library with Pansy believing the lie of his reciprocation made him want to wretch from the cruelty of it. He closed his eyes, working through an itch in his throat with a tight, painful swallow. "Pansy?"
"Yes?"
"I need to talk to you."
"But we are." Her voice bobbed with amusement, jovial and flirty.
"No, I mean—we need to talk."
Her fingers stilled in his hair. "Oh."
His heart picked up pace. "I do love you," he whispered frantically. "Please don't think I don't love you."
"But you don't"—Merlin's beard, a sob had already muddied her words. Draco's gaze bored into her shoulder— "you don't love me back."
"That's not true! I—"
"Oh, sod off. You don't."
"I do love you—"
"But not back."
"You're my best friend. I think all the same things in your letter. I couldn't survive the year with—"
She wretched away from him so harried that her rings caught on his neck and burned. He looked up to finally see her red-rimmed eyes and quivering lip. She tipped her chin to keep the tears from streaking down her face and ruining her makeup.
"I said," she sobbed, "sod off. I don't want to be your friend. I can't believe you. Your timing—" Laughter bubbled up, cutting her off, but there was no joy or humor in it. "This is such a joke. After my gift. This is such a joke."
"I—I'll go. I'm upsetting you."
"Yeah, go. It seems that's your latest talent."
He watched her, listened to the dying laughter. Her fingertips rose to dot at the corner of her eyes. He'd made a mistake—but he couldn't take it back. That'd only be worse. He wanted to fix it. He wanted to bring everything back to only seconds ago before he'd ruined this cherished moment, her happiness, her dry face. His heart thudded faster.
He stepped backward, stumbling into his bookbag. Retrieving it clumsily, he said, "I'll see you at dinner?"
She scoffed but said nothing.
Draco flinched every time he pivoted, and his shoe scraped the floor. He knew the house-elves could be watching. As he paced, his mind remained slow and devoid of anything. At times, he caught himself staring ahead vacantly. That was what kept the stones in place, concealing the door hidden inside them. Draco fought to crystalize his thoughts and imagined what he needed in that moment, repeating it in his head like a mantra. Please be mine, please be mine…
The door to the Room of Hidden Things materialized after thirteen pivots.
The vision of it stole the breath from his lungs. A beautiful creature, it would have looked more at home in Malfoy Manor than a forgotten corner of Hogwarts. Intricate iron inserts curled like vines across the glass, murky and gray from an ancient magic that hid its treasures from those unworthy to lay eyes on them. Draco wanted to rush inside, but flinging the door open would only disgrace it.
He touched the iron doorknob. Turned it. Slipped inside, eyes closed and breathing deeply the bookish smell inside. He shut the door with the press of his back, still and silent as he opened his eyes and welcomed the sight before him.
They were his trinkets. His broken things. Abandoned, forgotten, cold. Every damaged object possessed a story that only Draco could decipher by taking the items apart and piecing them back together. He liked fixing things. And the objects fixed him. Made memories go away, even if just for an hour or two.
He deposited his bookbag on a table with uneven legs, loosened the knot of his tie, carefully folding it away in the bag, and popped open the top button of his collar to free his throat.
Draco swept through the teetering towers of forgotten treasures, fingertips skidding over them. Broken chairs, mirrors that stopped reflecting, books that never opened, hourglasses with sand that fell upward, paintings without people, diaries from wizards drafted into Muggle wars.
The Vanishing Cabinet.
His heartbeat quickened. He touched his chest to calm it.
He turned his back to the cabinet and found the wooden box of trinkets he had discovered last night before he had to return to Slytherin Dungeon to sleep. Tipping the box onto its side, Draco shook out its contents, gently as to not shatter the broken things. Out fell rings, quills, pocket watches… a time turner.
Every time turner had been destroyed in the aftermath at the Department of Mysteries that stole Draco's father from him. His family broke that day, and the Dark Mark should have fixed it.
Hs mother's letter burned a hole in the back pocket of his trousers. Without thinking twice, he got it out and tore out the paper, ripping part of the envelope in the process. The candy clattered over the table. He twisted the wrapper off and sucked on the candy before unfolding the letter to read it. The time turner dangled and swung like a pendulum from where it intertwined with his fingers, and the familiar taste of his most favorite sweet melted over his tongue. Familiar, grounding.
Your father wishes you well and is impressed by the reports from your professors. I too am proud of your strength to persevere through grave responsibilities and your devotion to securing the Malfoy name's legacy of looking out for each other.
His fingers curled around the parchment, crinkling it. She'd whispered that into his ear as she kissed him goodbye at Platform 9 3/4. "We're Malfoys. We're strong and persevere and love our family. Be strong, Draco. You're stronger than you know."
His throat hurt. He swallowed, the ache worse now. There were pages and pages more. He wondered if the bit about his father's pride for him were code—but what if they weren't? He'd read it later. He'd read every last of his mother's words.
He dropped the letter and pinched the time turner's necklace between his fingers to raise it to eye-level. Sand sifted through the tiny hourglass, its golden artisanry spinning from the linked chain. He could never fix it. Repairing time turners required specialized knowledge tools available only through the Ministry or a shop keep's secret supply. Though, he could rip the answers from a mind full of specialty knowledge. They would not even realize that it happened. His Occlumency had improved out of necessity over the summer. He could guess at a little Legilimency if he studied.
He dropped the time turner in his palm, pooling the necklace around it. It was warm, as if it weren't merely made of gold but fire, too.
If he could only turn back time, he'd return to fifth year. He would run away from Hogwarts and go to his father. Beg him not to answer the haunting call of a Dark Mark's summoning. Stupefy him if need be. He'd earn a mess of trouble for it, but he'd have his father back. The man who bought him a Nimbus 2001 for no real reason and scolded him for subpar marks on exams and looked at him the same way Draco did at his broken things. His mother wouldn't be so thin. Aunt Bella wouldn't live in their guest room. He wouldn't need to know Occlumency.
He would have never invited Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Never tortured eleven-year-olds girls.
Never looked into You-Know-Who's cruel, red eyes.
A tear fell on the time turner. Draco flinched.
Not again. Not again. Not again. Not...
His heart erupted.
He smacked his fist with the time turner over the beating organ and stumbled back, crashing against the Vanishing Cabinet. The image of Professor Dumbledore slumped against the railing of the Astronomy Tower came crashing into his mind. In that moment, Draco's heart had exploded out of his chest. He wanted to fling himself off the Astronomy Tower and die before his heart could kill him.
His throat tightened. He could not breathe. He was dying. He shook from tremors, chilled to the bone. His diaphragm convulsed, pressing over his stomach. He dry-heaved, but he'd eaten nothing all day and couldn't muster even a drop of bile.
You must enjoy it, boy! Watch me. Crucio!
You have been honored by the Dark Lord.
Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.
The Dark Mark had not made him evil. He had bullied, tormented, and mocked all his life. The Dark Mark only gave him access to a congregation of his peers.
Sobs racketed through him.
He shoved a wrist over his eyes, wiping away the tears with his white pressed sleeve. His shirt was damp, the black line of his Dark Mark visible. His eyes widened owlishly.
The room was too bright.
He fumbled for the handle to the Vanishing Cabinet and wretched it open. He crawled inside and snapped the door closed, plunging himself into darkness. It wrapped around him like a second skin. The vision of nothing stretched beyond him, black like the magic embedded in his arm. He closed his eyes and gasped quick, shallow breaths and choked as phlegm clogged up his throat.
He waited for the darkness to soothe him, as it always did. It eliminated distractions. Hid away memories.
He sobbed until he had no more tears to cry and his head spun with vertigo.
His jaw hurt, clenched tight. Forehead pulsated. He hated this.
When he could, he retrieved his wand and cast, "Lumos."
Tucking the wand between his knees, Draco lifted the time turner and watched as it spun in a slow circle. In his numbed shock, a tear slipped past.
If only his father had stayed home that day…. A sleeping drought would do….
He wrapped the time turner around his neck and spun it two times, one for each year, even though it was broken and didn't even work that way. He leaned his temple against the Vanishing Cabinet and meditated, focusing on deep, even breaths.
The wardrobe quivered, then jolted violently. It thrashed Draco about like a potion ingredient in a swirling cauldron.
His wand clattered to the floor of the wardrobe.
He banged his elbow against the door, pain searing along the nerve and shooting up his arm. It ought to have snapped the door open, only the cabinet was sealed shut. He shoved his knee against it, difficult with the hurricane in the cabinet banging his head back against the wooden paneling. Snatching up his wand, he screamed, "Alohomora!"
The cabinet rose and smashed down in one violent motion.
Draco crashed against the wood and felt a sharp pang as he banged the back of his head. His vision swam. Blood trickled out of a cut at the back of his head. A chill shuddered through him.
He pulled his knees to his chest and bracketed his head between his arms, waiting for this madness to end.
Graham Montague managed to Apparate into a toilet. He could do it, too.
His heart thudded. Panic poked at his sanity. Draco shook his head and squeezed into a tighter ball.
He conjured a memory of his mother's face and grew very still inside and calm.
He had her gray eyes from the Black side of the family.
She named him after her favorite constellation, the Dragon Star, Draco. Ancient from the time of Ptolemy, Draco was ubiquitous and never set in the northern hemisphere, no matter the time of day or the day of time. Draco housed the Cat's Eye Nebula, a dying star three thousand light-years away. It could be a binary star, but Draco would never know in his lifetime.
She shed no tears the evening he received the Dark Mark. She kissed his cheek and whispered that she loved him, always and forever. He was beautiful and hers until her undying breath. His eyes stung and shirt collar choked him, but he remembered Aunt Bella's lessons in Occlumency that day and reined in his emotions. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named smiled, his red eyes slitting further shut. No feeling alight in his eyes. Draco looked away to his raised wand. Smoke, crackling with golden sparks like lightning bolts, trickled out of the tip and gathered to form a skull in midair, a snake slithering between macabre teeth like the hissing of a forked tongue.
Draco fled his own body, watching like a fly in the ceiling, or one of the Death Eaters in the circle gathering around them. Though he witnessed the wand stab his forearm and his flesh cave in, the smoke and sparks seeping into him, he felt nothing. It happened to someone else.
When it was over, You-Know-Who cackled.
His mother floated to him, pressed her hands to his cheeks, said she loved him.
He shook then, not as badly as he shook now from the maelstrom inside the Vanishing Cabinet. But he shook all the same.
He slept in the library at Malfoy Manor that night, reading until his body revolted and he collapsed face-first onto an old tome about Animagus. The Dark Mark should not appear on the arm of an Animagus. The book said a Patronus often took the same form, but Draco couldn't produce a Patronus. He tried and tried ever since he saw Potter produce one during that Quidditch match in third year. He has all sorts of memories to pull from. He remembered his father gifting the entire Quidditch team a Nimbus 2001 and finalizing his placement as Seeker. When that couldn't conjure even a wisp of silvery mist, he remembered his first kiss with Pansy. When that couldn't conjure mist either, he gave up. He'd once read that dark magic blackening the soul ruined any chance of casting the Patronus. He didn't bother again after his Dark Mark ceremony. And he didn't want to chance transforming into a beetle like Rita Skeeter, so he stopped wondering about being an Animagus.
The Vanishing Cabinet jumped up and crashed down, hard. Harder than ever. Draco banged his head and that knocked him out cold, lifelessly sliding into a heap, his wand clattering against the wooden shelving.
Groaning softly, Draco shifted and stretched out of a deep slumber. His knee knocked into the Vanishing Cabinet's door, which popped open. He tumbled out and woke up quick enough to see the ground racing toward him before he smacked into it. Whining, he curled into a ball. His heavy eyes refused to remain open. He drifted in and out of sleep, a drowsy blanket pulling him under the covers of unconsciousness.
Rain pattered softly against the windows. He stirred awake, bewildered.
Black covered the window glass, night had long fallen, and he was officially a student out of bed. That earned him a detention. Weasley would love to raise her wand to him, unless Carrow utilized the opportunity as revenge of his own, humiliated by a teenager earning more clout than him in less time and effort.
He scampered to the door.
He tripped and fell to his knees, grappling for a grip on the Vanishing Cabinet and the stone floor to hoist himself up. He ripped the time turner from his neck and chucked it aside wherever it landed. Spells existed to find lost objects. His book bag wasn't where he left it, but he'd just return for it in the morning when he wouldn't be punished for wandering the halls after hours.
He hurried off into a deserted hallway. He could cast a Disillusionment Charm, but if he were caught using evasive spells to circumvent the rules… depending on who caught him…
An inhumane screech like a quill's tip scratching metal pierced the dark. Draco stumbled and clutched at the stone walls.
An owl flew past and hooked around him, pure black except for its yellow eyes that glimpsed directly at Draco's soul. His heart pounded and he feared that he might burst into tears. In its sharp talons was a letter. Its beak parted — the shrill rose an octave and assaulted his ears. Draco snatched the letter to shut it up. Stop a wandering prefect or Death Eater or sycophant from finding him.
He ripped open the letter, tearing clear through the address of:
Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy
The Vanishing Cabinet Inside the Room of Requirement
Hogwarts Castle
Scotland, Great Britain
The letter read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Malfoy,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term began six days ago on September 1. We await your arrival in the Great Hall this evening for sorting.
Seventh-years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade at certain weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to sign.
A list of books for next year is enclosed.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Stunned, Draco turned the page.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY UNIFORM
Seventh-year students will require:
1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
It went on.
He met the horrific eyes of an owl who looked hungrier by the second.
The letter was a prank. A Gryffindor, a Slytherin, a Death Eater. Someone he had enjoyed torturing.
But he ran to the Great Hall. There was nothing else for it.
Author's Note: Thank you to my betas, ZieZie13 and Em. Draco's Hogwarts letter has quotes from the first and third HP books.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
I'm hoping the length of this chapter makes up for how long the update took after that tiny prologue. LOL please forgive me