Chapter Three: Pectoralis Daemon
"Damn," cursed Snape, as Draco had just sprouted a pair of unappealing pixie wings. He uttered a string of more colorful words and began scribbling down some notes on a scroll of parchment he held.
Draco gave the man an impatient look. He had been chugging down potion after potion for the Professor, and not one in the seventy-two Draco had counted worked properly.
"I thought you were supposed to be the Potions Master," said Draco irritably as Snape handed him the antidote.
"Ah, well — genius has to start somewhere," said Snape, a sly grin creeping through his mouth. He was handing a reluctant Draco another potion, when he caught sight of his watch. "Well — seems we've got a bit off schedule. That'll be all, Mr. Malfoy. I thank you." He quickly rolled up his scrap of parchment and placed them neatly inside his desk drawers.
"No problem," said Draco, and peaked behind him to make sure he was wing-free. "Hope you don't mind my leaving without tea — I'm supposed to visit the Manor today."
"Really?" said Snape, intrigued. He gave Draco a wary look. "Is this your first time to go back there since the incident?"
Draco shifted uncomfortably. He silently thanked the man for referring to it as an incident. "Yes," he said finally, refusing to meet his mentor's eyes. "The Ministry wants me to so some sort of inventory check." He shrugged. "Figured it was time I went back anyway."
Snape didn't say anything at this, but nodded. He dug deep into his in-robe pocket and pulled out a crystal bottle filled with a clear blue liquid. He placed it into Draco's hand without a word.
Draco stared. The bottle was no bigger than his own hand, made of a fine crystal that had an engraving of an ancient language Draco couldn't quite place. The liquid, he noticed, wasn't of clear blue, but gray. Silver swirls inside the liquid made it look as if it held clouds.
"Sir?"
"Pectoralis Daemon." He caught Draco's puzzled look and said, "Subdues your inner demons temporarily. Much like how whiskey gets to your senses."
Understanding, Draco nodded. "Thank you, sir."
Snape waved a hand and turned back to the fuming cauldron on his desk. Draco felt no goodbyes were needed so he slowly made his way to the dungeon door.
* * *
Draco was in no hurry. In truth, he wanted nothing more to get the whole ordeal over with — though that still didn't make him stop dreading it.
He took his time, walking through the corridors and climbing the moving stairs of the Hogwarts school. It was very lucky, indeed, that Filch hadn't caught him yet. Even a note from Snape wouldn't keep Filch from throwing out an outsider — especially that of Draco Malfoy.
He found himself walking inside the Library, feeling welcomed with its usual silence. He was not at all surprised to see the familiar brown head of last year's Head Girl hovering over a rather large book on Runes.
"Why, if it isn't the Head Girl," Draco said in his usual drawl, and grinned when Hermione's head popped up in surprise. She scanned around the Library quickly, and rested her eyes on Draco with a look of confusion and anger.
"Who're you?" she said, brown eyes raking over Draco's stature. "If you're not a Hogwarts personnel, I'm afraid you'll have to leave."
Draco chuckled, and leaned casually against a pillar with a taunting grin. "What's the matter? Don't remember me?" He put on a sneer to give her a little hint.
Hermione's brows furrowed in puzzlement, then shot up suddenly in realization.
"Malfoy?" she asked, almost breathless.
"Now, now," he said, feigning a hurt look, "I never did like the last name basis we were all on in our school days. Is it too much to ask to be referred to as my given name?"
"Like 'Draco' is any better," quipped Hermione.
Draco laughed, an honest and sincere laugh. "That's true," he admitted. "Curse the man who gave me such a name." He paused and looked thoughtful before adding, "Oh hey — I did."
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Draco, you did what you had to do, you'd've died if you hadn't — "
"Yeah, yeah," said Draco, holding up a pale hand to shush her. "I'd heard it all."
She huffed angrily. "Then stop being so bitter about it."
"Am I being bitter?" asked Draco lightly. "Funny, I hadn't noticed."
"Honestly," she said, suddenly standing up. "You act as if you've been through hell. You haven't. Harry's been through loads more than — "
"Perfect Potter," sneered Draco, suddenly losing his light attitude. "Harry's been through hell, Harry defeated Voldemort, Harry saved everyone's life — Harry, Harry, Harry." He scowled. "You don't know what I've been through, Granger. So don't assume that your Harry's been through more than I have."
"He has," said Hermione haughtily.
At this, Draco laughed — a dry, derisive laugh. "You really aren't as smart as people think you are," he said and left before giving Hermione the chance to respond.
* * *
He remembered the fire. Charms and spells prevented the fire from ever catching unto the Manor's woodwork, so it never grew. All that burned was a single, solitary figure. A tall man, a little above six feet, with long flowing blonde hair. It was odd how the fire barely looked to be making contact with his skin. The man's face was void of pain. He didn't scream. But Draco knew it burned him. Lucius Malfoy never screamed — not for anything or anyone. He feared nothing. Except perhaps his Master. Never did he think to suspect his own son.
Draco made it to the Malfoy Manor in no time. Apparation in the Malfoy estate was impossible, just like it was in Hogwarts. But Draco, having had so many adventures investigating and mapping out the estate, made it there with ease.
The Manor was a large structure. It matched even Hogwarts's capacity, give or take a Wing or two. Draco had been told that the Manor was built around Merlin's time, though he never really took it seriously. Otherwise the Manor would've been built right in the middle of a lake. The whole estate, in fact, would've been in that very lake. Draco figured the lake had dried up, and a Malfoy saw a vast land, free for the taking, and claimed it. Made perfect sense to him. It's what Malfoys did.
Draco entered the Manor, and couldn't help but grin. It had been months since the place had been deserted, though you'd never guess that by looking at it. The Manor was in perfect shape, like it was newly built. Draco didn't doubt that some sort of charm was put on the Manor from ever deteriorating.
He entered the Left Wing, and was welcomed by sneering portraits of his younger self. His mother truly adored him, and spent large amount of money to have his portrait painted every year on his birthday. It annoyed his father to death but it was one of the rare things his mother had asked for.
He looked at his past selves with a grimace. He really was an ugly boy growing up. Puberty was terrible to him. He was always a late blossomed, his mother would say. He didn't grow til he was fifteen, and even then he had only grown a good four inches. He was only 5'4" when he left Hogwarts.
His body grew at different rates. He was short, but his feet were big enough for someone 6'0". He was a terrible-looking thing, really. It was a glorious day for him, indeed, when he finally grew.
Now he stood at a proud 6'1", with looks and a body Muggles would kill for. He returned a scowl given to him by his 12 year old self and entered a hallway filled with ivory and marble. It was easy to get lost in a place like Malfoy Manor. Even Draco, having lived there for most of his young life, had turned up in a closet instead of a bathroom a time or two. But Draco found that finding your way around was just like flying a broom; you only get better with practice.
He passed the a large room with a rectangular stage in the center. Along the walls were rows and rows of old-fashioned swords and weaponry. The Dueling Room. Draco certainly had his share of "memories" in that room.
He felt a cold chill cling to his skin, and he shivered. He quickened his pace to the Library as he tugged his cloak tighter around him. He wanted to be done with the whole hassle and leave this place once and for all. He cursed the Ministry for making him go through his father's books. Isn't that what Aurors are for? Or librarians, even?
He ran his eyes through his father's extensive book collection. The room itself could match that of his Slytherin Common Room. From the doorway to the end of the room, ran a long velvet rug, leading up to a large oak desk. There were many times when Draco had seen his father on that desk, scribbling noisily as he researched book after book. On either side of the room, were rows and rows of shelves, stocked with books of all sizes. His father had a thirst for books — especially ones with the word "death" or "curse" in the title. There were twelve shelves in all, all housing over sixty books.
"720," Draco said aloud after mentally calculating (he wasn't Head Boy for nothing, after all). He groaned. "720," he repeated, shutting his eyes in horror. How was he supposed to go through 720 books? That kind of work was for bookworms like Granger, he thought bitterly.
He made his way over to the very end of the shelves, and randomly selected a book.
He blinked. The book was thin, and leather-bound. It was drenched in a dry, red liquid, with a gaping hole poked right through the middle of it.
Tom Riddle's diary.
He dropped it as if it had burned him. Hadn't his father gotten rid of that? Draco cast a nervous glance around the room. It was empty, just as it had been when he entered. But why did he have the most annoying feeling that he was being watched? Slowly and cautiously, he backtracked to the door. The Ministry could bloody well do this themselves, he thought and ran through the halls and out of the Manor as fast as his nimble, Seeker body would let him.
He got as far as the lake when his body gave up. He collapsed on the soft earth, and numbly dug inside his robes for a small bottle. In one quick gulp, he downed the potion and felt his senses weaken. The sky above him swirled and darkened, and he had the funniest feeling in the pit of his stomach. Then all he saw was black.
The fire enveloped him. It was an odd feeling. He wasn't being burned, but tickled. The flames were soft against his skin and ruffled through his hair like wind.
He liked it.
Chapter Four; Draco gets quite the hangover, a visit from an old "friend", another one of those freaky dreams, comes close to passing out more than once, and actually does.
"Damn," cursed Snape, as Draco had just sprouted a pair of unappealing pixie wings. He uttered a string of more colorful words and began scribbling down some notes on a scroll of parchment he held.
Draco gave the man an impatient look. He had been chugging down potion after potion for the Professor, and not one in the seventy-two Draco had counted worked properly.
"I thought you were supposed to be the Potions Master," said Draco irritably as Snape handed him the antidote.
"Ah, well — genius has to start somewhere," said Snape, a sly grin creeping through his mouth. He was handing a reluctant Draco another potion, when he caught sight of his watch. "Well — seems we've got a bit off schedule. That'll be all, Mr. Malfoy. I thank you." He quickly rolled up his scrap of parchment and placed them neatly inside his desk drawers.
"No problem," said Draco, and peaked behind him to make sure he was wing-free. "Hope you don't mind my leaving without tea — I'm supposed to visit the Manor today."
"Really?" said Snape, intrigued. He gave Draco a wary look. "Is this your first time to go back there since the incident?"
Draco shifted uncomfortably. He silently thanked the man for referring to it as an incident. "Yes," he said finally, refusing to meet his mentor's eyes. "The Ministry wants me to so some sort of inventory check." He shrugged. "Figured it was time I went back anyway."
Snape didn't say anything at this, but nodded. He dug deep into his in-robe pocket and pulled out a crystal bottle filled with a clear blue liquid. He placed it into Draco's hand without a word.
Draco stared. The bottle was no bigger than his own hand, made of a fine crystal that had an engraving of an ancient language Draco couldn't quite place. The liquid, he noticed, wasn't of clear blue, but gray. Silver swirls inside the liquid made it look as if it held clouds.
"Sir?"
"Pectoralis Daemon." He caught Draco's puzzled look and said, "Subdues your inner demons temporarily. Much like how whiskey gets to your senses."
Understanding, Draco nodded. "Thank you, sir."
Snape waved a hand and turned back to the fuming cauldron on his desk. Draco felt no goodbyes were needed so he slowly made his way to the dungeon door.
Draco was in no hurry. In truth, he wanted nothing more to get the whole ordeal over with — though that still didn't make him stop dreading it.
He took his time, walking through the corridors and climbing the moving stairs of the Hogwarts school. It was very lucky, indeed, that Filch hadn't caught him yet. Even a note from Snape wouldn't keep Filch from throwing out an outsider — especially that of Draco Malfoy.
He found himself walking inside the Library, feeling welcomed with its usual silence. He was not at all surprised to see the familiar brown head of last year's Head Girl hovering over a rather large book on Runes.
"Why, if it isn't the Head Girl," Draco said in his usual drawl, and grinned when Hermione's head popped up in surprise. She scanned around the Library quickly, and rested her eyes on Draco with a look of confusion and anger.
"Who're you?" she said, brown eyes raking over Draco's stature. "If you're not a Hogwarts personnel, I'm afraid you'll have to leave."
Draco chuckled, and leaned casually against a pillar with a taunting grin. "What's the matter? Don't remember me?" He put on a sneer to give her a little hint.
Hermione's brows furrowed in puzzlement, then shot up suddenly in realization.
"Malfoy?" she asked, almost breathless.
"Now, now," he said, feigning a hurt look, "I never did like the last name basis we were all on in our school days. Is it too much to ask to be referred to as my given name?"
"Like 'Draco' is any better," quipped Hermione.
Draco laughed, an honest and sincere laugh. "That's true," he admitted. "Curse the man who gave me such a name." He paused and looked thoughtful before adding, "Oh hey — I did."
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Draco, you did what you had to do, you'd've died if you hadn't — "
"Yeah, yeah," said Draco, holding up a pale hand to shush her. "I'd heard it all."
She huffed angrily. "Then stop being so bitter about it."
"Am I being bitter?" asked Draco lightly. "Funny, I hadn't noticed."
"Honestly," she said, suddenly standing up. "You act as if you've been through hell. You haven't. Harry's been through loads more than — "
"Perfect Potter," sneered Draco, suddenly losing his light attitude. "Harry's been through hell, Harry defeated Voldemort, Harry saved everyone's life — Harry, Harry, Harry." He scowled. "You don't know what I've been through, Granger. So don't assume that your Harry's been through more than I have."
"He has," said Hermione haughtily.
At this, Draco laughed — a dry, derisive laugh. "You really aren't as smart as people think you are," he said and left before giving Hermione the chance to respond.
He remembered the fire. Charms and spells prevented the fire from ever catching unto the Manor's woodwork, so it never grew. All that burned was a single, solitary figure. A tall man, a little above six feet, with long flowing blonde hair. It was odd how the fire barely looked to be making contact with his skin. The man's face was void of pain. He didn't scream. But Draco knew it burned him. Lucius Malfoy never screamed — not for anything or anyone. He feared nothing. Except perhaps his Master. Never did he think to suspect his own son.
Draco made it to the Malfoy Manor in no time. Apparation in the Malfoy estate was impossible, just like it was in Hogwarts. But Draco, having had so many adventures investigating and mapping out the estate, made it there with ease.
The Manor was a large structure. It matched even Hogwarts's capacity, give or take a Wing or two. Draco had been told that the Manor was built around Merlin's time, though he never really took it seriously. Otherwise the Manor would've been built right in the middle of a lake. The whole estate, in fact, would've been in that very lake. Draco figured the lake had dried up, and a Malfoy saw a vast land, free for the taking, and claimed it. Made perfect sense to him. It's what Malfoys did.
Draco entered the Manor, and couldn't help but grin. It had been months since the place had been deserted, though you'd never guess that by looking at it. The Manor was in perfect shape, like it was newly built. Draco didn't doubt that some sort of charm was put on the Manor from ever deteriorating.
He entered the Left Wing, and was welcomed by sneering portraits of his younger self. His mother truly adored him, and spent large amount of money to have his portrait painted every year on his birthday. It annoyed his father to death but it was one of the rare things his mother had asked for.
He looked at his past selves with a grimace. He really was an ugly boy growing up. Puberty was terrible to him. He was always a late blossomed, his mother would say. He didn't grow til he was fifteen, and even then he had only grown a good four inches. He was only 5'4" when he left Hogwarts.
His body grew at different rates. He was short, but his feet were big enough for someone 6'0". He was a terrible-looking thing, really. It was a glorious day for him, indeed, when he finally grew.
Now he stood at a proud 6'1", with looks and a body Muggles would kill for. He returned a scowl given to him by his 12 year old self and entered a hallway filled with ivory and marble. It was easy to get lost in a place like Malfoy Manor. Even Draco, having lived there for most of his young life, had turned up in a closet instead of a bathroom a time or two. But Draco found that finding your way around was just like flying a broom; you only get better with practice.
He passed the a large room with a rectangular stage in the center. Along the walls were rows and rows of old-fashioned swords and weaponry. The Dueling Room. Draco certainly had his share of "memories" in that room.
He felt a cold chill cling to his skin, and he shivered. He quickened his pace to the Library as he tugged his cloak tighter around him. He wanted to be done with the whole hassle and leave this place once and for all. He cursed the Ministry for making him go through his father's books. Isn't that what Aurors are for? Or librarians, even?
He ran his eyes through his father's extensive book collection. The room itself could match that of his Slytherin Common Room. From the doorway to the end of the room, ran a long velvet rug, leading up to a large oak desk. There were many times when Draco had seen his father on that desk, scribbling noisily as he researched book after book. On either side of the room, were rows and rows of shelves, stocked with books of all sizes. His father had a thirst for books — especially ones with the word "death" or "curse" in the title. There were twelve shelves in all, all housing over sixty books.
"720," Draco said aloud after mentally calculating (he wasn't Head Boy for nothing, after all). He groaned. "720," he repeated, shutting his eyes in horror. How was he supposed to go through 720 books? That kind of work was for bookworms like Granger, he thought bitterly.
He made his way over to the very end of the shelves, and randomly selected a book.
He blinked. The book was thin, and leather-bound. It was drenched in a dry, red liquid, with a gaping hole poked right through the middle of it.
Tom Riddle's diary.
He dropped it as if it had burned him. Hadn't his father gotten rid of that? Draco cast a nervous glance around the room. It was empty, just as it had been when he entered. But why did he have the most annoying feeling that he was being watched? Slowly and cautiously, he backtracked to the door. The Ministry could bloody well do this themselves, he thought and ran through the halls and out of the Manor as fast as his nimble, Seeker body would let him.
He got as far as the lake when his body gave up. He collapsed on the soft earth, and numbly dug inside his robes for a small bottle. In one quick gulp, he downed the potion and felt his senses weaken. The sky above him swirled and darkened, and he had the funniest feeling in the pit of his stomach. Then all he saw was black.
The fire enveloped him. It was an odd feeling. He wasn't being burned, but tickled. The flames were soft against his skin and ruffled through his hair like wind.
He liked it.
Chapter Four; Draco gets quite the hangover, a visit from an old "friend", another one of those freaky dreams, comes close to passing out more than once, and actually does.