Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author: Penguin

Title: LIKE GLASS

Part 2

Draco couldn't sleep. He kept twisting and turning in the near-dark, listening to unfamiliar street sounds because they couldn't be shut out, listening intently for sounds through the wall because he couldn't help it. But from Potter's room there was nothing but silence.

The hours wound on, and Draco finally gave up trying to sleep. He lit the candle by his bed and lay watching shadows dance on the walls as the candle flame flickered and fluttered in the draught.

What would happen tomorrow? (Today, Draco corrected himself as he saw the first glimmer of light in the sky.) What would happen to Potter? He looked as though he hadn't eaten properly for months, it was obvious that he hadn't slept, either, and there was something very wrong with him even apart from the drug abuse; underneath the drug abuse.

Something seriously wrong.

Why had Potter turned over his wand to Draco so easily? No wizard, however exhausted, frightened or confused, would ever willingly hand over his wand to another wizard. But Potter had acted as if his wand was an ordinary, dull object, like a rock or an apple or a piece of string. And this was the wand – holly, phoenix feather, eleven inches – that had defeated the Dark Lord.

Draco suddenly realised that it was the mystery of Potter's wand that had kept him awake all night.

The wand was lying innocently on the desk by the window now, and Draco's eyes kept wandering to it. He couldn't help wanting to go over to it, to pick it up and hold it… just to try it and see what would happen…

He turned around in bed to face the wall, but the image of the wand stayed in his mind, nagging, refusing to leave him alone.

He had carried it to his room last night, but he had been too shaken then to want to try to use it. As a matter of fact, he had carried it between his thumb and his forefinger and hurried to put it down, as if afraid it would bite. Then he had gone straight into the shower and stayed there for a good twenty minutes, so upset by the emotions stirred up by seeing Potter that he needed to be soothed. It wasn't only the sadness at seeing Potter in this lamentable state, but he also had to fight sudden memories of school, of their childhood, of more recent events that he rarely allowed to surface in his mind: His father imprisoned in Azkaban; his own loss of faith in everything he had believed in. Those who had died. And those who hadn't died but would have been better off if they had.

Lord Voldemort was defeated and gone, but in a way, he had still won this war. Evil always wins a small victory simply by showing its face – it will always remain alive in those who have seen it.

Sadness, grief, pain – that was the lasting effect of war. They had naïvely expected happiness to return instantly when the war ended, like... well, like magic. But in reality, the magical world was as ill-equipped as the Muggle world to handle the aftermath of war. They had expected their dark memories to be erased and their wounds to be healed, but it hadn't happened. It might never happen. Only time might accomplish what the healers hadn't.

Draco got out of bed, padded over to the desk and stood looking down at the wand. The dark wood looked polished and gleaming despite the rough treatment it must have received. Potter hadn't looked as if anything in his life had been taken good care of lately.

In a sense, wands were custom-made, and wizards never used each other's wands if they could help it. Sometimes it was unavoidable, but if there was a choice, they used their own. Draco wondered why he wanted to try this one so badly. It belonged to one powerful wizard and had destroyed another – did he want to be part of that power? He didn't believe that was the reason. After all, he had never wanted to try his father's wand, or Bellatrix's, although he had had the opportunity to do so on several occasions.

He stretched out a hand, touched the polished handle and slowly closed his fingers around it. He lifted it up, held it in front of him and suddenly, inexplicably felt like a beginner – there was even the echo of old, old instructions in his head: "Swish and flick, Draco! And you must pronounce the spell very clearly."

"Lumos," he whispered hoarsely.

He was prepared to drop the wand, to extinguish sudden flames, to run for cover – but nothing happened.

Nothing at all. Not a stir; not even the tiniest spark.

The wand was dead in his hand.