Chapter 3: The Clock

Draco sat in the Great Hall, almost completely alone. Only a few students were at breakfast that morning, and Draco was pleased to see that they wisely kept their distance from him. Since the school had cleared out for the holidays, he had avoided almost any social contact. He always brought a book with him, as if he were studying for NEWTs.

This morning the Great Hall's sky was a cold, dark grey. It barely felt like daytime. He could feel the chill all the way through him. And it was Christmas morning.

Rosmerta had completed her task yesterday. Maybe the bottle of mead would make its way to its intended this afternoon. Maybe it would all be over by tonight. A happy Christmas to everyone.

Draco was waiting for a sense of excitement that he expected he should feel. Would feel, any minute now. If the bottle reached Dumbledore, he would no longer have to contend with the cabinet. He'd have done what everyone believed he could never do. Poison wasn't as graceful or striking as the cursed necklace would have been, but still, his task would be achieved.

Or not. He glanced over at the table where the professors usually sat. It was empty.

Perhaps... perhaps it had already happened. Perhaps they just hadn't made an announcement to stave off the panic that would surely come when everyone learned of Dumbledore's death.

Draco's stomach lurched. He put down the carefully buttered piece of toast he was holding in his hand. Maybe he was going to be sick.

He must be coming down with something. He should see the nurse. Come to think of it, he hadn't felt well since yesterday. And he'd had a headache for days. But he definitely had started to feel worse yesterday, his stomach unsettled, eating away at him.

If he were honest with himself, he knew what had triggered his illness, and it wasn't anything with which Madam Pomfrey would be able to help. It had been Madam Rosmerta. Yesterday he had passed the instructions to her through the coin, and then imagined her following through. He hadn't felt the same since.

The Imperious curse itself made him uncomfortable. He had thought he'd liked having power over others. He certainly appreciated when Crabbe and Goyle did his bidding. And using dark magic made his pulse race, made him want... he couldn't put his fingers on what it made him want, exactly. But it was a giddy feeling, delightful and painful at once. A rush.

But this was different. Draco liked Madam Rosemerta.

Butterbeer always made him think of her, and the golden warmth that surrounded her in The Three Broomsticks. He shouldn't have cared for either her or her establishment, both were so... crass, so everyday. But he did.

Madam Rosmerta had always been nice to him. She didn't treat him any differently than she did the other students, but somehow she still managed to make him feel special. She reminded him of his mother.

And now Madam Rosmerta had given him poison.

But it wasn't as if it were her choice. Draco had taken away her control, and it made him feel sick to do so. He couldn't pretend he liked the feeling.

He breathed in slowly, trying to get himself under control. He couldn't be blamed for what he had done to Madam Rosmerta. Madam Rosmerta was serving him and he was serving Voldemort. Draco wasn't afraid of the Dark Lord's name anymore. Why should he be, when he was doing just what Voldemort had asked?

Draco stared disdainfully at his uneaten eggs and toast. There was no way he could stomach breakfast now. Maybe Dumbledore was dead.

He barely made it to the boys' bathroom before he was retching into the old white sink, hot tears stinging his eyes.

- - -

Draco clutched at the edges of the sink. He felt cold nausea break over him, again and again. His stomach wouldn't stop turning over, his throat hurt from trying to vomit when there was nothing left to expel.

Shakily, he turned the faucet on, watching the water wash away his weakness. He swallowed and tried to breath again. Slowly. One breath at a time.

"You look awful."

The voice caught Draco off guard, and he spun around before he even realized he was moving. His stomach lurched again.

He found himself confronted with what he could only assume was Moaning Myrtle. He had never met her before, but had heard her described with much embellishment. She wasn't as ugly as he'd imagined.

He wiped at his eyes quickly. They were still burning from his bout with nausea, and he didn't want to give the wrong impression. Draco Malfoy did not cry.

Moaning Myrtle's transparent face seemed to soften, and she floated closer to him, reaching a hand out as if to brush at Draco's hair. "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to be rude. Usually I'm the one that's miserable, that's all."

Draco didn't quite know what to say to that. He didn't know why he'd bother saying anything to this pathetic ghost at all. He heard his voice before he fully realized he was speaking. "I'm not having the best day," he said. His voice quivered only slightly.

She floated even closer toward him in response, and he thought for a horrifying moment that she was going to kiss him. She might have been intending to, but clearly thought better of it and sat on the sink next to his. "Tell me about it."

"I can't," Draco replied bitterly.

"Yes you can," Myrtle protested. "You can trust me. I won't tattle."

"Aren't you supposed to live in the girls' toilets?" Draco snapped. "What are you doing here?"

She didn't seem upset by his rudeness. He had been told she was overly sensitive, but perhaps she was used to such treatment. She just shrugged. "It's boring during the holidays. I was just looking for something out of the ordinary. And I found you. So tell me what's wrong."

Draco shook his head. For some reason he didn't feel like being rude to this pathetic girl anymore. She was dead anyway. She wasn't worth it. "I... I really can't."

But it didn't seem that Myrtle was going to take no for an answer. "Did someone say something to you to make you upset? Was someone mean to you? Or was it just something that you ate?" She fixed him with an assessing stare. "It doesn't look like it was something you ate," she pronounced.

Suddenly Draco just felt so very tired. "It wasn't something I ate."

"Then someone was mean to you!" Myrtle moved closer again as she cooed this conclusion. "You must tell me who it was and what they said. I want to make you feel better."

Draco swallowed. "You can't. And you wouldn't like me, if... I mean, usually I'm the one who says mean things."

Myrtle shook her head stubbornly. "Oh, I know all about you, Draco Malfoy." She laughed as Draco gaped. "That's right, I know all about you. All the girls have crushes on you, and they're very right to do so because you are very cute, but you're usually not very nice. Still, you don't seem like as bad a person as they say."

That was all Draco could take. He let go of the stability of the sink and rushed out of the bathroom, listening to Myrtle's very vocal protests grow distant as he ran. He headed right for his room, hoping he'd make it there without incident. He was sick and had better spend the day in bed.

- - -

That night, Draco dreamed of Harry Potter.

He didn't remember any details, thankfully.

Still, all the same, he had dreamt of Harry fucking Potter. Draco was sure of it.

He awoke with a start and a headache. It seemed like things were only going to get worse from here on in.

He briefly considered going to Madam Pomfrey, but he knew it was a waste. And he had things to do today, headache be damned.

Draco assumed that, because he had heard no commotion, Dumbledore had not yet drunk the mead. But he couldn't be sure, so he decided show up at breakfast, just to keep up appearances. And to confirm that everything was normal--or as normal as it could be, with all the school away and the scent of quiet fear everywhere.

He tried not to let the anticipation get to him as he walked from the Dungeons to the Great Hall. He needed to keep a cool head. He steeled himself for the chaos that might await.

But everything was as it had been the day before. The room was still festively decorated, warm breakfast food on offer as always. Students were eating quietly, and even Slughorn was there, sipping on a cup of tea, looking like he had overindulged more than a little the night before.

Draco made his way to his usual table, but at the last minute he decided to bypass the actual eating of breakfast. It was enough that he had shown his face. The smell of eggs too quickly brought back memories of his encounter with the bathroom sink the day before. He studiously avoided even the hallway that led to the toilets where he had met Moaning Myrtle.

And instead found himself, much earlier than intended, facing the blank wall that would become the Room of Requirement.

This was it. He didn't have another plan B. He'd have to just wait to see if the bottle found its way to Dumbledore. Hopefully the old man hadn't suddenly decided to try out abstinence. It would be rude to refuse a gift from a fellow teacher, and everyone appreciated Madam Rosmerta's brew. No, it would work eventually. It ought to.

Draco's stomach twisted again, much like it had the day before, except this time edged with the emptiness of not having eaten for a day. He sank to the floor and leaned against the wall. The Room of Requirement wasn't going anywhere, and he was here an hour earlier than usual anyway.

But he'd have to face the cabinet soon. The poison might not ever make it to Dumbledore, and beside this plan was more... impressive. Clever. Worthy of a Malfoy.

Whatever the fuck that meant.

But that was just the headache--and the stomach ache--talking.

Draco stared at the sunlight filtering through into the hallway from a tall, arched window. Patterns of dusty, cold light played on the floor and wall across from him. He'd just rest for a moment, and think. Try to clear his head. Maybe he could come up with a Plan C.

Maybe he could sneak into Dumbledore's office and steal the mead.

Draco shook his head. What the fuck? Why would he want to do that? He wasn't going to be discovered, that mead couldn't be linked to him, and if it worked, it worked. It wasn't graceful, but it would do the job.

And he had all the way through to the New Year to work on the cabinet. Blessedly alone, with no interruption. Everyone safely at home with their families. It was the ideal time for him to do this. He missed the holidays a little, but it couldn't be helped. Though the thought of his mother in Malfoy mansion with just the house elves... it didn't seem right.

He'd meant to owl her, to wish her a happy Christmas, but he'd been too distracted with everything else.

Draco stood. He'd put in a few hours on the cabinet, and maybe he'd make some real progress this time. Then he'd write to his mother. She'd want to hear from him.

- - -

Draco woke up in a cold sweat. It was 4AM. The Dungeons were silent, except for the occasional whistling of wind at the edges of the windows. He pulled himself up in bed, ripping off his clammy pajama top and pulling the warm blanket around him. Outside the window he could see that snow was falling--large, wet flakes forced sideways by the wind. The sky was purple-white, eerily lit with predawn sunlight. Draco shivered. He could feel the dementors in the air, as if their very presence could seep through the window cracks. Perhaps it could.

He wondered if this was what it was like in Azkaban. Only more so, probably. He hadn't thought about his father for a long time. Perhaps weeks. He couldn't think about his father as a prisoner. It made no sense. Lucius Malfoy in someone else's power? In a cold cell somewhere? Death awaiting him, or worse, insanity?

And it all lay on Draco to save him. The fate of both his parents depended on him. And of course, his own life as well. He had tried not to think about it, but in the empty silence of early morning, there it was. Unavoidable. The only truth, really. It crawled into Draco's stomach and clamped down--a cold, horrible feeling. Draco pulled his legs up, so that he was holding himself tightly, and began to cry.

Even though he was crying, the tightness in his throat seemed to grow and grow, a terrible ache that would never leave, closing down on his throat and stomach as silent sobs shook his body and salty tears wet his lashes and cheeks.

Minutes passed, silent except for his sobbing and the ticking of the old, wooden clock his mother had given him, which sat on the desk next to his bed. He used to believe the clock was magical, somehow, in some way that he hadn't yet figured out, but now he recognized that all it did was keep time, counting away the minutes until he failed.

Finally he forced himself to stop sobbing. His crying didn't even feel good, it didn't help with anything. It just made him feel awful. So powerless he couldn't breathe. What was happening to him? The scariest thing was that he didn't recognize anything about his life, and he didn't recognize himself at all.

Taking forced, even breaths, Draco slowly removed the blanket. He put his feet on the rug, feeling the hard stone beneath the soft woven cloth. He tried to imagine watching himself from above, so that he could truly see himself as a stranger. It didn't really work, but just the idea of it calmed him.

He walked over to the dresser and found clothes for the day. Four o'clock in the morning was not normally a time he would wander the halls of Hogwarts, but he was awake. He could go to the room and concentrate on the cabinet for a few hours before breakfast. This morning students would begin to return from their holidays, refreshed and relaxed. Draco could feel the abyss between himself and them growing. Soon he would be a world away.

- - -

Draco was livid.

Since the other students had returned from break, Draco had made an extended attempt to feel nothing. He focussed on his task and his goal, calculated possibilities and options, but didn't let anything in beyond that. He was above it all.

It was a method that seemed to be working.

That is, until now.

Now, all thoughts of the cabinet and the mead and the whole damn task disappeared in the face of Potter's audacity. He wanted to stick that Bezoar where Potter wouldn't be likely to forget it. This was unbelievable. Potter was the smuggest, most arrogant wanker who had ever existed, and he needed to be put in his place. And Draco would be the one to do it.

Potions was Draco's subject. Snape hadn't just played favorites because Draco was a Slytherin or a Malfoy. No, Potions was Draco's domain.

Or at least it used to be.

Now he was covered in foul-smelling failed antidote, and Potter was teacher's pet, and for what? Because Potter wouldn't admit his own pathetic failure? For "cheek"? Fuck that!

As soon as they were out of that room, Potter was going to find himself hexed to high heavens. He wouldn't know what hit him. Enough was enough.

Giving Potter a final glare, Draco turned on his heel, heading for the classroom door. Most of the class had filtered out, but Potter of course was taking his own sweet time of it. Couldn't be because he knew what awaited him. Potter just wasn't that smart.

Draco waited just outside the doorway. Impatient, he started pacing and choosing hexes. So many ways to make Potter pay.

But after a couple of moments, it was clear that Potter wasn't coming out, or at least not any time soon. The rest of the Potions students were long gone. What was Potter up to? Could it be possible that he was staying after class to kiss up to Slughorn even more? Unbelievable. This was new levels of pathetic, even for Potter.

Draco stopped pacing, and edged quietly toward the door. Maybe he could hear what they were saying.

Potter was asking something, and oh yes he was definitely kissing up to Slughorn, just as Draco suspected. The bastard. But Potter's voice was too quiet, and Draco couldn't quite make out the words. Frustrated, he glanced to his left and right to be sure he was alone, and then bent down to listen through the keyhole.

Now Slughorn was answering, but his voice was even quieter than Potter's. In fact, Slughorn was whispering--an urgent, angry whisper. What on earth could Slughorn have to whisper to Potter about? '
And then Slughorn's voice rose. Not much, but enough anger fueled Slughorn's tone so that Draco could pick up both the emotion and the words. "If you've seen that memory, Harry... I don't know anything--anything--about Horcruxes."

Draco's breath caught in his throat. He didn't understand a word of what Slughorn had said, but he knew, now, positively, that there was something more going on here. Slughorn sounded terrified and angry, and Harry sounded desperate.

Slughorn's voice rose even louder. He was almost shouting at Potter now. "Then you were wrong, weren't you? Wrong!"

Just in time, Draco realized Slughorn was headed for the door. Dashing down the hall a few feet, Draco sank to the floor. Quickly, he pulled out his potions book and struck a casual pose. Though his heart was beating fast in his chest, he was surely the picture of relaxed disinterest.

Slughorn emerged into the hallway looking white as a sheet. Draco watched out of the corner of his eye as Slughorn headed away from where Draco sat, walking much more quickly then one would expect a man of his size could.

The moment Slughorn disappeared down the hall, Draco stood and walked in the other direction, as fast as he could. The desire to hex Potter was gone. All of his anger at Potter suddenly seemed inconsequential, replaced now not by the cabinet or the Dark Lord, but rather by one question, and he didn't even know why it was important.

What were horcruxes?