Chapter 17: The Midnight Marauder
Hermione had been Harry's friend long enough to expect the days following the Halloween feast to be thoroughly unpleasant, and they delivered beyond her wildest dreams. Like the Gryffindors, the rest of the school seemed to believe Harry had placed his own name in the goblet; unlike the Gryffindors, however, they didn't seem to be thrilled. The Hufflepuffs, of course, had their own champion to support and seemed to feel that Harry had stolen their spotlight-an attitude Hermione could understand, though she refrained from sharing this with Harry. Most of Ravenclaw acted cooly unimpressed, while Slytherin was divided between indifference and haughty amusement.
And then there was Ron. At first, Hermione simply assumed he'd sulk for a few days and become his usual self again. The Monday after the feast, she was careful to sit between him and Harry in lessons, making what she knew were highly transparent attempts to draw them out. By the end of the day, both were answering her in monosyllables and she hated the sound of her own voice. As the week wore on and life became steadily more unpleasant for Harry, Ron became paradoxically more firm in his belief that the former was enjoying all the attention.
"It'd be one thing," he said importantly Thursday evening at dinner, "if he didn't want to tell them." He gestured vaguely around with his fork, sending half a baked potato flying toward the Hufflepuff table. "That'd be one thing. But he's never lied to us before, has he?"
"No, he hasn't," said Hermione irritably. "So wouldn't you think-"
"D'you know, he wouldn't have gotten out of the forest in second year if it wasn't for my dad's car," Ron went on, as though she hadn't spoken. "And the Chessboard in first year. Remember the Chessboard?"
"I remember the Chessboard," sighed Hermione.
"But he's always liked things his way, Harry, hasn't he? Suppose it was a matter of time before he went off on his own." Hermione fought the urge to upend her bowl of stew over his head.
"Or maybe," she said testily, "he's your best friend and he's going through a lot at the moment, and you might consider-"
"Supposed to be my best friend," Ron corrected. "I'm not stupid, Hermione."
"You're a very talented actor, then," Hermione snapped, snatching her bag and leaving Ron and her uneaten dinner behind her.
Predictably, Harry was being similarly obstinate.
"I didn't start this," he insisted. "It's his problem."
"You miss him," said Hermione impatiently. "And I know he misses you-"
"I do not miss him!" snarled Harry. "And I've got better things to do than chase after him trying to make him grow up!"
The following Monday, things took a steep turn for the worse when Draco turned up in the library after Quidditch practice, late and looking distinctly uncomfortable. He waved away Hermione's questions but remained distracted until, nearly an hour later, he set aside his Charms homework with a sigh.
"How'd he take it?" he asked, and winced as though the words had stung him. Hermione frowned.
"What?" Draco sighed.
"You know. How'd he take it." Hermione sighed and glanced at her watch. They had scarcely a half-hour before the library closed, which meant no time for games.
"Draco, I've honestly no idea what you're talking about." Draco went pale.
"Oh." He paused. "Well, never mind then."
"No," she decided, with a slight shake of her head. "Tell me." Draco looked down at his homework for a moment, and when he glanced back at her he looked like an eight-year-old who didn't want his mother to discover the mess he'd made in the kitchen.
"It's nothing bad," he said carefully, and winced. "Well...no, it is, it's just...nothing bad about you. But…" Beginning to feel annoyed, Hermione shut her book with a snap.
"Draco, if you don't tell me right now-"
"If you don't already know, then I can't!"
"And why not, exactly?"
"Because it'll make you feel awkward-"
"Right now you're making me feel irritated."
"-and you'll wish I hadn't!" Hermione sighed and crossed her arms in an effort to look properly defiant.
"I'll bet you five galleons. Isn't that what your lot do all the time?" Draco gave her a long, world-weary sort of look, then sighed as if she were paining him greatly.
"Flint was a bit put out at practice today," he said flatly. "Said Angelina Johnson came to see him this afternoon. Wanted to tell him she's asked Roger Davies to have Ravenclaw take Gryffindor's place in the first match." Dread crept into the pit of her stomach.
"Er-why?" Draco averted his eyes.
"To, er. Give Gryffindor time to find a new Seeker." Hermione managed to squash the irrational urge to smack him, but it was a close thing.
"What?! But Harry-I don't-Surely Angelina wouldn't-"
"No, Flint said she was nearly crying when she told him." He fiddled absentmindedly with his quill, and jumped slightly when it slipped off the table. "McGonagall reckons he's got to focus. You know. On the tournament."
Numbly, Hermione reached into her pocket and shoved five galleons into Draco's hand without looking at him. For the first time in her life she longed to return to the summer holidays, when her biggest concern had been her father's annoying colleagues and their abominable children. She was getting very tired of waking up every morning wondering what else could possibly go wrong.
There was a great collective wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth as the news of Harry's dismissal from the Quidditch team spread through Gryffindor Tower. Dean and Seamus, who had spent most of the past week plodding along in Ron's wake, offered to speak to McGonagall for him. Ginny was furious on his behalf, and lost no time in reminding any would-be replacements exactly who the real Gryffindor Seeker was. Harry simself bore the news with a predictable stone-faced grimace and set about descending into a spectacularly foul mood which ate steadily away at Hermione's sympathy until she found herself fantasizing about pushing him out the window with the Banishing Charm Flitwick was teaching them or feeding him to Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts.
After nearly two weeks of this, Hermione arrived early at breakfast one morning to find Ginny and Theo already at the end of the Gryffindor table, clearly deep in conversation. Hearing her approach, they snapped apart at once. Ginny looked her up and down as if determined to detect some sort of illness, and Theo gave her a light, mischievous grin.
"Morning," he said smoothly, as she sat. Ginny kicked him under the table and shot him a very nasty look before resuming her grim appraisal of Hermione. Puzzled, Hermione scanned their faces in turn for a clue as to what on earth could possibly be going on. To her annoyance, their expressions were as unhelpful as they were mismatched.
"Hello," said Ginny finally, in a formal sort of voice that didn't suit her at all. "How, er...had a good morning?" Hermione frowned.
"Er-all right, I suppose."
"And what about your old friend Harry?" asked Theo, eyes twinkling with ill-disguised delight. Ginny glared and elbowed him, hard, in the ribs.
"Don't be an ass," she snapped. Theo raised his hands defensively.
"I was just asking-"
"You were being an ass."
"You aren't fun at all this morning."
"What's going on?" Hermione cut in. Ginny and Theo exchanged a look; Theo raised an eyebrow and shrugged. Ginny shook her head.
"Nothing," she said firmly. Theo rolled his eyes.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, she's going to see it anyway." Hermione fought the urge to scream. Quite apart from Ginny and Theo's annoying behavior, what could possibly be the matter now?
"See what?" she said impatiently. With an enormous sigh, Ginny reached into her bag and yanked out what looked very much like the Daily Prophet.
"Fine," she muttered. "Enjoy." She stuck her tongue out at Theo, who rolled his eyes.
"It's not my fault, I didn't write the thing." Ginny's indignant reply was lost in the rush of air filling Hermione's ears as the earth began spinning at several times its normal speed. Rita Skeeter's talents, it seemed, were not confined to criticizing the Ministry's performance at the World Cup. Splashed across the front page was not so much an article on the Triwizard Tournament (as its title claimed) but a lengthy biography of Harry which gleefully demonstrated Rita Skeeter's vivid imagination. For a start, the article was full of sickly quotations Hermione didn't think Harry could've dreamed up, let alone uttered in the presence of another human being.
I suppose I get my strength from my parents. I know they'd be very proud if they could see me now...yes, sometimes at night I still cry about them, I'm not ashamed to admit it...I know nothing will hurt me during the tournament, because they're watching over me…
Ginny and Theo's behavior was truly explained, however, by the next section of the article. Evidently dreaming up repugnant soliloquies about Harry's parents wasn't enough; the old cow had interviewed other students about him, as well.
Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts. His close friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who, like Harry, is one of the top students in the school.
For heaven's sake. She'd thus far escaped the unpleasantness the rest of the school had heaped on Harry since Halloween, but something told her her luck had run out.
"The next time you see Colin Creevey..." she began slowly, and Ginny smirked.
"Saw him this morning. You know, I'd been looking for an opportunity to practice that bat-bogey hex Moody's been talking about."
"The bat-bogey hex is for children," said Draco's voice from behind. Before a rational thought could enter her mind, Hermione found her hands shoving the newspaper violently under the table and out of sight.
"Not the way she uses it," Theo countered. "I don't reckon Colin Creevey will ever be the same."
Ginny grinned.
"True, and thank you, and you're still an ass." Draco jostled Hermione and Theo apart and slipped in between them.
"Don't tell me you've been rude to Colin Creevey," he admonished, shaking an authoritative finger in Ginny's face. Theo gave an incredulous laugh.
"Since when d'you give a damn about Colin Creevey?" Draco gave a deep, exaggerated sigh and fixed them in turn with an affected grave expression which did little to hide the amusement in his eyes.
"Funny you should ask," he said wearily. "I'm shocked myself, to be honest, but it seems Creevey's done me a bit of a favor lately." Hermione groaned.
"Draco, honestly-"
"No, no, there's no need to explain," Draco went on, a grin spreading across his face even as he fought to contain it. "See, I did always sense this day would come." He took Hermione's hand in his and kissed it as if he were an important businessman and she a colleague's wife. "I only ask that at your wedding-which I shall be attending, make no mistake about it-that a toast be made in my honor. After all, I've done quite a lot to prepare you for a life alongside the Boy Who Lived." Hermione wasn't sure whether to smack him or throw her arms around him, and settled for yanking her hand free and fighting a losing battle against laughter.
"And what d'you mean by that, exactly?"
"Well, I did teach you all about Quidditch." She snorted.
"You didn't."
"I tried. You never listen." Draco paused. "One of your best qualities, in my opinion, but who knows whether famous Harry Potter will feel the same." Hermione rolled her eyes, but his grin flooded her with such warm relief and deep affection that she couldn't help returning it.
"Yes, well, this is boring now," Theo announced, eyes drifting in the vague direction of the Ravenclaw table as he stood and swept from the table. "Draco, tell Professor Flitwick I'm ill this morning," he added over his shoulder. Draco looked startled.
"I won't."
"Well, tell him I've gone to Australia then, I don't really care." Draco waved this away impatiently.
"Why?" Theo raised an eyebrow.
"Why d'you think?"
"Right, but obviously you're not ill, so where are you actually going?" snapped Draco. When Theo simply gave him a casual wave and turned away, he rounded on Ginny "Do you know where he's going?" She shrugged.
"Not a clue. He's being a bit weird lately." Draco sighed and muttered something in agreement. Hermione was reminded forcefully of the way Theo had looked at her that strange evening in the library what now felt like a hundred years ago, and suddenly found herself feeling fiercely and inexplicably protective of him. She took Draco's hand in hers, and to her enormous relief he turned to face her, all traces of annoyance with Theo vanishing at once.
"You're not upset? About the article, I mean?" Draco waved this away.
"Of course not. It isn't your fault, and it's funny." Hermione groaned.
"That's easy for you to say, your name isn't in the thing." For the first time that morning, Draco gave her a genuine smile.
"I know. But if you don't seem upset, they won't have anything to talk about. Will they?" He gestured vaguely around at the other tables, then met her eyes with a look that drew her breath up short and slipped an arm around her waist. "Besides," he added, lowering his voice so only she could hear, "I can think of a few ways of setting the record straight, if there's any confusion."
His kiss lingered much more than he normally dared in the Great Hall, and she found no trace of her usual nerves at being so exposed. Instead, though she couldn't explain it, she felt perfectly at home and deliciously, dangerously powerful.
"For fuck's sake, now I'm going to be sick." Footsteps, far louder than could possibly be necessary, announced Ginny's departure. They drew apart slowly and laughed, sharing a joke neither could articulate but both innately understood. It didn't matter what anyone else said; for the first time since the Halloween feast, she knew everything would be all right.
Try as he might, Draco couldn't summon an ounce of concern for a stupid article in the Daily Prophet no matter what it might say about his girlfriend and his...what? Enemy? Not exactly. Friend? Definitely not. Occasional reluctant ally whose safety he'd been forced to care about against his will? Well, that was a bit long. In any case, it didn't matter.
Hermione didn't seem to care much about the Prophet article either; truth be told, he was in overwhelming awe of the way she brushed haughtily by as half the school shrieked taunts at her, as if anything less were utterly beneath her. Well, not as if. The marvelous thing about Hermione was that it really was beneath her.
She did, however, talk of almost nothing other than the mysterious upcoming first task, which led to a number of vaguely grating circular conversations in which they agreed they knew next to nothing and hadn't a clue how to find out more. Draco knew she was worried about her friend, but although he felt like the world's biggest dickhead, he couldn't summon much enthusiasm for this subject either.
Partially, he was exhausted from near-constant Quidditch training which led nowhere except the receiving end of long, semi-coherent rants from Flint about the team's steadily worsening performance. The match against Ravenclaw loomed ever nearer, and for some reason the rest of the school seemed thrilled by this. It was quite normal for the first match of a season to attract a certain amount of attention, but as with everything else, this year everyone seemed to view it as yet another opportunity to impress their foreign guests. Which came to the second (but unfortunately, not secondary) reason for his preoccupation.
It was quite normal for himself and Hermione to spend a large portion of their time in the library, particularly as November ushered in the usual barrage of pre-holiday homework. This year, however, their normally secluded corner saw another frequent visitor, one who was beginning to occupy a staggering amount of space in Draco's mind whether he was physically present or not.
Viktor Krum had taken to perusing the bookshelves almost nightly, studying large books that looked as if they'd come from the Restricted Section and making copious notes which he'd then brood over until the library closed. Hermione often complained about this, not because he ever bothered them, but because his presence came with an entourage of fifth and sixth-year girls who swarmed around him making useless conversation, whispering loudly amongst themselves, and generally making it impossible to concentrate. Well, making it impossible for Hermione to concentrate.
"He's not even good-looking," she said fiercely under her breath one evening, slamming down her quill as a fifth-year Hufflepuff gave a particularly loud giggle somewhere behind them. "People only like him because he plays Quidditch." Vaguely nettled and unable to articulate why, Draco followed suit.
"Well, isn't that better?" he hissed. "You said before that it's not right to like people because they're good-looking, so which is it?" She frowned.
"I didn't, actually."
"What's an acceptable reason to like someone, then?" The moment the words left his mouth Draco would've given anything to take them back, but Hermione was already shoving her books into her bag, looking highly annoyed.
"What's the matter with you?" she snapped. He opened his mouth to-what? Apologize? but she shook her head impatiently. "Forget it. This is ridiculous, I'll never get any work done. I'm going upstairs." She neededn't have bothered. Ten feet away, Krum was likewise gathering his things. His admirers had scattered like flies, but he took his time, painstakingly rolling up his parchment and stowing his quill, all the while staring contemplatively at the darkening grounds outside the window.
"Draco?" He jumped. Hermione had gone a few paces and turned back, confused.
"What?"
"I said, are you coming?" He swallowed hard and wrenched his eyes away from Krum.
"Er-in a bit. I want to check something." She shrugged and nodded.
"All right, then. Goodnight." She gave him a kiss and he returned it, feeling positively sick now.
"'Night." He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, willing the knot in his chest to dissolve. It occurred to him briefly to wonder what was wrong with him, but he recognized the light, dizzy turn of his head and the agreeable agony burning the pit of his stomach. What was he going to do?
He wanted to scream, but had an idea Madam Pince wouldn't be over-pleased with this, so he settled for a deep, steadying breath and opened his eyes. Krum had gone, but his table wasn't empty. He'd left behind his book.
Draco acted before he could think. With a glance over his shoulder to ensure he was truly alone, he crossed to Krum's vacated table and snatched up the book. Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland, read the title. The pages were dogeared and the cover was ever so slightly warm, and for a split second he had the impression of reaching through time and space to touch the hands responsible for the state of the book. He only just managed to stifle a yelp as he leapt back, heart well and truly pounding, and dropped the book with a smack that may as well have been an explosion in the cavernous, deserted room. There was a moment of brittle, deadly silence.
"Who's there?" came Madam Pince's voice, too close for comfort. He scrambled to pick up the book and replace it on the table. Driven by a wholly unfamiliar and utterly excruciating variety of panic, he fled the library and didn't look left or right until he was safely inside the common room.
Tomorrow, he decided, he'd suggest they study in the courtyard.
The day of the first Quidditch match dawned brisk and sunny, and Flint celebrated the favorable conditions by dragging them all out of bed at the crack of dawn for a few choice words about what, precisely, he'd do to them if they played the way they'd done at practice for the past month. Draco simply stared up at the ceiling and let his brain go hollow, words simply flitting through without leaving any lasting impression. When at last Flint ordered them into formation to go out on the pitch, Draco hung back and fell into step with Ruby.
"Scared?" he asked in an undertone, so only she could hear. She gave him an oddly melancholy sort of smirk.
"No," she said grimly. "I know we haven't got a chance in hell."
Draco fought the urge to squeeze her hand as they marched out onto the pitch. They were going to be utterly destroyed, but at least he wasn't the only one who knew it.
"Castle to G5." Pause. The voice was familiar, but he couldn't place it.
"Knight to G5." Crash. Another familiar voice, and this one warmed him...but there was something else, something sharp and unpleasant creeping up inside him, but what was it?
"You can't do that!"
"Check."
"Oh, for fuck's sake…"
It was as if everything-not just the air, but everything was sucked abruptly out of him until it was gone, but the sucking didn't stop. His ribs bent and snapped under the pressure, his heart burned in a highly peculiar and unpleasant way, his lungs collapsed and the air might have been concrete for the trouble he had sucking it in. His eyes fluttered open, and now his head was throbbing, too.
"Finally." The first voice. It was Blaise. "Good of you to join us. He cheats at Chess."
"He's rubbish at Chess." Theo. He couldn't be sure whether their faces were a foot away or a mile, but for some reason the ceiling behind them was crystal clear. He knew that ceiling. He was in the hospital wing, but why?
"Since when d'you play Chess?" Apparently, he could still speak. Blaise shrugged.
"Since around an hour ago. You've been fairly boring up till now, if you want to know the truth."
"Have I?" His head gave a sharp twinge, and he grimaced. "What happened?" Blaise and Theo shared a significant look.
"Well, you haven't been lying," said Blaise flatly. "Dunno what's come over you all, but that was painful to watch." Draco rolled his eyes, regretted it at once, and squeezed them shut.
"Yes, but what happened?" Blaise and Theo shared a significant look.
"Well...Ravenclaw was about ninety points ahead," Theo began. "Didn't take long, either, but at least that girl...what's her name, again?"
"Ruby," sighed Draco, and Theo nodded.
"Right. Well, she scored a few goals, but all Montague did was go around fouling the Ravenclaw Chasers and all Flint did was shout at everyone, so it sort of just...backfired, honestly."
"And what's that got to do with this?" said Draco impatiently. He tried to gesture vaguely at the room around him, but his arm seemed to weigh six hundred pounds.
"We're getting there," Blaise cut in. "See, while all this was going on, Cho Chang spotted the Snitch."
"Actually, you spotted the Snitch first and she blocked you for a bit," Theo cut in.
"Right, so it was a hundred and ninety to seventy to Ravenclaw," Blaise went on, and excitement crept into his voice now. "And Madam Hooch awarded them a penalty because...I dunno, because of something, I can't remember-"
"Because Warrington tried to smack their Keeper in the face with his club," said Theo wryly. "And Chang spotted the Snitch again right after the game started back up, only Ravenclaw had the Quaffle-"
"So if they scored, we were doomed-" Blaise cut in.
"Right, and so Chang did this dive thing, it was really steep and we all thought you'd follow her, but instead you sort of went around, so you were waiting for her at the bottom and she was about an inch away from the Snitch, right? And you sort of just...leapt at her. It was a bit scary, actually."
"It was brilliant," Blaise countered. "But then…" he winced. "You really don't remember?"
"Wouldn't be asking if I did," he muttered.
"Well, Warrington sent a Bludger after you," Blaise told him. "Actually I think he was aiming for Chang...but he missed, and well…"
"His club went flying out of his hand and smacked you in the back of the head," Theo concluded. "That's when you fell off your broom." He gave a soft laugh. "Madam Hooch had to lead Warrington away because Flint was so angry."
"That was scary," said Blaise earnestly. "I think he was worried you wouldn't be fit to play in the next match." Draco's stomach dropped.
"What?"
"Oh, relax, Madam Pomfrey says you'll be fine as long as-"
"As long as he rests." Draco didn't think he'd ever seen Madam Pomfrey approach anyone before; she always simply appeared out of thin air, and at the moment, she was surveying Blaise and Theo as if she'd like to hit them around the head with Bludgers.
"D'you know, I'm suddenly in the mood for a walk by the lake," said Blaise matter-of-factly. "Fancy coming along, Theo?"
"Yeah, all right then." Theo paused and gave Draco a light smirk. "We'd invite you, but, well…" he gestured vaguely toward the bed and winked. Draco laughed, and regretted it at once as something in the area of his ribs gave his insides a sharp stab. Madam Pomfrey watched with utmost disapproval until Blaise and Theo had shut the door carelessly behind them, then retreated into her office with a haughty sort of sniff.
The silence that followed was so complete that it felt solid, pressing in on Draco's aching head until his ears rang with every excruciating throb and he felt dizzy and feverish. The ceiling was swirling nauseatingly above him and he shut his eyes lest he be sick, and the next thing he knew he was jolted awake by the vague awareness of another person close to him. Perhaps Blaise and Theo had tired of the grounds and come back...of course, neither of them ever smelled like jasmine. A smile came unbidden to his lips, and he opened his eyes slowly.
"Oh, good," sighed Hermione, and though her face was blurred somewhat, he could make out her worried frown. "I thought...I mean, you look terrible." He raised an eyebrow and discovered, in the process, that the pain in his head had subsided somewhat.
"I really prefer 'hello'," he told her, and she gave an uncertain laugh.
"Sorry." She looked a bit like an angel, floating above him, eyes soft, cheeks just pink enough to warm his own...but an angel who had been out of practice for quite some time. Her hair was shoved messily into a clip and her clothes were wrinkled and none too clean. The top two buttons of her shirt were undone, and suddenly it wasn't just his cheeks that felt warm.
"You've got…" he found, to his slight surprise, that he could lift his hand just enough to brush aside a bit of dust from her shoulder. Her sharp intake of breath at his touch removed him from the confines of gravity, and she caught his hand in hers as he made to withdraw it.
"I've been…" she shook her head slightly. "Harry...he's behind. In lessons, I mean, and he's got…You know." She bit her lip and glanced down at the floor. He frowned.
"You didn't see the match?" She shook her head.
"Ginny told me. She said..." Draco groaned.
"I think I'll actually die if you tell me what Ginny said." Hermione laughed.
"I was going to paraphrase." He laced his fingers in with hers, marveling absentmindedly at the warmth of her hands.
"Far be it from me to stop you, then." She shrugged.
"She said she likes Gryffindor's chances, after all." Draco sighed.
"Well, so do I." Hermione shrugged slightly.
"She said you were brilliant," she added, in an entirely different tone. He smirked.
"Careful. Someone might tell Rita Skeeter you fancy me." Hermione gave an enormous sigh and made a show of rolling her eyes.
"And I was worried you'd be too injured to be vile this evening."
"When you're looking at me like that? Never." Their fingers were still interlocked, and at some point gravity had pulled her close enough to watch the flickering torchlight reflected in her eyes. She gave him a coy smile.
"Like what?" He drew her hand in closer, relishing the ease with which she followed.
"Like this," he whispered, and kissed her. She pulled away ever so softly after a moment with a glance at the darkening room around them.
"Shh," she breathed, scarcely moving her lips. He caught his breath in his chest, and seconds later she returned to steal it away.
"Excuse me!" They sprang apart at once as though burned; Madam Pomfrey stood before them, and Draco thought he had never properly appreciated how much she looked like a saber-toothed tiger. "Miss Granger, I insist that you leave at once! Mr. Malfoy, if you were well enough for these sorts of activities, I wouldn't be keeping you overnight!"
"Brilliant," Draco retorted, before he could think better of it. "Can I go, then?"
"Certainly not!" snapped Madam Pomfrey. "Out, Miss Granger! Now!" Hermione turned on her heel and fled, hiding her brilliantly pink face in her hands. Suddenly, Draco felt unbearably small.
"If you can't learn to be more careful in school, Mr. Malfoy, do at least find yourself a quieter social circle." He bit his lip.
"Sorry." Unless he was imagining things, the barest hint of a smile flickered over Madam Pomfrey's face.
"Mr. Malfoy, in my years at this school I have seen far more scandalous things in my infirmary."
"Like what?" he said hopefully.
"Good night, Mr. Malfoy."
And then she was gone, leaving Draco with nothing to do but stare up at the ceiling as the gathering dark ushered the pain back into his head. It was a very long time before he stumbled unceremoniously into something resembling sleep.
At first, Draco couldn't be sure what had woken him. Complete darkness gave way to an odd, hazy blue-white which became the familiar ceiling, only now it gave him the creeps. Spots above him looked like eyes, unseeing but nonetheless boring holes into his own, making his heart race and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He fought to turn away, but he couldn't move; there was something else there, some presence lurking behind him, and unless he was very, very still-
Thunk.
Yes. If he moved a muscle, whatever was skulking around in the shadows would show its horrible face and...oh, but he wasn't a child anymore, he thought crossly. He'd been alone in the hospital wing when he drifted off, he was alone in the hospital wing now, and he was too old to allow-
Thunk. Closer this time, and had that shadow been there a moment ago?
-to allow his imagination to run away with him. Of course it had been there a moment ago. Yes, it did look unfortunately humanlike; that bit at the top might have been a nose, and all right, this shape toward the middle put him in mind of a grisly hand, greyish and glistening, not quite flesh, not quite bone…
Thunk.
He squeezed his eyes shut, and suddenly he was face-to-face with a dementor, horrible rotting hands outstretched, a harsh, suckling gurgle emanating from some unseen source beneath its hood. It was drawing closer by the second, a foot away, now ten inches, and now it raised its dreadful hands and took hold of its hood, preparing to draw it back…
Thunk. Silence, then a faint click, followed by the weary sigh of door hinges beginning to tire of doing their job. Of course. Madam Pomfrey had come to fetch something from her office, that was all.
What could she possibly need at half-past three in the morning? hissed a voice in the back of his head, but he pushed it away and slowly, gingerly opened his eyes. The time it took him to turn his head toward the sound felt like a thousand years, but he didn't dare move faster for fear of making a sound. Finally, he could make out a figure standing just inside the office, rummaging through a large cabinet of...wait a moment. Yes, there was an adult-sized figure, and yes, it was digging through Madam Pomfrey's things, but even from twenty feet away, he could tell at a glance it wasn't Madam Pomfrey. The shoulders were too broad and too hunched, the gait too stilted and the head covered with thin, grizzled hair.
Thunk. Draco shut his eyes once more and wrestled his frantic heartbeat into submission. He felt the figure retrace its steps through the hospital wing, footsteps echoing like rockfall through his chest and counting what felt like his final remaining seconds on this earth. He was desperate to get a proper look at the intruder, but he didn't dare open his eyes, didn't dare breathe for fear of what might happen if whoever it was realized he was awake.
Click. A faint creak. The main hospital wing door. Draco held his breath, gritted his teeth, and opened his eyes just as the stranger slipped around the corner and out of sight. He saw next to nothing, but it was enough to turn his blood to ice.
The last thing through the door before it shut was the end of a wooden leg.
