An Essence of Grey
The grey light caught him before he could duck out of the way. The faceless figure loomed above him. The air seemed to heave around him, churning uncomfortably and the dizziness roiled in his skull. An odd notching sound echoed around him as he tried to focus on the next spell coming his way and his fingers struggled to keep a grip on his wand, desperate to cast, fighting … fighting … but his eyes were already closing and the figure only watched.
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"Anything form the trolley, dearie?"
Draco's eyes blinked owlishly in the unexpected brightness. Sunlight was streaking in through the glass and hit him in the eyes. It made him squint but he relished how it warmed him. The cold had almost become a part of him; the cavern he'd been slumped in until a moment ago was gone. He knew this place. The tatty but comfortable seats were achingly familiar. The luggage racks above him called him home, with his brand new, pristine trunk with silver glinting at him in the sunlight. He could hear the hubbub of excited chatter and laughter. The Hogwarts Express.
"Nothing at all?"
The woman was waiting for him, her eyes oddly stern and he realised with a start that, yes, he was starving. He fumbled through his stiff and starchy robes, standard issue, Hogwarts black, and found a coin pouch. He fumbled with the coins and purchased his fill. He stared at his hoard as the witch retreated. He dove in, devouring the largest meal he'd had in months. As he wiped his mouth clean his attention returned to the pouch, new and engraved with his initials. The first one he'd ever had, gifted to him just before he left for school.
A headache creased his brow and he sipped at his water wishing it would ease. The luggage was too high up. He felt wrong; he was too small. His wand seemed too large but it also felt right; it was his first wand, his real wand, the one that chosen him in Ollivander's when he was eleven. He'd never managed to match perfectly again. He didn't want to put it down. A quick reflection charm confirmed it; he was on his way to Hogwarts for the first time…again. His robes had no emblems and his tie was a solid, unsorted, black. His face looked back quizzically. Had he always been so 'pointy'?
He didn't know how he had got here. He'd never seen a grey spell trace before. Could that have been a time-based curse? Did such a thing exist? He cast tempus casually and couldn't look away from the time it gave him.
He'd need to get in the library straight away and start figuring things out. He knew barely anything about time travel but he certainly wasn't meant to be roaming around 1991. The grey spell sat behind his eyes. It had to be that. There'd been no objects, cursed or otherwise. There had been no time sand or time turners. It had to be that spell.
The man he'd been fighting hadn't shown his face once and hadn't uttered a word. His spells had come thick and fast, and silent. There weren't many clues. Nondescript robes, covered blankness instead of a face. Could it have been an unspeakable? There were rumours they had meddled with time but if it had been why would they go after him and why send him here? Why bother with him at all?
He was isolated and on the run. They'd thrown him through the courts but he had made it. He'd walked out of the justice chambers a free man. It just hadn't been enough. The victorious light mobs had rejected the verdict and gone after him vigilante style. He'd never seen such fire lit beneath wizards and witches before. The Death Eaters had relied upon the lethargy of the masses. The ordinary person wanted to stay out of it and keep their head down and their noses clean. Suddenly, Potter defeats the dark lord and everyone had become empowered and they all spurred into action. And violence. They'd trapped him easily the first time; he hadn't seen it coming. But he had fought back all the same and he'd managed to get away and passed the matter into the hands of the aurors. They, it seemed, had meanwhile become powerless.
He felt for those scars as had become habit but the skin was unnervingly smooth. It jarred worse than his smooth, pointy face.
He needed a plan.
He'd helped Potter in the end. Potter had won. Until they'd come after him that had been enough. Even he thought he'd done enough. But the mark on his arm had branded him. His childhood feuds were well known and his involvement in the war was well publicised. It hadn't been enough, not to sway the public. Potter had tried to help, tried to calm the storm and soothe the crowd but it was just too much. He'd not put the blame on him; it wasn't Potter's fault his fans were raving lunatics. If this was his second chance he could not afford to muck it up. He would be better. When the time came there would be no doubt about what he had been fighting for.
He thought back to the boy he had been and knew he would be stronger. He held no fear for what his family would say, whether they would disapprove and even disown him. They wouldn't do anything to him that mattered. He had seen worse.
Potter was on this train. All he had to do was find him, sway him and then hold on for dear life until he was melded into that group, and although war would come he knew he'd be okay.
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He'd made a far deeper impression in Diagon Alley than he had expected. Eleven-year-old Harry Potter didn't want him. Shit.
Still, one day he would.
