Chapter 1: The Black Lagoon

The weather was perfect for flying. A thin layer of clouds shielded him from the sun, and a light breeze filled the air with the faint perfume of grass and flowers and ran agreeably through his hair. Up ahead, a glimmer of gold shone through the trees-the Snitch. He shot toward it, flitting effortlessly among the branches as though he were no longer solid, but simply a part of the air itself. The Snitch was swirling, diving, weaving left and right to evade him, but he was gaining, he was nearly there, he reached out his hand, and then the air cooled so abruptly that his lungs froze and cracked, and the glimmer up ahead wasn't gold any longer, it was silver and long and sharp, like a sword, and then his outstretched hand shattered against something harder than air, harder even than steel. A high, cold laugh surrounded him, a hundred times louder than any human voice, and his next breath stung his nose and throat as his lungs filled with heavy, icy water. He struggled and fought, but in front of him was a sheet of ice a mile long and a foot thick, and the more desperately he pounded it to break it, the louder the shrieks of laughter became. They mingled with a strange, eerie hissing now, and cracks began to form in the ice before him. His heart leapt into his throat at the hope of an escape, but it instead of air, through the cracks rushed a thick, dark liquid, mingling with the water in his lungs and stinging his eyes, staining his broken hands. Ink.

Draco opened his eyes. He held up his hand in front of his face. It glowed faintly in the darkness as always, pale and pristine without a trace of ink anywhere, but it shook so badly that he let it fall, lacking the strength to keep it aloft. He felt as if something very heavy were sitting on his chest, but no-it simply took him a moment, after waking from these dreams, to remember that his lungs weren't full of water and ink. Air rushed to fill them, ushering in the usual ripping sensation as though his ribs were cracking and puncturing his lungs with their jagged edges. He lay very still, waiting for the sharp pain to morph into the weird, raw ache that so often sat like lead somewhere between his stomach and chest. When he felt sure he could move without being stabbed from the inside, he picked up his watch from his bedside table and groaned. It was half-past three in the morning, which meant at least three more hours before the sun came back above the horizon-not that much would change when the sun came up, he thought wryly.

He'd tried all summer to forget the events in the Chamber of Secrets last term. At first, he'd gone out on his broomstick so often he'd scarcely been inside the house except to sleep. Then, he'd turned his attention to his homework, but it hadn't taken long at all before he'd finished all his assignments and re-read most of his books from the previous year, conveniently omitting the ones written by Gilderoy Lockhart. He'd even tried reading the books in the Manor's library, but he'd stopped when he realized he now knew a load of useless information about the history of New Zealand and magical plants of the Scottish highlands by heart.

All of this proved ineffective. In the daytime he felt as though the old memory of Tom Riddle lurked around every corner and in every shadow, his smooth teenage face morphing into the one on the back of Professor Quirrell's head the moment he dug his fingernails into Draco's flesh. He felt unbearably anxious any time his parents walked into the room, and he had a feeling they felt the same way about him. His father scarcely emerged from his study, and his mother seemed keen to avoid being alone with him at all costs.

At night, he forced himself to lie awake as long as he possibly could, terrified of what awaited him when he finally fell asleep. Though the dreams never started the same way twice, the ending was always the same: drowning in ink, with Tom Riddle's high, cold laugh ringing out around him.

Day and night, he felt strange-vague and oddly cloudy, as though he were viewing the world through just enough fog to make everything seem shadowy and mysterious. He often felt close to crying, though he couldn't ever seem to actually manage it. The idea of eating made him feel ill, and although he hated going to bed and struggled getting to sleep, he'd also never had so much trouble forcing himself out of bed in the mornings. Worst of all, for the first time in his life, he was haunted by a profound, sickening craving for his mother's attention.

Hermione wrote him nearly every week with tales of her holidays in France, funny stories about her parents, and fascinating new things she'd found out researching her homework. Her letters felt like the sun's rays on an autumn afternoon-warm and gentle, beautiful and golden but with a hint of melancholy he couldn't quite explain. He loved imagining her wandering through the gardens in Versaille, basking in the endless sun of Mediterranean beaches, and exploring the beautiful, mysterious twists and turns of Paris. Sometimes he imagined himself there with her, and the thought always made his heart swell with happiness and ache at the same time. He devoured her letters, but couldn't seem to answer them. He wanted to talk to her so badly it was like a constant stomachache, but what could he say?

Yeah, sounds brilliant. Oh, me? I haven't closed my eyes without having a nightmare in two months, I'm always sad and I can't say why, and my parents are behaving as though I don't exist. Oh, and last term I found out they're the reason you were in the hospital wing for two weeks, and I'm terrified you'll never speak to me again if you ever find out, although maybe you already know and hate me, because your friends hate me and they got to witness that delightful moment for themselves. Also, you're right, I do love Paris, and thinking about you there has made me really want to kiss you, so thanks for that.

No, he couldn't say any of that.

The sun was creeping over the horizon now, and when the sky outside lightened from pale ash to a kind of washed-out lavender, he pushed his blankets aside and wandered downstairs. There was no sign of his parents, but in the drawing room, a slightly wrinkled copy of the Daily Prophet lay on the end table near his mother's chair. That was odd; his mother had a deep dislike of clutter which meant nothing was ever simply lying out on an end table without an immediate and obvious use. Now, though, he wondered whether she'd always left things lying about and Dobby had snatched them up before he ever noticed. Brushing away the sharp stab of pain to his heart, he focused his full attention on the article in the Prophet. As it happened this wasn't hard, for the moment he picked it up he had to stifle a yelp. The front page was nearly filled with a photograph of a man with long, matted black hair and a face which looked too much like a skull for Draco's liking, and mad eyes shining out of their deep sockets. With a shudder, he glanced at the article.

BLACK STILL AT LARGE

Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today. "We are doing all that we can to recapture Black," said the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning, "and we beg the magical community to remain calm."

Fudge has been criticized by some members of the International Federation of Warlocks for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis. "Well, really, I had to, don't you know," said an irritable Fudge. "Black is mad. He's a danger to anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the Prime Minister's assurance that he will not breathe a word of Black's true identity to anyone. And let's face it-who'd believe him if he did?"

While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun, the magical community lives in fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago.

Draco set the newspaper aside, frowning slightly in confusion. He'd never heard of this Sirius Black before, but in the wizarding world, his name could hardly be a coincidence; he had to be related, somehow, to Draco's mother. And what did the article mean by a massacre like that of twelve years ago? His aunt Bellatrix had been in Azkaban all his life, though no one had ever told him why. Could this Sirius Black person have anything to do with her?

"What are you doing?" He jumped. He hadn't heard his mother enter the room.

"Nothing," he said quickly. His eyes flitted involuntarily back toward the newspaper. Evidently his mother saw this, for she crossed the room and snatched it up sharply, an expression Draco couldn't quite read on her face.

"Don't touch what isn't yours," she snapped. Was that fear, that dark shadow looming in the back of her eyes?

"Who's Sirius Black?" Draco asked. "His surname's 'Black,' so he's got to be related to you, doesn't he?" It was fear, and for some reason, he found a perverse sort of pleasure in it.

"Don't ask questions."

"I only wanted to know who he is," Draco insisted. "It's not as if I asked anything horrible." His mother was quiet for a long time.

"Sirius Black is my cousin," she said curtly. "Or so it would say on a family tree. No more questions."

"Why did he go to Azkaban?" asked Draco at once. He knew he was pushing his luck far beyond what was wise, but he found himself hard-pressed to care. His mother turned sharply away, and at that moment his father swept into the room.

"Twelve years ago, it is said that Sirius Black was instrumental in the murder of the Potters just prior to the Dark Lord's downfall," he said silkily. There was a disdainful, vaguely ironic tone about his voice which made Draco wonder whether he himself believed the story. "He was confronted in the street by his friend Peter Pettigrew, whereupon he flew into a rage and murdered Pettigrew and twelve Muggle bystanders with a single curse before the Ministry arrived to subdue him. That is the massacre to which the Prophet refers. Naturally, this topic is very upsetting for your mother, so for once in your life, hold your tongue." Draco looked from his father to his mother, trying to sense any glances passing between them, but their faces were completely impassive.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Thanks." He turned and slipped out of the room, waiting in the corridor for a moment in case an opportunity presented itself to eavesdrop. None did, so he simply wandered back upstairs, contemplating the article and his father's story.

His mother had never liked to talk about her family. If he strained his memory very hard, he could vaguely recall snippets of visits to his mother's aunt's house as a child, but she had always sharply declined to answer his questions about these visits. When he was nearly five, they'd abruptly stopped; looking back, he supposed she'd died.

Now, with a jolt, a new thought occurred to him as he settled onto his bedroom window sill. Was this woman Sirius Black's mother? He bit back a laugh; as if he'd ever get his mother to answer that question.

And what about his father's story? He'd sounded sarcastic, even mocking, when he told it. And, given what Draco had discovered about his father down in the Chamber...well, if Sirius Black was instrumental in the downfall of the Potters, why did his parents speak of him with such obvious disdain? No, Draco didn't think the story was true-or, at the very least, his father didn't believe it-but that simply confused him further. If he didn't believe the story, why on earth was he bothering to tell it to Draco?

Dinner was nearly silent that evening. His parents kept giving one another long, significant looks, and Draco couldn't tell whether they were fighting or cooperating somehow. Either way, each was avoiding looking in his direction as though they feared a bomb would explode if they acknowledged their son. When he grew bored of picking at his food, Draco laid down his fork and asked another question that had been in the back of his mind all day.

"What's a gun?"