A/N: Thank you so much to reviewers! I love you all. Draco gets yelled at. And he throws up. Sorry. Had to be done.
Disclaimer: I am not lucky enough to as smart as to invent these characters myself. They are not mine. Too bad. –pout-
The Stone Speaks
Eighteen: Hug For a Death Eater
DRACO
The weather grew colder still, and as Draco scaled the step-ladder to Divination, he felt as though from just touching the frozen wood, he might freeze too. His Hufflepuff classmates seemed to agree, as when he entered the small chamber, they were shivering and huddling together to keep warmth.
Draco sat in his usual seat near the front – it was like sitting on ice – and wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck, burying his stinging nose in the warm fabric.
He looked up, to the sound of Professor Trelawney's shuffling footsteps, approaching the class. "Good morning, children," she said mystically. Silence followed. Trelawney frowned. "Hm. That's not right. I said 'Good morning, children'!" she sang brightly.
There was a general unenthusiastic mumble passing through the chamber. No-one liked being called a child, and they didn't like being sang at. Why's Trelawney so happy today? She's usually all doom-and-gloom, Draco thought to himself as he took his books out of his school bag.
"Page one-seven-six, please, students. Today is a theory lesson. Read quietly and take notes – but be warned, if you feel an urge to jump to your feet and sing 'Praise Be The House-Elf Knee', do not do so, or you will be scarred with spattergroit forever…" Professor Trelawney warned them, pushing her glasses further up her nose with long, trembling fingers.
Draco raised an eyebrow at this, but gave no objection, and opened his textbook, muttering under his breath, "I'll keep that in mind." The parts of a crystal ball… the globe… the foot… the stand… the smoke… His eyes were growing heavy in the cold as he grew number and number… and then –
PAIN.
Burning, burning, his arm was on fire, he felt like he could scream, he was already shouting, he'd fallen off of his chair and he was lying on the icy, hard floor, twisting as he gripped his arm tight, hoping to cut off circulation, make it stop, make it stop –
"Mr. Malfoy!" Professor Trelawney's voice cut through, "Are you alright? Oh no, I told you not to jump and sing the House-Elf song! Now look what you've done! Quick! To the Hospital Wing!"
Aware that everyone was staring at him and hissing, "attention-seeker" to each other, Draco hauled his bag onto his shoulder and slid down the ladder, landing hard on his backside on the marble floor. Standing, skidding, sprinting as fast as he could, get to the boy's bathroom, running, slamming through the door.
Draco tried to call out, to see if anyone was in there, but his throat was constricted and he couldn't breathe to shout. He kicked each cubicle door open – all empty – slammed the bathroom door shut, ground out, "Impentrio," and then threw himself sideways towards the sinks and the mirror.
He let go of his arm and gripped the side of the sink, so tight that his knuckles bulged and turned white. Draco's knees buckled; he leaned forwards and vomited into the sink, moaning repeatedly, "please… stop…"
The mirror.
Draco looked up, and for a moment, only saw his own pale, pointed (and now slightly green) face, with platinum hair falling all over the place – but then it changed. Draco knew that he was now in a mirror over Bellatrix Lestrange's mantelpiece, in her dining room. He was looking at the Death Eater's, gathered in the house, most massaging their forearms, grunting with the ache of the Dark Marks' calling.
"My Lord," Draco rasped, bowing his head. As his head ducked down, he saw his quivering elbows, and realized that he was shaking.
Lord Voldemort turned in his high-backed chair, focusing a beady scarlet glare on the seventeen-year-old boy. "You told me that the Stone of Montol would be mine by Christmas," he hissed. "It is December now -"
"But it is only early days, my Lord!" Draco gasped, and then realized his mistake. He had interrupted Lord Voldemort.
"Do not interrupt me!" Lord Voldemort snarled, slamming his hands down on the table. Nagini jumped slightly, and coiled tighter around his master's shoulders, purring defensively.
Draco stooped down, averting his gaze from the mirror. "I apologize, my Lord," he croaked, his throat still sore. When he looked up again, he saw that Bellatrix Lestrange was smirking, her arms folded smugly across her chest, black eyes sparkling maliciously.
"You told me that the Stone of Montol would be in my hold by Christmas," Lord Voldemort continued, "and it is now December. That, in my book, counts as Christmas – I never celebrated the ridiculous holiday. The point is, Malfoy… where is the Stone?"
Draco gulped. "I'm – I'm getting it," he stuttered. "I swear I am. The girl, Ginny, Ginny Weasley, she's too strong. I'm getting to her. She's getting weaker." A lie, anything, "if I can have some more time, I'll be able to destroy her. Then nothing can get in your way, my Lord."
Lord Voldemort's eyes narrowed dangerously as he eyed Draco, and then the Slytherin felt a sharp probe at the edge of his mind. Bang, just like Draco's father had taught him, the young boy was conjuring images of him hexing Ginny, pinning her against a wall, shouting at her, cursing her, sneaking up on her, waving a knife at her –
"Very well," said Lord Voldemort curtly. "I'll leave you to it. Be warned, Malfoy, that my patience is growing thin."
The probe left Draco's mind, and the seventeen-year-old sighed with relief. "Thank you, my Lord," Draco said. "I'll get the Stone to you as soon as possible."
Lord Voldemort sat down, glancing icily around the dining room. "I shall expect to hear from you very soon," he said coldly, and then Draco was thrown back into the boys' bathroom. Feeling as though he might be sick again, he stood slowly, holding a hand to his head tentatively. "Oh, hell," he muttered, staggering to the wall, slumping against it, and sliding down to the floor.
Draco pulled up his sleeve – the Dark Mark wasn't throbbing anymore, but it was still tender and sore. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he limped to the door, performed the counter-curse to open the locks on the door, and shuffled in the general direction of the stairs. He had no idea where he was going but he was cold and miserable and he wanted a hug.
A/N: Aw, Dracie-wacie wants a hug. Weeell too bad!! Coz he isn't gonna get one. … Random. Don't Ask. REVIEW. Or die. Your choice. XD