As soon as Heather had snapped the lid of her laptop closed, the torches in the library went out. Madam Pince, half-way through chiding a group of third years, froze, her face suddenly blank, and faded out of view like a strange ghost. The other students and a few books and portraits similarly froze and vanished. Draco wasn't even amused anymore by the books that had been caught in time, suspended in the air from when the nerdy-looking second year had dropped them. Luckily, it was daytime, so it wasn't completely dark.

Unluckily for Draco, Heather's file saved. When he was accustomed to the new atmosphere, he looked down belatedly to realize that Amber was snuggling against him, her perfect hair somehow remaining eerily formed, as though it was made of plastic – or had been hairsprayed to the point of being a fire hazard. For a moment, Draco regretted the fact that all the torches were unlit...

However, as he shifted to look uncomfortably down at her barbie-doll head, she looked up at him, tilting her head upwards as she molded her body closer to his. She ran her perfect, unshiny, air-brushed-looking nose against his chin.

"Mmm," she murmured. "You do smell good."

Draco was saved from trying to find an answer to that; he heard a call of, "Hey Amber!" as Harry and Ron came into view from behind the bookshelf. Draco rolled his eyes. Of course they wouldn't be far away.

"So, Amber, what's wrong?" asked Harry genially, sitting down next to Amber on the couch and running a hand across her shoulders comfortingly. When his hand brushed Draco's, he glanced at the blonde boy. Draco scowled and wrenched his hand away. He hated any sort of contact with Harry, and avoided it when possible. Shrugging, Harry turned his attention back to the girl, who, for once, was not staring adoringly at Draco.

"Wrong?" she echoed.

"Yeah," Ron replied, inching over inconspicuously, or as inconspicuously as Ron Weasley could manage. Draco happily stood quickly, allowing Ron to slide with what he thought was "smoothness" into the seat. He looked pleased with himself as he placed his hand on Amber's other shoulder.

"Your perfect eyes were sparkling with unshed tears."

Draco, standing off to the side, rolled his eyes. It hadn't been that great when the author had said it; Ron's voice just made it sound pathetic, although he obviously thought himself quite poetic.

Amber cocked her head. "Nothing's wrong. Draco was comforting me."

Draco raised an eyebrow. Had she just spoken coherently? With words not fed directly to her?

"Then why were you crying?" he asked harshly, his angry tone masking his secret, desperate hope that she would respond with something original. Maybe – just maybe – things were as horrible as he had thought.

"I wasn't."

"Wasn't what?" he snapped, trying hard to fight his annoyance. Stories always said he had a temper, which perhaps was right – no one, though, understood the that it was the constant narration, echoing in his head, that made him frequently short-tempered. Except Harry. Harry just pissed him off.

"I wasn't crying," she replied sweetly. Draco was watching her, his eyes suddenly careful. He couldn't let her know the wild hope that was making his heart pound loudly, as he watched her perfect green eyes meet his. She smiled at his attention and continued, "My perfect eyes were glistening with tears. It's okay, though – you've noticed that other people have feelings..."

She trailed off, smiling, as though not realizing that her comment was double sided, and hurt him just as much as it was meant to compliment, with the implication that he had been rude and selfish before.

Draco didn't even realize he was clutching the back of a wooden library chair until the wood snapped in his furious grip. He didn't even register the sharp pain he felt as the rough edge was thrust by his own anger into his palm.

"Draco," Hermione called behind him, emerging from the same area Harry and Ron had come. "Put that down before you hurt yourself."

Looking down, Draco saw the broken wood buried in his hand, and felt a fresh wave of anger that made him clench his jaw in an effort not to lash out at Hermione.

"Before I hurt myself?" he asked, his voice deadly calm and icy.

Hermione didn't answer, but walked over and gently removed the wood from his hand. He couldn't move; it was as though his anger was paralyzing him. To his surprise, the ugly, raw, red gash on his hand drew together and was gone; it healed instantly. Hermione replaced the four-inch piece of wood in its former place, and the chair itself healed. None of the damage remained. Nothing remained to calm his anger. He had accomplished nothing.

For a long moment, Draco stared at his hand. Hermione, realizing that he was angry, let go of her gentle grip on him.

From her gentle brown eyes, Draco saw that she wasn't afraid of his anger.

"There's something wrong with you," she murmured, and stepped back. "Why don't you go for a walk, so you can get over it? Get back to the way you were?"

"You mean, stop feeling anything?" he growled back. She didn't flinch at his tone.

"I suppose so. It's much easier that way. Harry, Ron, and I have survived much longer like this."

Draco didn't want to acknowledge the truth in that; that he was involved in far less fanfics than the so-called "Golden Trio".

"You see now?" she asked when he paused, seething. "You can heal and go back to normal, just like that chair." She indicated the now-perfect wooden back with a casual wave of her hand.

"There's one difference between me and that chair, Hermione," he replied, his grey and/or blue eyes sparkling with deadly anger. "I'm alive. Or I should be."

And with that said, he spun and marched out the library.

"Is this a drama?" asked Ron casually, from the couch. "Only dialogue? I haven't heard any narration..."

"No, Ron," Hermione replied patiently, soothingly. She slid behind him on the couch and accepted his hand, not seeming to care that his other was wrapped around Amber's waist.

"Oh," replied Ron, the truth dawning on him. But he didn't seem to care that he couldn't tell between reality and fanfiction; he shrugged. The silence that followed was not comfortable or uncomfortable; it was simply a lack of words, and a lack of expressions, and a lack of emotions.

---

Draco was half-way up the stairs to Dumbledore's office when he paused, unsure of what he was doing. He knew that the Mirror of Erised was more than it seemed. If before, the mirror had reflected what he wanted, what would an archway do? Normal mirrors reflect, so did the Mirror; but archways mark entrances; was it possible that the frame had become some sort of portal?

Still, he paused at the entrance to Dumbledore's office.

"Come in, Mr. Malfoy," came a calm voice. His anger had been replaced by curiosity, but the adrenalin rush remained; he opened the door, ready to rush for the mirror and leap through.

Seeing his student's position, not unlike a runner before an Olympic Race, Dumbledore looked down his nose at Draco and murmured, "Be my guest, Mr. Malfoy."

Surprised, Draco straightened out of his half-crouch.

"Sir?" he replied, trying his best to keep his derision out of his voice at using the respectful term, his anger resurfacing. Couldn't Dumbledore ever exhibit emotions? Except, of course, in that final fanfic by that Rowling woman...

"I would go through myself, but I cannot abandon this school. It is usually mine..." His blue eyes twinkled with amusement. He alone did not mind when he was killed off in fanfics; it seemed to amuse him, especially all the ways he was brought back.

"To where?" asked Draco bluntly, not bothering to address the man courteously.

"Manners, Mr. Malfoy," replied the sometimes-Headmaster. His tone was serious, but his eyes continued to twinkle. Draco didn't reply, but stared angrily at the floor, fighting and angry response that would make an enemy of Dumbledore. He needed this information.

Slowly and deliberately, the old man neared the mirror and removed a single shard of glass. With a sound like falling china, the rest of the pieces fell, revealing a shadow, insubstantial arch-shaped blotch of darkness. Dumbledore reached in, a pulled out an object.

"Look," he instructed his pupil. "A sock!" he crowed, showing the object to Draco. Draco looked at it. The toe was ripped. A strange purplish stain was on the sole, and the top part was fraying. The pattern on it, of a frog catching a fly, was immature and silly.

"It's a sock," he replied, his face condescending.

"Yes!" replied Dumbledore. Draco shook his head. Sometimes, the Headmaster was just insane. And sometimes – gasp! – he was gay.

"This sock," Dumbledore continued, "is not like any other sock. Why is that?" Draco would have rather liked to snap that Dumbledore had no right to try and teach him, but he knew that he would have to play along.

"It's childlike and dirty?" he replied, his face twisted in a sneer. When he realized that Dumbledore was watching him patiently, he rearranged his expression to something more polite and added on a hasty, "Sir" at the end.

"Precisely! This sock is not from our world."

"Then where is it from?" asked Draco, with true interest.

"That I cannot say," replied Dumbledore. He returned to his desk, gathered up a stack of books (where had they come from? Draco wondered) and began walking towards the door.

"I am going to be away for a while," replied Dumbledore. "Knitting patterns fascinate me." When Draco stared dumbly after him, he continued, "I really should not allow anyone to pass through that doorway, but I suppose I cannot be expected to wait around all day guarding it."

When Draco stood completely still and stared, the sometimes-Headmaster winked at him and began walking down the stairs, whistling.

The burst of adrenalin was pulsing through his veins faster than ever as he eyed the doorway, then the was-mirror of Erised. Hesitantly, he put a hand through, then quickly withdrew it. Around him, he noticed that the trinkets that were usually on the Headmaster's desk were beginning to appear.

If he was to leave, he would have to do so while Dumbledore was gone, and while Hogwarts was not being controlled by some overly-obsessed fan. This would be his only chance. Without thinking, he pushed himself through the archway.

The barrier gave almost no resistence, and he had given no thought to where he would go. As he hurtled forward, through about thirteen years and across an ocean and assorted other land, he suddenly felt his feet hit the ground, but they got no traction before his head hit something wooden and hard, knocking him off his feet. As he slipped out of consciousness he vaguely registered the sharp pointiness of a stiletto heel pushing against his nose.