The first conscious thought that Draco Malfoy had was where he was. Although he was disoriented, there was something distinctly different about the place he had appeared – whether it was the dimness, with only slivers of golden light framing a doorway, or the muffled noise of air conditioning cycling on somewhere above him, or the stifling feeling of breathing in dust. He rubbed his sore head, and took a deep breath.
And then he heard it – the all-too familiar voice of a narrator.
"Christie!" the voice trumpeted with false enthusiasm. "How are you?" There was a pause. "The flu? That sucks!" From his sitting position, Draco pressed his ear to the door, listening to see what the narrator was plotting. "So what's up?" He heard the shuffling of papers. "Oh, so you need the homework..." The brightness was gone from the tone, but the voice confirmed his worst dread – he was still stuck at Hogwarts; the was-mirror hadn't done anything but knock him unconscious. His head didn't even throb that much anymore.
As he struggled to sit up, pushing himself up with his hands, his right hand wrapped around a thin piece of cloth. He lifted it to his face, and after examining it in the dim light, he grinned. Standing, he held the sock in his hand, a talisman, not caring that the sole was grimy or that there was a rip in the ankle. For when he inspected the sock, he recognized the lop-sided grin of the frog from the sock's partner he had seen in Dumbledore's office.
However, the grin faded. Was this some twisted, strange fanfic? He could still hear the author talking; had this Christie character replacing Amber? He shuddered again, imagining a worse, more insipid character come to replace the plastic, living Barbie-doll.
"And Alegbra homework?" repeated the author. "I'll go check my assignment book. – Oh, I think I left it in the kitchen. One sec."
Draco listened carefully; over the gentle whistling of the air conditioning he could hear a door open, and then close. As he stood awkwardly in the closet, unsure if he should wait for narration or try and find his location, Draco suddenly realized that he had taken enough. He no longer cared about authors and their silly stories.
The sudden explosion of anger gave him strength to throw open the door and stride fearlessly into the room.
And then he froze.
The room was pale pink, with sheer white curtains undulating by the open window, the rosebud embroidery catching his eye. A pair of jeans and a pink t-shirt were draped across a simple, wooden chair, in front of a desk scattered with papers. A small white lamp with a green lampshade was turned on and lit the papers on the desk. A steady clicking noise made him look up; a fan whirled above his head, swinging unevenly. There was a gentle scent of lavender in the room. The carpet on the floor was violet, and seemed dulled by too-many vacuumings. As his eyes swept from the desk, across the carpeting, they came to rest on the iron frame of a bed. Draco trailed his hand across its unmade surface, his hand catching in the thick folds of the rose-pink comforter. He reached for a stuffed pink bear, which sat atop the pile of pillows. The fur was matted, the once-white paws dull with dirt and age. But the black eyes twinkled comfortingly in the light from the fixture that hung from the ceiling fan.
And although he was bombarded by the details – the subtle scent of laundry detergent that lingered on the bed sheets, and the laundry basket in the corner filled with mis-matched socks – Draco was most interested in a book.
On the bed, with a pencil jammed between Chapters 13 and 14, sat Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
For a moment, his hand hovered over the cover. The soothing whooshing of the air conditioning had stopped, and he felt exposed by the sudden silence. For that moment he was undecided.
"Okay, glad I could help!" a voice chirruped from across the bed. After a sudden worried glance, Draco realized that whoever had been talking on the phone had neglected to hang up.
"Thanks, Heather," came a tired voice.
"Anytime, Christie!" replied the author's voice.
"Heather," Draco murmured, scowling. Of course he knew the name. He could still hear the prideful voice: "Amber and Emeralds, a fanfic by Heather Westerton. Chapter 1, Page 1. There was something calming about being alone. With nothing..."
The sudden awe he had felt at investigating his new whereabouts was forgotten; in a rush he remember the indignation and fury that he had felt.
"I'm alive," he repeated slowly. His hand reached for the book. "Or should be," he breathed as his fingers brushed the cover.
He slowly seated himself on the bed, trying to ignore the creaking of the old bedsprings. Not bothering to kick off his shoes, he reclined, arranging the squashy pillows behind his neck and against the wall to comfortably cushion him. The pink teddy bear he placed in the crook of his arm.
Slowly, barely daring to breathe, he opened the book and began reading.
"Chapter 1," he read, "Dudley Demeted..."
Try as he might, as the words formed in his mind, it was not Joanne Rowling's voice that spoke them, but his own. Visions of the Dursleys and their home were his own, unable to match those he had seen in other fanfics.
He had barely finished the Chapter 1 when he suddenly heard Heather's voice. Only it no longer came from the phone on the bedside table.
--
Heather drummed her fingers across the keys impatiently.
Draco Malfoy was not in classes that day.
The cursor continued blinking. She deleted, and began typing, shaking her head. The story refused to go in the direction she had planned. Sighing, she tried a new approach.
Amber wondered if Draco was sick; she watched the Slytherin table carefully, but did not see the bright flash of blond hair that would mark his entrance.
This, too, she deleted. Heather thought for a moment, biting her lip impatiently.
It was dark. The musty smell of last year's winter clothing and the leathery scent of new high heels filled Draco's nose. His eyes strained to adjust to the dim light, as he pushed himself to stand upright. The shiny black of his shoe jutted into a sliver of golden light that was emanating from the doorframe before him. In his hand he clutched a keepsake, a dirty, frog-patterned sock...
—
Draco could no longer pay attention to novel in his hands. He groaned. Heather was catching up. And when she did, would he once again be forced to return to his purgatory of the fanfiction universe?
--
And although Draco enjoyed the empowering feeling of holding that book – all of Harry Potter's secrets, all of his thoughts, everything that made him The Boy Who Lived and every detail of his character that made Draco hate him, he found that his eyes couldn't focus on the print. He couldn't process the words.
--
"Because of your damn narrating," growled Draco, vainly trying to continue reading.
--
Finally, the confusing whirl in his mind, over the thoughts of Amber...
--
True, they were thoughts, Draco acknowledged. But not positive ones – that would be stretching the truth. If Heather dared to say, "romantic" she would be lying.
--
He couldn't focus.
--
Draco had taken enough. He drew his wand from his pocket
and performed the difficult spell he had learned by eavesdropping on Hermione Granger. Instantly, a cell phone materialized in his hands.
Grabbing the cordless phone that Heather had forgotten to hang up, Draco quickly found, on the back, the number of Heather's house.
He dialed frantically, his fingers flying across the keys. In his haste, he dialed a few wrong keys, and had to hang up and start over, cursing himself for the mistakes.
The phone rang.
Heather stopped.
"Hey, mom, could you answer that?" she called across the house.
The phone rang again.
"Mo-om!" she called. "Hey, mom--" And suddenly she broke off. Something was strange – the caller must have hung up: the tones were too far apart.
--
"C'mon," urged Draco quietly. "Don't chose now to stop narrating."
--
Slowly, Heather replaced her fingers on the keys.
The phone rang again.
This time, she leapt up and ran to the phone.
"Hello?" she asked breathless.
"Hello Heather," a perfect, polished voice answered. She caught the tinge of British accent that made her heart flutter.
"I think we should talk," the voice continued.
"Who is this?" she asked breathlessly. "Is this some sort of joke?"
"Marco," the voice said, and then the line went dead.
Heather stared at the cordless phone in her hands for a moment, and then, doubting her own sanity, called, "Polo?"
She began walking towards the staircase, calling, "Polo?"
"Marco," came a male voice above her head. She drifted up the staircase as though in a dream.
When she reached her bedroom door, she paused, tentative.
"Marco," came a voice from within.
She pushed open the door to reveal Draco Malfoy, sprawled comfortably across her bed.