Morning came too early, and Draco's head throbbed from lack of sleep. A double set of Transfigurations homework had kept him up, writing under the dim glow of a weak Lumos. He brightened it every so often to keep himself awake, but not enough to pretend he didn't realize Voldemort wasn't asleep. Voldemort never ate, never slept, never showed any sign of being human.
Even the soft green light burned his eyes, but he left them open while settling his mind for the day. Each thought, errant or intentional, would face account when Voldemort later tore through his mind. He couldn't stray from the task at hand. He no longer held secrets or independent aspirations, only obedience.
His muscles protested as he eased out of bed. The sluggishness borne from exhaustion had become the new normal weeks before, although it never lessened. Draco rubbed his eyes with one hand while the other straightened out his bedding. The moment he let one thing fall into disarray, he feared everything else would topple after.
Voldemort watched Draco go through the motions of the morning—checking the potions, dressing, gathering his books—a new element to his routine. His only privacy came during rounds, when he could convince Pansy to take a different corridor than him. Convincing her became a challenge of its own. The distance between him and the rest of his house only increased with each passing day, and her clinginess along with it.
Last year, he would have loved the ploys for his attention.
This year, every moment, gazes followed him from all the wrong places. The red eyes left a constant sensation while he fixed his hair, straightened his tie, buttoned his sleeves. The bathroom was his in isolation, because Voldemort—wasn't human—didn't need it.
Draco only gave his reflection a brief look. The darkness under his eyes had become too bold to ignore, and with quiet effort, he cast a glamor to hide it. The glamor gave his skin a faint sheen, but it was more acceptable than walking the halls looking as if he hadn't slept in a month. Just because it was true didn't mean he had to show it.
Once dressed, Draco gathered his books and completed assignments for the day. He kept his head down as long as he could, but finally turned to face the chair in the corner.
"I've bookmarked today's reading," he said, and offered a bag filled with everything Voldemort—Thomas—would need for the day.
Voldemort took the bag.
"Do you have rounds tonight?"
"Quidditch practice."
The thought alone led a wave of exhaustion to roll over him. This early in the year, Urquhart still had them running drills to get back into shape after the long summer holiday, and on top of everything else, Draco could hardly stay on his broom. Knowing they likely wouldn't reach the end of the school year, Quidditch was the last thing on his mind.
"Continue the Charms research after."
"Yes, my lord."
It was the last time that morning Draco would address him as such. Outside of the dorm, Thomas McGruder was the same as anyone else in Slytherin, even though an errant word would be punished privately.
After breakfast, Blaise joined them on the walk to Transfiguration. He moaned something about the difficulty of their essay, and rather than listen, Draco bit back any commentary about having done the same essay twice. But he tolerated Blaise's complaints all the way to when they passed in the essays.
When McGonagall began her lecture, Draco tried to focus on taking detailed notes. After a month, Voldemort's glaring at Potter drastically reduced, but it still distracted him several times throughout the day. But oddly, in the halls between classes, Draco felt someone watching him. Each time, he first checked whether it was Thomas, and then looked around for Potter. He never managed to catch sight of anyone close to him.
Leaving the classroom, he checked for anyone who might have been staring, but aside from the typical passing glares and judgemental gazes, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. After Blaise caught him looking over his shoulder a fourth time, Draco decided that having been on guard for a month had gotten to his head. He'd yet to spot anyone following him, despite instinct's warning.
After the last class of the day, Crabbe and Goyle found him, falling into their typical posture as his shadow on either side. They essentially sent Thomas stumbling out of the way, and Draco very nearly snapped at them. There was no way of knowing after—
He couldn't linger on thoughts of after.
"We need you to tell Urquhart that we've been putting in practice hours."
"Have you?" Draco shifted his book bag to his other shoulder, playing off the soreness.
"No, but he told us to."
"So I lie to cover something you could've easily done?"
He started for the dungeons to grab his Quidditch gear, but Crabbe caught him by the elbow. Draco had no chance to break his grip, and wouldn't bring attention to them, in the hallway, by trying to shake out of his hold. But even when Draco didn't make an effort to leave, Crabbe held on.
"He'll listen to you."
"Why didn't you practice?"
With almost a disbelieving stare, Voldemort watched, clearly waiting to see if Draco could get a handle on the situation. But when Crabbe's grip lingered, Voldemort left without word, heading off towards the staircases. The relief came instantaneously.
"We already have three practices a week," Goyle said.
"And you didn't think him telling you to practice more meant something?"
"We asked you to come practice with us."
"You think I can train you to be a Beater?" Draco asked. "Maybe to fly better, but—"
"So help us fly better."
Crabbe hadn't let go.
"I don't think either of you realize the workload involved in taking all NEWT-levels."
"You've got plenty of time for Thomas," Goyle said. "What's so important about him?"
"We have the same time table," Draco said, then snapped, "Let go, Vincent."
The use of his given name startled Crabbe enough for a moment of distraction to step away. "And I doubt Urquhart is going to want to listen to me."
They wanted extra practice, and Draco didn't have the energy to even complete the night's drills. They hadn't started matches yet, and Draco already knew he couldn't hope to win against Gryffindor, even with Weasley at Keeper. Potter would win and there wasn't a point this year.
"What does that mean?" Goyle asked.
"I'm stepping down. Harper's an adequate Seeker."
"He won't outplay Potter," Crabbe said.
"Neither will I."
And it was well time he accepted that.
"You love Quidditch," Goyle said, slowly, as though Draco didn't realize.
Crabbe and Goyle had known Draco essentially since birth. They had grown up flying together, even before Hogwarts, and had gone through Draco's obsession phase over various professional teams.
"Harper can help you fly."
"Draco, what's going on this year?" Goyle asked.
"There are more important things than Quidditch. You both should know that."
Their fathers may not have told them as much as Lucius always told Draco, but they still knew what was happening behind the scenes. They knew bigger plans were unfolding in the background, and for some reason, had their focus on sport.
When neither of them answered, Draco started off for the pitch. He wouldn't need to grab his flying gear, and had no reason to dawdle inside the castle any longer. Taking the halls alone rarely ended well for him, but he went anyway. He was just as secure now as he normally was walking with Thomas, who wouldn't risk his cover by raising his wand in Draco's defense.
Draco doubted Voldemort would risk anything for anyone.
He cursed under his breath, then spent the rest of his walk trying to purge that thought from memory. The select memories he had buried so far had gone unnoticed, but he had to be careful with each one. Too many and they would overflow.
When Draco entered the Slytherin locker room, he spotted Urquhart changing into his practice gear. As the captain, he had arrived first, and they were alone.
"Get dressed, Malfoy. I've got a new set of drills for you."
"I'm resigning," Draco said, and leaned against the door frame.
"You're not resigning."
"I'll talk to Harper, get him to take over. He's a fair flier."
Urquhart finished lacing his boots, picked up his room, and crossed the locker room. He shoved the end of the broom against Draco's chest, and stepped in close.
"We have two deadweights at Beater. You aren't quitting."
"The other teams aren't expecting Harper. You'll gain an advantage for the first game."
"You're fucking over the team, Malfoy. Harper can't even take Chang or Summerby."
"He'll do fine."
Once more, the end of the broom hit him squarely in the chest. Draco stepped back, but Urquhart closed the distance.
" You do fine. He'll blow the season for us."
"If you're trying to change my mind, you're failing remarkably."
"You don't just get to quit."
"Yet I am," Draco said. "And I'm not staying here to argue with you about it."
He'd made his point, and only needed now to find Harper and let him know to run down to practice. He could even take Draco's broom if needed. Draco doubted there would be a place for Quidditch in Voldemort's new world order.
Knocking the broom away, Draco turned to leave.
A tripping jinx hit him, and Draco barely caught himself before face planting. His elbow hit the ground roughly. The impact jolted up his arm and seemed to even hit his teeth.
"You aren't quitting the team."
"Trying to break my arm isn't any way to make me stay," Draco said, angling over his shoulder to snap at Urquhart while pushing back up. "This is unbecoming of you."
He had streaks of dirt on his robes, and Draco was just relieved his wand wasn't broken in the fall. He cleaned off with a flick of his wrist, Snape's lessons in nonverbal magic paying off, and glared at his former captain.
"Don't think you can get away with that again," he said.
"Or what?" Urquhart asked. "You'll run to Daddy?"
If anyone else had been present for this, the insult never would have come. It cut deeply, and Draco wished he could lash back out. But his father was in Azkaban. It fell to Draco to protect himself and his family now.
"You've just assaulted a prefect," Draco said. "Don't think I'm out of positions to leverage."
"You won't give me detention."
"Imagine the favor I'd gain from all the professors if I proved Slytherin was more noble than favoritism."
He didn't like having to threaten members of his own house, especially not someone a year above him. It reflected poorly on him, and Draco knew could come back to bite him later on. But what he needed more than house favor was sleep, and exhausting himself in Quidditch was no longer an option.
"You're a coward, Malfoy. Afraid to lose another year to Potter."
"My world is bigger than Quidditch," Draco said. When he left, this time it was unhindered. He knew Harper would be in the common room this time of day, and went there to offer him the position.
He didn't expect Harper not to want it.
"I've seen you fly," Draco said. "You're the obvious choice."
"I've got OWLs this year. I can't make the time."
"I managed it last year. All Seekers at some point deal with exams and practice."
He didn't understand how this was an argument. Harper had tried out for the team before. Half the house wanted to be on the team, whether they had the ability or not.
But Harper continued to refuse, and even went as far as to lift his book as a pseudo-shield between the two of them.
"What's it going to take?" Draco asked.
"Something to make up for my potential losses."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Name the price and I'll send word to Gringotts."
Harper didn't have as lofty aspirations as Draco might have if their roles were reversed, but also didn't come from a family with old money. The amount named was trivial, and Draco sat down to write the notice.
"Go to the pitch. Urquhart is expecting you."
Once he'd gone, Draco took a chance to sit in front of the fireplace. He was meant to be at the pitch until dinner, giving him some of the first free time he'd had in weeks. He wouldn't allow himself long because he knew the time spent here would be visible in his memories that night.
Ten minutes. Ten minutes and he would go to the library to put in time researching the vanishing cabinet. His notes on the subject were almost definitive enough to show Voldemort, but he wanted to read through more books before making a decision. Surely an extra two hours of study would make up for ten minutes of rest.
He closed his eyes, and while resting, made the most of the time. He planned what books he wanted to pull. They had made a list of potential titles from the various shelves, but could only look through a couple each time they visited.
And Draco had more homework to complete at some point this weekend. Snape didn't check either of their work, but Draco still had to turn in something as a cover, even if it was just a parchment filled with nonsensical drabble. Flitwick gave more practical assignments, charms and spells Draco needed to learn to perform, not write about. But McGonagall, Vector, and Slughorn all assigned more than enough to make up for it.
A group of second years entered the common room and brought him back from the verge of sleep. Better them than Pansy , Draco thought, knowing she would never have let him explain away falling asleep somewhere public.
He went to the library shortly after, and spent the hours before dinner flipping through the pages of Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes . There was a study group three tables over, and their constant laughter kept distracting him. He didn't know what to look for, and listening to them gossip about which of the Hufflepuff boys was the best listener had him rereading the same sentences over and again.
Nothing in any of these books mentioned vanishing cabinets. Nothing mentioned anything similar to them. At this point, he considered researching the floo network and the theory behind how they operated.
He made notes that wouldn't amount to anything other than proving he could follow instructions. Clearing the useless books still amounted to some manner of progress. And finding nothing more meant the notes he already compiled had more value.
Draco glanced up halfway through a paragraph about charming a tea towel to wring itself dry, certain he'd felt someone staring. Across the library, there were plenty of people studying, but none so much as facing his direction. Something must have caused the sensation. Draco wasn't this paranoid.
He packed his things before heading down to dinner, and was surprised to see Pansy talking to Thomas. Voldemort almost never bothered showing up for meals. He had Theo and Daphne on either side of him, which left Draco open to sit between Pansy and Blaise.
"I was thinking you wouldn't show," Blaise said.
"Why wouldn't I?"
He had to make himself eat.
"Urquhart is furious at you. When did you decide to quit the team?"
Voldemort met Draco's gaze across the table, but Draco had to ignore it. Maybe he should have run it by him first, but in the end, it would pay off and give Voldemort more time.
"I need the time to study," Draco said simply.
"You've never mentioned wanting to quit."
"I have to run decisions by you?"
"We've offered to study with you," Pansy said.
"Harper is a match for Chang."
Maybe Summerby. Draco hadn't gotten to see much of his flying. But regardless of that, no one in the school was a match for Potter, which meant the games would be more on the shoulders of the Chasers. It evened the game for all teams, except Gryffindor.
It was the most anyone could hope for.
"We all know how important it is to you."
"I can get by a year without Quidditch," Draco said, and took a sip of water to ease the dryness in his throat. "Ignore Urquhart and offer Harper your support."
He caught the end of a slight gaze between Goyle and Pansy, and knew he hadn't heard the end of this conversation. If even Goyle was starting to worry about something being off, then he wasn't safe from the rest of his year.
Voldemort pantomimed eating, but when people looked away, lowered his fork. Draco wondered for the dozenth time how it was possible a person didn't need to eat. He hadn't needed to sleep either, unless he somehow perfectly timed it to only be during the few times Draco actually drifted.
Was his ultimate goal to have all wizards become like him? Not dependent on anything human?
Control your thoughts, Draco.
The more he reminded himself, the more he would believe it. He went through dinner keeping his thoughts on the subject at hand, which had shifted from Quidditch to whether Hogsmeade would be as dead as Diagon Alley now was.
This time, when he felt those gazes on him, he could pinpoint where they were coming from. Everyone in his year kept bobbing their gazes towards and away, and with his back to the Gryffindor table, there were always the bitter glares from Potter. Would word have gotten to Gryffindor that Slytherin had a new Seeker?
Draco had to stop thinking about Quidditch. The damage was done and he'd made his choice. From the moment he agreed to take the dark mark, his choices had been made for him. Holding onto these childish desires would only frustrate him and further complicate his increasingly complicated situation. He'd been given an assignment, and compared to the orders given to the throng of death eaters, doing double homework was simple.
But next year—
He would do as he was told. No matter what.
"So if you're off the team, does it free up time to help us practice?" Crabbe asked.
Draco set down his fork. "We already resolved this discussion."
"Don't think I have," Crabbe went on. "What else do you plan to skip out on this year?"
"We're in our final years here, and soon will have to move past school trivialities. I'm focused on my studies, not a sport I'll never play again."
"More focused on studies than helping lifelong friends?"
"You don't need me to help you practice."
"But you also won't study with us. Or spend time in the common room," Goyle said.
"You have been withdrawing this term," Pansy said. "Can you blame us for being worried?"
"When your concern is over whether I choose to study or faff about with you lot?"
His attempt to ensure a dismissive tone clearly succeeded, because all of them went silent, staring in apparent shock. Although his hunger and nerves stripped him of his appetite, Draco took a bite to play off the heavy atmosphere he'd created. Pointedly not looking at any of them, Draco focused on swallowing small bites, sludge in his throat.
"Whatever you say," Blaise said at length. "It's your prerogative to put everything behind you."
"It is."
Draco didn't know if he could force himself to eat a moment longer. He'd made a fair show of it, and with their incessant pestering, he had valid reason to walk away.
At least, he had to hope his leaving came across in the proper light. So long as he didn't lose his balance, too often lightheaded these days, he could make his exit with minimal response from the rest of his house.
Draco stood and stepped over the bench, but did pause for a sip of water before leaving. Dinner felt like it stuck to the back of his throat, and the water would tide him over until he got to their house.
While he essentially stormed out of the conversation, Draco intentionally didn't let his gaze drift toward Voldemort. He turned to fixate on the exit to the Great Hall, and once through the doorway, chose a new landmark. Next came the exit to the courtyard, then a left to the moving staircases, one after another, marking the path to the dungeon. If he kept his mind only on present action, his thoughts would never fall out of line.
A hand on his arm stopped him. Panic warned it was Voldemort, about to drag him to the Room of Hidden Things for another late night of attempting spells on the vanishing cabinet. But when the grip forced him to turn, he found Crabbe looming.
"What?" Draco snapped, and pulled his arm from Crabbe's hold.
"When my father told me you'd been given an assignment as punishment, I didn't think you'd be fucking us all over."
"Your father needs to learn to control his tongue."
Draco's scowl was met with a smirk.
"At least my father can obey simple commands."
"Except maintaining confidentiality."
"That won't get him thrown into Azkaban."
"There's worse than prison."
"How long are you going to keep pretending you're still running things?" Crabbe asked.
"Has your friendship always been contingent on my father?"
Both of them stopped speaking when they heard footsteps. A gaggle of first years took their time walking to the stairs, and Draco supposed even Crabbe had the sense not to let on to their current conversation.
"You don't want me making this year any more difficult for you," Crabbe said, lowly, once they'd gone.
That, Draco could agree on.
"I don't have the time to teach you to fly any better. You clearly know why."
Although, it did pose the question of what everyone had been told. Crabbe mentioned a punishment. That was the story? Draco had been given an assignment as punishment for his father's failure?
"It's unwise to carry on in such a manner in the halls."
Draco closed his eyes. When speaking as Thomas, Voldemort always kept his voice quiet and still.
"This doesn't concern you, McGruder," Crabbe said.
"An intra-house argument in clear view of anyone who passes by?"
"He has a point," Draco said. "This is a discussion for the dorms."
But when he made to leave, Crabbe grabbed his arm again. This time, the grip was too secure to break.
Voldemort's gaze settled on Crabbe's hand—one second, two—before intently meeting his gaze.
"You're a disgrace to more than your house."
"I don't know who you think—"
"You were not tasked with monitoring him this year," Voldemort said. "I suggest you leave him to his work."
Draco felt the realization in the way Crabbe's grip slackened. It began slowly, then his hand fell to his side.
"I trust you'll no longer interfere."
"Who are you?" Crabbe asked.
"Given your inability to maintain discretion, you'll never be entrusted with the simplest information. Leave him."
Crabbe ground his teeth, but with an angry huff, stormed back to the Great Hall. Draco watched him leave, only long enough to make sure he wouldn't reconsider. Once confident Crabbe had been put in his place, Draco cautiously looked to Voldemort.
"Do they always restrain you when they need something?"
"They do."
"You've permitted bad behavior."
Draco had encouraged it. He liked knowing how desperate they were for his attention. He liked them clinging to him.
"He'll tell someone," Draco said, rather than admit to the thoughts Voldemort would later uncover while scouring his mind.
"He won't," Voldemort said. "Severus will see to his father."
Rather than speak and give the illusion of argument, Draco lowered his gaze, relenting to the point made.
"Were you leaving early to study?"
"The potions."
"You've loitered here long enough."
And now Crabbe believed Thomas had transferred this year to oversee Draco's punishment. It was too close to the truth, but if anyone else were to question them, Draco could fall back on that as a cover.
They hardly made it to the end of the corridor.
"Malfoy!"
Draco kept walking. Potter had chosen the worst time to antagonize weren't close enough to the dungeons to avoid Potter catching up.
When Draco didn't acknowledge him, he heard footsteps rushing towards them.
"Malfoy!"
From the moment Draco had been ordered to keep his distance, he knew something like this was bound to happen. He hadn't expected it with Voldemort at his side.
Potter caught up while Draco tried to make it down the dungeon staircase. When Draco spotted Potter reaching out to stop him, Draco jerked away.
"What do you think you're doing?" Draco asked, and kept walking.
"You quit the team?"
"Hadn't heard."
With a glance sideways, Draco realized Voldemort's wand was in his hand. What stopped him from simply killing Potter now? Certainly not Weasley lapping along at Potter's heels.
"Harry and me've got a bet," Weasley said. Draco hoped to ignore him walking alongside them, even if the two of them couldn't do anything separately. "I think you're just too embarrassed of losing."
Potter didn't offer his half of the bet.
"Or there's no challenge with Gryffindor's King manning the hoops."
"Your stunts won't work again," Weasley said.
"No stunts," Draco said, and eyed the distance to Slytherin's door. With it in sight, he was nearly free of this discussion.
"Why quit the team?" Potter asked.
He almost sounded sincere.
"I won't justify myself to the likes of you," he said. He probably shouldn't have spoken, but Potter and Weasley were keeping pace, unrelenting. Ignoring them would only trigger further questions, whether tomorrow or in a week.
"Malfoy—" Potter began, but Voldemort finally spoke.
"You'll both need to leave before we give the password."
"Who are you?" Weasley asked.
That was the second time in two minutes he'd been asked.
"Thomas McGruder."
"The one from third year," Potter said. He massaged his temples.
"Kid from the bridge?" Weasley said. "Thought you'd transferred."
"And again."
Voldemort hadn't put away his wand, Thomas's wand. Would Potter have recognized Voldemort's own? Was Voldemort debating ending things now?
"We'll leave once Malfoy settles our bet," Weasley said.
"No," Potter said, nudging Weasley with an elbow. "He doesn't plan on giving us a straight answer."
"Which means I'm right."
"So butterbeer's on me next weekend. Let's go."
It was unlike Potter to relent, but it was also unlike Draco to refrain from giving any kind of answer. He wanted to refute Weasley's claim. He wanted to avoid Voldemort's anger more. His pride could be set aside for a season.
Potter gave Draco a final, contemplative look. But he let Weasley's bragging lead them back the way they came.
Voldemort watched, wand hand twitching until they were out of sight. Draco gave the password to enter the common room. He put his back to the hall and hoped the entire day could be put behind him. All he needed to do before he could sleep was check the lacewing flies so they could be added to the polyjuice brew tomorrow.
But he felt Voldemort's presence immediately behind him. Was that the closest he'd been to Potter? One killing curse would have done him in. Years of searching, and he had been within arm's reach.
He lost control of his thoughts at some point during dinner. He was certain to regret it the moment the door to their dorm shut behind them. It almost drove him to a slower pace.
Draco didn't give in to the urge.
It was Voldemort who closed their door.
He took Draco's face in both hands without pause, a routine Draco knew too well. A wordless spell, his wand pressed to Draco's cheek, mind opened and memories flooding out. Voldemort dismissed the classes, watched the conflict with Urquhart in full, watched Draco speak to Harper, skimmed the time spent studying in the library, and finally, listened to Draco's thoughts as he spoke to Potter. With the review of the day complete, he took a single step back.
"You've slipped in your obedience."
"My lord—"
There was no room for personal defense. Voldemort witnessed it all.
He cast a spell that left Draco's ears buzzing, and in the next moment, Draco collapsed.
The pain radiated as a sharp fire. Constant. His nerves were set alight, locking defensively. He tasted blood, choking on it. Vision black, Draco lost anything tangible aside from the pain, echoing and doubling in every moment.
His vision cleared before his mind, but the pain lingered, although lessened. His body shook, and the grit from the stone floor scratched at his palms. Draco's throat still burned.
"You'll show improvement tomorrow," Voldemort said through the buzzing. "And tonight, you'll tend to the polyjuice."
Draco nodded, too many times, unable to catch his breath. He kept nodding. His body refused to do any more than offer promises of obedience. Anything to prevent further pain.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes," Draco said, as quickly as his tongue would form the word. It scraped out raw and broken.
The buzzing stopped.
"Show me."
Terror overcame the pain, and Draco scrambled to get to the cauldrons lined against the wall. His hands hadn't stopped shaking. For accurate measurements, they would have to still. But to keep from appearing unwilling to obey, Draco tried to gather the ingredients.
Lucius already failed.
Draco wouldn't.
He ground the lacewings finely, grateful grinding them into a powder didn't require the same delicacy as stirring or measuring. Running the mortar over pestle in search of the perfect consistency offered time. There hadn't been a moment before the pain to hand over his research, and while trying to mask each pant for breath, the words wouldn't come out.
By the time Draco could breathe normally, the paste in the mortar was the smoothest he'd ever achieved. He preserved it for the following day with a quiet spell, and hoped the raspy tone didn't affect the quality of the preservation charm.
But finishing left him without a task to complete. He could try to start on an essay, but had desperately been hoping for sleep before. Any study or attempts to write now would be in vain. Even sleeping meant leaving his position on the floor. Meant walking across the room to get ready. Meant facing Voldemort and risking further anger.
Draco hoped to soften any potential reaction by reaching under his bed for the stack of books he'd pulled from the library a few days prior. The second from the top had been bookmarked with his Transfiguration notes from the week before, and after giving himself a moment to convince himself to go through with it, stood. He had to push himself up with a hand on his headboard, already feeling the soreness setting in from having every muscle fight against the curse.
"I'd prepared this for you, my lord."
He didn't lift his gaze when offering the book.
"What is this?"
"A passage discussing the use of portkeys and their creation. It says the creator is the only person who truly knows the actual use."
"And you know who created the vanishing cabinets upstairs?"
"I don't, but Borgin might."
A vanishing cabinet and a portkey were near enough enchantments that the theory behind them could be similar. If only the creator of the transportation spell fully understood it, that must apply to all objects involving transportation.
Draco's suggestion didn't receive a reply, but he heard book pages rustling.