From the start, Draco's morning routine gave his mornings an extra dose of exhaustion. As the term carried on, slowly enough Draco believed it intentionally ignored his urgings, each morning's weight settled in more deeply. The constant gaze tracking him through each motion became so commonplace, Draco stopped caring. The physical toll hung up his movements, made even something simple like tying his tie a murky trudge.
His head swam as he checked the potions—now up to a six-hour duration—dressed and dewrinkled his robes, styled his hair, brushed his teeth, packed his bag, packed Thomas's bag, and added a glamor to hide the evidence of exhaustion.
He left the dorm without checking a mirror, and when he turned to close it behind Thomas, always right beside him, a rush of lightheadedness enveloped him. Draco stilled, hand on the doorknob, only long enough to blink it away. Staying up the previous night to practice his Transfiguration work had been a risky plan at best. Already, it left him half an hour late for breakfast, and later, he would be staving off fatigue.
He refused to relent to a show of weakness with Thomas at his side. Once he could eat, and probably more important, drink something, he could counter the dizziness.
But at the top of the dungeon staircase, Thomas broke away, leaving in the direction of the library. The opportunity for half an hour unsupervised couldn't be passed up, not for a quick bite.
When he was certain Thomas was out of sight, Draco ducked into a side corridor, apologizing gravely to the Bloody Baron when he accidentally walked through him, and jogged to the owlery. He didn't often run in the halls, and that alone might send up questions through the few students who saw, but this year, time was his most valued asset.
The letter from his mother the day before had finally worn him down. In past years, Draco wrote to his mother twice weekly. But since that drawn-out hug at King's Cross, Draco refused to reply to any of her constant letters. She had known. She must have known. She knew and sent him in unprepared.
Draco's silence only encouraged her letters. She wrote almost daily, detailing her various social activities, her planned changes to the back gardens, and potential renovations to the foyer. She wanted to know about his year. She wanted him to write to discuss the most trivial gossip she had picked up at whatever the latest fundraiser had been for. She wanted to know about his school year and whether he was doing well. After a few weeks without response, her letters grew more agitated. The most recent had been curt.
Things have changed, Draco. Write soon.
She left off her signature. Draco read the letter enough times even Voldemort had taken it, in the privacy of the dorm, and read it over. He had tossed it into the fire immediately after.
Draco couldn't carry on this sullen defiance. Their home still hosted the Death Eaters, and Narcissa had been left to run it alone.
In the owlery, Orion flew from a perch to land on Draco's extended arm. Orion had always been the largest owl at Hogwarts, a fact Draco boasted of proudly, but now, the weight nearly forced him to drop Orion. He settled for finding a clean ledge to sit and letting Orion hop onto his lap. He smoothed the feathers over his breast.
"I've given you no work this term."
Orion nipped at his hand.
"Should I send you out with something now?"
Orion puffed at the suggestion.
"I'll pen something now, for my mother."
Although he made up his mind to write, Draco didn't reach for any paper. He sat with Orion while he preened, letting precious minutes slip away, trying to determine what he might say to cover two months of silence and guilt. She had known, but regardless, she had as much say in things as Draco. The best she might have done was warn him.
But what had the extra cauldrons been? What was the show of affection at the train other than a quiet warning?
Draco guided Orion to sit beside him, and pulled out a spare parchment and quill from his bag. He considered what to write, chewing on a lip, before putting quill to paper.
Mother,
Classes are going well, although the workload is more than anticipated. I've been given a semi-private dorm with a transfer student, which allows for plenty of time for my studies.
Draco
It was sparse, but as detailed as he dared make it. If she understood what it meant, then it was the most information he could offer her. If she didn't understand, then it sounded like nothing more than a forced update, likely done at Pansy's pressing. Either way, nothing he said could be held against him.
Draco rolled the parchment and fixed it to Orion's leg.
"Make sure she gives you a treat when you arrive," Draco said.
Orion flew off, clearly happy to have been given an assignment. That made one of them.
Draco lingered long after Orion was out of sight. Although he was surrounded by noisy owls, this was a more peaceful setting than the Great Hall, and there was less of a chance of anyone running into him here.
Thomas wouldn't show up here. But given Potter's persistence this year, there was always a chance of him showing up anywhere.
Draco covered a yawn with the back of a hand. He only had two classes today, but one of them was a double period. If either class had been Defense, Draco would add bruising to his list of physical tolls. He couldn't handle being battered against every surface in the classroom again, in the name of learning wordless magic. Even if he could fight back, who would raise their wand against Thomas McGruder if they knew the truth?
He felt time as a tangible substance slipping away from him. And despite knowing he had to get back downstairs, Draco closed his eyes and rested a bit longer. It hardly made up for the sleep he had missed so far this term, but he could settle for easing the burning sensation behind his eyes. He counted the seconds, promising himself sixty.
He took a risk extending it to eighty, then to a hundred. The full two minutes would have been too daring, so with a push of scraped up energy, Draco got to his feet, and went down to the Transfiguration classroom.
Thomas was already seated at their usual table. Pansy and Daphne were at the table behind.
He'd stalled for too long in the owlery. There would be no pretending he had gone to breakfast.
"Forget something?" Thomas asked.
Where were you? Voldemort demanded.
He would confirm any answer given that night, as he rent through Draco's mind.
"Sent off a quick word to my mother," Draco said as he rifled through his book bag. "Although I doubt it'll stop her nagging."
"You just want her to start sending sweets with every letter again," Pansy said.
"Would it kill her to send off to Käramell for them?"
Would it? With Lucius in Azkaban, did her role at home change?
Draco could feel Thomas's attention on him. His face only angled partially to Draco, but the attention came crawling over his shoulders and tightening around his throat.
"I can always have my parents order some," Pansy said. "I can get them here before the weekend."
"Might as well wait until Hogsmeade," Draco said.
"You're comparing Honeydukes to candies straight from France?" Daphne said skeptically.
"Only in terms of turn-around time."
Draco swallowed down a yawn. His glamor would do no good if he yawned every five minutes. Professor McGonagall would also call him out for it if she caught him dozing during her class. He only needed to fend off the exhaustion for an hour.
Then all afternoon in the library, at a table with Thomas. Then a double Arithmancy.
McGonagall coming into the room ended the petty discussion, and gave Draco something to do other than feel the attention directed at him. He inked his quill and settled in to take notes on the lecture. At least he only needed a single set of notes.
The lesson covered identifying composite materials prior to transfiguration, a topic complex enough Draco was certain they would be assigned an essay on it, in addition to some form of practical exam. While it was complex for sixth years, Draco only had to worry over himself being able to perform the practicals. Voldemort never had to think before performing a spell. That had drawn some attention from the professors. They must have assumed Durmstrang's curriculum to be far more advanced.
The moment McGonagall ended her lectures, Draco felt a prod at his shoulder. He looked back to see Pansy poking him with her wand.
"What?"
"Come outside with us. It'll be too cold for it soon. You too, Thomas."
Draco ran out of new excuses weeks ago, and had nearly recycled them all once over.
"I have a meeting with Professor Snape."
"He's finally realizing you've been shirking your prefect duties?" Pansy said. She teased, but he wished she hadn't said it with Thomas beside them. He must have known Draco was only doing half his rounds, but knowing other people were taking notice?
"He's more likely to hand over head boy," Draco said dismissively. He packed his bag again. "If there's gossip to share, you'll be the first to know."
He could think up a reason for the supposed visit later. For now, he knew they'd be going to the library to continue their research.
Each day that passed, Draco felt Voldemort's anger building. It was clear he hadn't expected to be in Hogwarts this long. The rapidly cooling weather was an ever-present reminder of the delay and their struggle.
The only help Draco could offer to the dark lord, he had given. He handled the elements of school life that would have taken up valuable time. He pulled books and marked any pertinent information. He kept Thomas's flask filled with polyjuice. Although Draco had no more to offer, he still was expected to sit at the library during certain hours and read through the most boring books in the library's collection.
Most Thursday classes were in the morning, which made the walk to the library a tedious maze of gaggling first years and flocks of girls ogling the boys not associated with known Death Eaters. He didn't bother glancing at any of them. He didn't check to see if Thomas followed him. If he wasn't immediately beside Draco, he would arrive after a delay.
Thomas was always nearby.
Draco found a desk in the Charms section. It only sat one, but all the other tables were occupied. It was too much to hope that a desk that sat one would offer him any distance from Thomas.
And sure enough, ten minutes after Draco began his research, Thomas walked onto the aisle. He glanced around, then left his bag by Draco's feet before disappearing around the shelf.
He returned with a chair.
"You wrote to your mother?"
"Only that classes were going well."
Thomas pushed Draco's books to one side of the desk, clearing space for himself. Draco stacked a few before anything toppled.
"You'll ask, in the future."
Draco nodded. Deviating from their established routine hadn't been wise. Half an hour to himself had come at a price.
"We have exhausted every book," Thomas said.
"Is there something further I should study?"
The discovery of the vanishing cabinet resulted in abandoning the original avenues they pursued. Dismantling the charms protecting the boundary of the school would have taken months. Removing the anti-apparition protections was equally as troublesome. Knowing there were passages in and out of the school didn't help, since Snape said the one he knew of had been charmed.
"It is the incantation that needs to be identified."
They were alone on this specific row in the stacks, but they kept their voices low. Anyone could have been on the other side of the books. Draco couldn't check without displaying paranoia.
"Tonight then?" Draco asked. He swallowed down another yawn, realizing how dry his throat was, and spun his quill in his fingers.
"Do not be late."
The again hung between them, and Draco returned to annotating passages. As was his routine, these before-lunch sessions were always devoted to their true goal of getting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, although having two extra hours to apply to their coursework would have done wonders this term.
For now, he marked pages they already reviewed three times. They knew their only path forward, and nothing in Hogwarts's library specifically referenced a vanishing cabinet that had essentially been destroyed.
All they managed to do was repair the surface scratches.
But Draco reviewed the ancient tome as though the answers they were looking for had magically appeared on the pages between their last scouring.
"You are fidgeting."
Draco only realized his legs were bouncing when called out on it. He stilled it at once.
"Is there something you should be telling me?" Thomas asked.
"I just lost focus for a moment."
"Do you often lose focus when performing assignments?"
If Draco thought he had stilled before, now he had been petrified.
"Not often," Draco said, nearly a whisper.
The silence that followed reeked of disappointment. They hadn't even gotten to the first Quidditch match of the year, and Draco already failed at everything set before him. The most he could say in his defense was that his polyjuice worked as well as expected. Even his grades weren't as high as past years.
He was failing. Crabbe claimed this assignment had been given to Draco as a punishment. At first, Draco believed that had merely been a cover story to smooth over Thomas's arrival, but now, doubted his previous assumptions. What could this be, aside from a punishment? At every turn, he had been set up to fail. Was he actually helping Voldemort? How much of this could have been done without his involvement?
So he kept his head down to confirm there was no information to be gathered from these texts. He stifled every yawn. He kept his legs still. He never broke his attention from the work on the desk before him. And it still wasn't enough, only meeting the expectation.
At the end of the free period, when it was time to break for lunch, Draco held the books up to the stacks so they would return to their places. His own notes were essentially useless, but he still packed them away. Given the circumstances, being thorough would only help his cause.
"We have a meeting with Professor Snape," Thomas said.
"Actually?" Draco asked. He'd only told Pansy as an excuse.
Thomas gave Draco a flat look, not even a question, but more irritation that Draco hadn't accepted the implied order on first hearing. So Draco nodded, and fell into line a step behind. If Pansy hadn't questioned Draco skipping meals before, then one more wouldn't draw questions.
He wished she would ask, even if he would have to lie. Having known her since birth, Draco hoped her concern would last more than a month.
In the corridor, shoulders knocked into him, but at this point, Draco hardly noticed. He wasn't permitted to talk back to Potter, which had to mean the remainder of the student body was also off limits. They hated him; he hated them. There was no need to verbalize it, or even pull out his wand.
He was only here to follow this year. Anything personal had to be tamped down.
The thought sent a shudder through him. Was that what it meant to take the dark mark? To give up all sense of one's self? Draco thought to his father, and how different things had been before Voldemort's reappearance. Lucius had gone from self-politicking, from bribing and schmoozing his way into owning half the Ministry officials, to groveling at Voldemort's will.
If they gave up everything to serve him, then what did they really gain?
Draco shook his head, lightheaded with the motion, but more panicked at the thought of Voldemort uncovering that thought later on. It was treasonous. Even thinking about why it was treason was treason. The thought had already occurred. He would be punished tonight.
At what point would extended duration to the cruciatus give him lifelong spasms? They already lingered hours into the night, and once to the following dawn. He heard tales of people driven to madness by it.
He couldn't think of a single instance he'd truly deserved the punishment. He never approached Potter first, never intentionally lingered to argue. He completed all their assignments. He only deviated from the schedule twice. Was there anything he could do to feel as though he deserved torture?
Could anyone truly deserve it?
He'd witnessed it used against muggles, watched them writhe on the floor of the parlor where his family used to celebrate Christmas. Their crime had been being born without magic.
He was losing control of his thoughts again. If he could get a full night's sleep, if he was allowed to maintain his occlumency defenses—
He wasn't.
There was no point wishing otherwise. He would work within his circumstances and find a way to succeed despite them. If he didn't…
Nothing followed. Failure could only end with more unforgiveables.
They continued on without speaking, thankfully not passing anyone from their year, or worse, Potter. Almost everyone seemed to have gone to lunch, leaving the dungeons empty.
Draco heard the clink of glass before they entered Snape's store room, and found him standing on a stool, taking inventory of phials on the top shelf. He set down his work the moment they entered, and Voldemort gestured for Draco to close the door behind them.
"Borgin sent another owl," Snape said.
Draco stood back by the wall, out of the way. He fiddled with the strap of his book bag, and settled his gaze on the edge of the work bench.
"He needs to practice discretion," Voldemort said, but took the slip of paper regardless. After a moment, he said, "He uncovered the incantation."
Draco began to look up, the surprise catching him off guard, but he fixed himself almost instantly. This might end soon. With the incantation in hand, how much longer could the repair take?
There was an end in sight. Soon, Dumbledore would be dead. Potter would be dead.
Draco moved a hand behind him, supporting himself with the wall. He had to keep himself under control.
"It is only the wording," Voldemort said. "The wand movements stand to be determined."
"Will you still want the meeting arranged over the Winter break?" Snape asked.
"I will need to confirm the cabinet's sister is operational. It also may need to be purchased and moved to a more secured location."
The Christmas hols weren't that far off. If the cabinet in the Room of Hidden Things could be repaired before them, they might only be left here for two more months. At the end, Dumbledore and Potter would be dead. Hogwarts would belong to the dark lord. Draco could sleep.
"We will begin the process of mending the cabinet tonight. Once it is complete, you will ensure the others are ready. I do not intend to remain in this form a moment longer than necessary."
Would Draco be able to continue his education? Or would he be called off to war?
Draco's fingers flexed against the wall, safely hidden behind him. The wall supported most of his weight. He hadn't felt the full extent of the exhaustion until he had external support. He wanted to sink into it, to slouch to the floor so that there was no exertion on his end.
"I'll await your order," Snape said.
Voldemort folded the letter from Borgin, and tucked it into his robe's inner pocket, where he kept his true wand. He straightened his collar, then turned to go.
"Might I have a word alone with Mr. Malfoy?" Snape said. Voldemort nodded, and left them alone. He didn't close the door, and Draco didn't move to close it either. Nothing they said to each other would be concealed from Voldemort, and Draco doubted Snape would say anything to him that a passing student couldn't hear.
"How are your potion studies coming along?"
It wasn't what he truly meant.
"Very well, Professor."
"And your other lessons?"
"At least at an Acceptable level."
Snape folded his hands behind his back, and kept his work bench between them.
"As your head of house, I was surprised to hear Harper was our Seeker this year."
"Harper performed well at trials last year."
"Miss Parkinson also says you insisted on covering your assigned halls separately during your rounds."
"Pansy's gossiping slows us down."
"I see."
Draco maintained his focus on the edge of the table, where a green stain darkened the wood grain.
"Is there any support you need for your potions?"
"No, Professor."
No matter what Snape knew, Draco couldn't confide in him. He couldn't ask for help. He couldn't express any inability to perform the task set before him.
"Very well. Should anything—"
"Am I excused?"
The interruption caused Snape to pause, and then he gestured to the door.
Draco pushed away from the wall, reluctant to lose the stability it offered, but more unwilling to stay in Snape's store room knowing he was complicit in everything happening this year. He understood reason. How many times during the past year had he seen Snape in his home, arriving for meetings and consults Draco hadn't been privy to? Of course Snape knew and approved of everything happening this year. What was unreasonable was expecting anything different.
Thomas hadn't waited on him, leaving Draco more time to himself. But he had already been warned once that morning to ask permission before going off on his own. There was still time to meet the others at lunch, or he could use the extra hour to try to finish the second set of Arithmancy homework before it was due the following day.
Draco knew he needed to eat, even to just grab something off the end of their common table, never stopping for chatter. But he was already in the dungeons, and trekking up the stairs sounded like more energy than he had to spare.
He returned to his dorm room, drinking a handful of water from the bathroom sink before sitting on the floor by the simmering cauldrons instead of the bed, knowing he would sleep the moment he let himself get comfortable. The dungeon floors remained cold from being under the lake, and the chill seeped into the back of his thighs, keeping him awake.
In the privacy and odd idle moment, Draco surveyed the room and allowed himself to wonder what it might have been like, perhaps with Blaise or Goyle. It would have turned into a general common room for their year. He would have had a terrible time trying to get them all out every night.
He wouldn't have wanted them to go. He might've chosen to fall asleep every night to Pansy carding her fingers through his hair. To Theo and Daphne poring over their History of Magic texts. To Crabbe and Goyle reviewing who all they'd frightened off during the day. To Millicent, settled off in a corner alone, complaining about their volume while simultaneously not leaving to find silence elsewhere.
Draco returned to his sums. What was one more treasonous thought during the course of the day? Tonight, he'd be back in this same position, facing the consequences of every thought.
If he developed a permanent tremor, would it be Flitwick who first noticed? How publicly would he announce Draco's inability to perform the necessary wand movements for Charms?
He managed to finish his own set of homework within the hour. It would give him extra sleep tonight, since the time he originally planned for homework now would be handed over to the vanishing cabinet. Now that they had the incantation, every night would be spent on the seventh floor, until the Death Eaters were in the school.
Until Dumbledore was dead.
Until Potter was dead.
Draco had to go back upstairs, but the head rush when he stood made him stumble against the wall behind him. He spotted darkness at the edge of his vision, but the panic over potentially tripping and tipping over a cauldron gave him the clarity to right himself.
He checked the glamor covering the heaviness under his eyes and straightened the creases out of his robes where he'd been sitting. Everything presentable. Nothing wrong.
Draco perfected his posture, neutralized any expression he might have slipped into, and headed upstairs. If he told himself everything was fine, he might end up believing it.
And if that didn't work, he could pay Michael Corner for more Invigoration Draught. Surely all the warnings about consuming too much were exaggerated. The Ravenclaws practically consumed it like pumpkin juice.
Draco slid into the Arithmancy classroom before Professor Vector, but after the other students arrived. Thomas was the only one who didn't turn at his entry, and Draco narrowed his gaze at Granger when she gave him an undeserved, questioning look.
"Twice in a day," Thomas said when Draco sat beside him.
"Finishing homework to free time for our study group tonight."
The answer was apparently satisfactory. When no further discussion arose from it, Draco exhaled a pent-up breath, and prepared to keep up with Vector's fast-paced teaching.
If his hand trembled while writing notes, he could always say Thomas had taken them.
He went through a full roll of parchment on the day's lecture, having to shake out his hand several times to stave off cramping, but managed to record enough to passably study for the upcoming mid-term exam.
At least it was a reasonable worry for a sixteen year old.
Double Arithmancy was never easy to sit through, but given the homework already due tomorrow, plus the upcoming exam, Vector graciously didn't give them any more assignments.
They were dismissed an hour before supper began, time Draco typically spent in the library doing homework. But Thomas put a hand on Draco's knee, concealed beneath their desk, confirming Draco's suspicion they would go straight to the cabinet.
They left the classroom while Theo was caught in a discussion with Tracey. If anyone in his year gave him their former attention, Draco would have needed to come up with another excuse, more lies, growing more unbelievable as the year progressed. He imagined soon they would all corner him and demand answers. But given the distance they already allowed, it might have been wishful thinking.
They must have assumed he abandoned them for Thomas.
And they didn't put up a fight.
A back hallway took them upstairs without crossing too many curious gazes. There was no good reason for the two of them to go up to the seventh floor at any point, but particularly at this hour. During the few times they had been questioned, Thomas entirely ignored the students.
What must it have been like to pretend to be a teenager again? The most powerful wizard of the age, undercover, having third years make demands of his intentions and destinations?
It was no surprise he went to talk with Snape so often.
Infiltrating the Ministry would have been easier on the psyche. This must have been days of tedium and frivolities.
Draco wasn't helping matters.
His legs felt weak by the second landing, but Draco steeled himself to press on. He watched the stairs to ensure his steps landed securely, and gripped the handrail more tightly with every ascent. In his periphery, he caught some of the paintings pointing in their direction.
Thomas paced in front of the wall when they arrived, three times each way, and the door revealed itself to them. Draco hardly watched it anymore. There was a window at the end of the hall, and these days, it seemed he only glimpsed the outside during moments like these, stolen away in the middlings of his tasks.
He entered behind Voldemort, and moved carefully down the narrow paths. The way to the cabinet never changed, but he'd noticed a few times that a chair had fallen from a pile, or a new diorama of the stars jutted out into their path. Did this room actively gather everything at Hogwarts people didn't want found?
"You will record notes as I work," Voldemort said.
"What sort of notes?"
"Have you truly done no research outside of your classes? Have you never made attempt to discover magic long buried?"
"I haven't, my lord."
"Generations pass and knowledge is wasting away by the day. The true potential of magic cannot be uncovered in a book written for children."
Draco hung his bag over a coat stand, half revealed behind a pile of stuffed Clabberts and Crups. There was a lectern nearby at a suitable height that Draco thought would work well enough. He cleared off the items strewn over the surface: an empty cauldron carrier, two books that had been pasted together, a discolored tiara Voldemort had set there weeks ago, and a jar with what looked like a preserved cat's paw.
When he looked up, he saw Voldemort observing him closely. Draco hadn't expected the scrutiny for a simple task like taking notes, and kept his head down to continue. The lectern didn't have a flat surface to hold his ink pot, so Draco kept it in his left hand.
"I will first try the incantation alone, and see what comes of it," Voldemort said.
So Draco wrote it down. He didn't understand most of the words Voldemort used in the spell, but recorded what he could of it. At the end, he saw no change to the cabinet, and recorded that as well.
"Did Flitwick ever explain to you the practice of deriving wand movements?"
"Only that the correct motion was necessary for certain spells."
"And you never wondered how those motions originated?"
Draco hadn't. As he realized a substantial element of, more questions came to the surface. How had so much of their studies been discovered? How did potioneers come to realize the direction of the stir made a difference? What was the reason tea leaves formed particular shapes? How had each spell been created?
What was the root of magic?
Voldemort watched while Draco thought over the question, giving him time to form new questions. Why weren't they taught more than magic in practice?
"They fear what might become of that teaching," Voldemort said, before Draco could dare to form the question. "If you understand the formation of magic, what prevents you from gathering it as your own? From designing spells and curses at your bidding? Whereas there are three unforgivable curses now, how many might there be if anyone could mold magic as they willed?"
Voldemort came over. In two equal motions, he produced his true wand, and caught hold of Draco's wrist. Disregarding the inkwell, he turned Draco's palm upward, letting the ink spill at their feet. His nails scratched as he drew back Draco's sleeves, revealing the mark underneath.
"This sort of mark had never been done before. It is the new magic they fear. Tomorrow I could tell the world how it was done, and do you know what they would do with that information?"
Voldemort dragged his wand over the mark, and it rippled in response.
"No, my lord."
"They would bury it. All men crave power, Draco, but a man's lust cannot exceed his fear."
Draco stared as the snake on his arm seemed to look at him, then to coil more tightly. Did it recognize the wand or the man it bound Draco to?
"You could repair the cabinet without the incantation," Draco realized.
"I could," Voldemort said, releasing him. The ink floated back up from the floor, settling in its place. "In time. There is nothing that cannot be achieved with the proper time and desire. Yet time is the greatest threat to power."
The clarity that came over Draco nearly had every new question rushing out. He would never find the answers to them in a textbook. He could never petition those in power to share it. Voldemort had become great through these ideas, that a man could identify and build magic. He taught himself how to see it.
And the world cowered at the idea.
"Could you explain how you derive the wand movements?" Draco asked to the one person who might be willing to answer.
The glimmer in Voldemort's eye was almost prideful.
"Yes. And you will take note of it all."
Voldemort returned to the cabinet, and ran his wand over the surface like he had done to Draco's mark. He moved the wand as if tracing the carvings on the door with a fingertip, like he could feel it through his wand alone.
"Do you sense magic when it surrounds you, Draco?"
"I do."
In the same way he felt when it was about to rain or when someone stepped up behind him. It was present even when his wand rested on the desk, or when he walked the halls. At home, walking into his father's study had the same effect, like the air trembled with its presence.
"And when you are alone, do you feel it within you?"
"Within me?" Draco repeated.
"When you hold an item imbued with magic, can you pinpoint the precise location of it?"
It had never been a question. Draco knew his wand channeled magic, that he had been born being able to perform magic, but magic always had been a constant. It was always simply there.
But where was there?
"Detecting magic is not an innate ability," Voldemort said. "It must be learned. Magic is not simply used, but felt, heard, possessed ."
"You feel the magic inside the cabinet," Draco said.
"The pulse is weak. Our efforts strengthen it."
With everything he had just been told, it made sense to him. "The wand movements won't be derived from the words of the spell then," Draco said. "But by feeling what strengthens the magic inside as you speak them."
"Do you see why they want to keep it hidden from you?" Voldemort said. "Every wizard has magic within them. If you learn to manipulate it…"
He let the words trail off, as though eager for Draco to continue the thought.
"The Imperius," Draco said.
"A similar concept. If you can identify where magic lives within you, what would stop you from pulling at it? From performing spells to strengthen it? From drawing it out at will? From doing the same to another?"
"They have us learning parlor tricks."
"Those in leadership have become afraid of what the muggles—" he spoke the word as a curse, "—will do in response to us. Witch hunts and isolation and centuries of murders of our kind have them preparing for the day we are rediscovered. They have softened us, weakened us as a whole, and why? For the day muggles uncover our world. They won't be met with power, but with a group doing nothing more than home repairs and fanciful transfigurations. The most powerful people to exist, reduced to practical squibs, all to be palatable to muggles."
"I hadn't—"
Draco heard a crash behind him, and when he turned, saw a stack of broomsticks falling over when a box of broken dinnerware appeared. Suddenly whipping his head back caused his vision to tunnel and his head to spin. His vision fully blackened before he hit the floor.