There had been nothing in the woods. No more red veins curling over trees or through the air. No hint of smoke slipping into Theodore's nose and scratching the inside of his throat. The only warm bright colors had been the red leaves of the hawthorns as they walked further into the woods and the only scent was the damp soil of an early morning. Narcissa Malfoy had even cast a spell, obviously alarmed at Theodore's mention of smoke, that would have detected any nearby fires, yet there were none.
Everything that Theodore had glimpsed when they first apparated in had hidden itself away.
Theodore curls over his book, that journal by the Malfoy from the days of the Plague. It's still too dark to read–the moon set hours ago while the boys had slept– so Theo just traces the leather cover, the rough texture soothing against his fingers as the day before runs through his head.
Draco had drawn his fingers over every tree shadow he could get away with. Because Dobby couldn't possibly have jumped out of hiding to have told him no, not with Lady Malfoy right there. So, of course Draco had tried to catch a hold of whatever Theodore had seen. And from the grin that he gave when his mother finally insisted that they settle down for lunch in one of the clearings, Draco felt those little clumps of cold in those shadows.
He told Theo as much when they had finally been alone, long after Narcissa Malfoy kept them out in the woodlands nearly until dinner and soon after they had finally departed from Draco's parents' company from the shared meal. Nowhere in Draco's excited chatter existed any comment on the way Lucius Malfoy's gaze had been a sharp steel of grey aimed at his wife. Theo's friend was just as oblivious to the silent looks of his parents towards each other as they were of the true nature of his adventure in the woods.
It was…it is…
Theodore tucks the book to his chest, glancing out the window where the stars sparkle without the long-set moon washing them out. As soon as the dawn comes, he'll open the journal back up and be able to submerge himself in the mystery of that patch of the woods, but for now he looks back at the rest of the room, trying not to dwell on the way the Malfoys keep secrets from each other.
Draco's a snoring lump under dark covers while the shadowed furniture in the bedroom remains silent and still. Except for a ripple in the air at the foot of Theo's bed.
The house elf appears in parts. Dobby's luminous eyes shining as patches of his body grow into visibility. A disapproving frown appears on his face as he stares right at Theodore instead of at the floor like house elves are supposed to when they're in the presence of wizards.
"Dobby told you's not to touch the shadows. And Master Draco keeps doing so." The admonishment comes out in a harsh whisper as the house elf points his long, knobby finger at Theodore.
"I know. And Draco will keep doing so." Theodore whispers back because what's the point of pretending otherwise. That's just how Draco is, always reaching for things he shouldn't. Why tell the upset elf otherwise?
"If he doesn't stop, he'll disappear like young elves do." Dobby stomps his foot, the motion near silent on the carpeted floor, but his exasperation comes across clearly. The house elf's ears quiver with emotion.
Theodore watches the display, oddly calm as the house elf speaks to him like they're equals.
"I won't let him." He can feel the magic that seeped into Draco's palm. Theodore knows, just like he knew his dead uncle's face in that vision, that the grittiness must still linger under the skin of his friend's hand.
If the magic in the shadows tries to make Draco disappear, then Theodore will not let go.
The upset drips away from Dobby. That near glare slipping away into something else as the house elf studies him. Silently, the house elf walks along the side of the bed until he's close enough to reach out towards Theodore. That wrinkled, long-fingered hand never makes contact with Theodore's arm, instead hovering in the air, feeling out the shape of magic like Draco does.
Dobby draws back as if burned, his hand clutched to his chest as those wide green eyes dart over Theodore's face and then to Draco Malfoy.
"No. Mister Nott's a boy, not a book. He's not supposed to feel like Master Malfoy's…" The words rattle and die before Dobby speaks. His words are cut off the way family secrets usually are when a house elf nearly gives them away.
"Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!" The house elf rushes to the bedpost, already rearing back his own head to give himself the punishment that his subservient magic forces him to.
Theodore scrambles after him because a house elf smashing his head against the bed post will wake Draco right up. He snags the ratty pillowcase that covers Dobby's body, but it twists out of his grasp leaving nothing but air between his fingers. The image of the house elf contorts until it vanishes, leaving the space before Theodore empty.
In the wake of the snap of Dobby's apparition, Draco snorts, twitching in his sleep. Minutes pass as Theodore remains leaning towards where the house elf was, balancing precariously on the edge of his bed while watching the other boy.
The covers remain still though with Draco buried deep enough in his own dreams that even the house elf's shouting failed to wake him.
A sigh escapes Theodore slowly as he leans back away from the edge, settling down more solidly near the center of the bed. He glances at the journal left lying abandoned behind him. Theodore's not supposed to feel like a book is what the house elf had said before he fled. So there is a book, owned by Mister Malfoy and somewhere in this house, with magic that feels gritty and cold like Theodore's. A book that might be better able to explain the magic in the woodland's shadows better than the rambling journal behind Theodore.
Between what Draco can feel and what Theo can see, it probably won't take long to find it. Instead of searching room after room for a vague sense of magic, Draco will be excited to have something concrete to get his hands on.
Even if it is only a book.