Conquering the Darkness

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Conquering the Darkness

Chapter 3: The Tantrum

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Madame Pomfrey bustled around the hospital wing, cleaning the spotless ward to pass the time. It was mid-afternoon and the golden sun was streaming in through the west facing windows. A particularly bright sun beam fell across the only occupied bed in the chamber, and the figure, bathed in white, stirred slightly. Hardly noticing the movement whatsoever, she made her way towards the table and began to dust cheerily, a light smile and song on her lips. Yet through the sunbeam, a delicate hand reached out from the white bed-sheets. A gasp emitted from her lips, and her dim blue eyes wide, she looked swiftly down at her arm to find that Draco's hand had just brushed against the thin fabric of her sleeve.

"Oh! You're awake now?" she stuttered, taking a step away from him and looking down at the thin and particularly pale boy. His eyes were covered in a thin wrap of gauze and he looked more like a frightened lost little boy than even she would care to admit. When had he grown up so suddenly, she wondered sadly? And when had he unexpectedly become a child again?

The old nurse was not quite sure what to say. The Malfoy's were known for their tempers--already, the boy seemed to have realized his condition. The Slytherin's lips were moving as though forming words and almost instinctively he reached for his face, yet stopped with a forced motion.

"W--where am I? What happened? Why is it so dark?" the silver-haired boy asked groggily. There was an undercurrent of fear in his voice, one not at first recognizable to the untrained ear. Draco, fingering the flannel underside of the blanket, waited nervously. It was so dark. There was nothing. It was as though he was in the gloomiest of rooms in the darkest of his nightmares, and there was no escape.

Madame Pomfrey's face creased with worry. "You don't remember?" she asked, slightly frantic, moving towards the boy and wondering if he had a fever which induced amnesia. Absently, she wondered whether she should dig out the sleeping potion from the bureau closet.

"I do," came the snake's cool reply, his pink lips twitching into a smirk. "I just thought I'd worry you a bit," the boy drawled with an unconvincing chuckle. Madame Pomfrey's frown deepened even more--she was unsure whether or not the boy was stable. After all, the fact was that he had lost his sight and was dealing with it in the most upfront and brutal of ways. "Mr. Malfoy! That was completely uncalled for!" the nurse scolded, trying not to let herself smile. Really, the boy was too much, even when he was on the brink of potential mental collapse.

The Slytherin snickered as the hapless old bat tutted around for a few minutes, fluffing his pillows, arranging the wildflowers by his bed, adjusting the curtains while she hummed continually. Draco sat quietly, his head down-turned, his breath coming naturally and soft.

Well...this is certainly wonderful, Draco thought spitefully as his hand clenched about the flannel material that seemed considerably rough compared to his own silken sheets.

"I'm hungry." He announced suddenly, looking towards the sounds that were comings from the opposite end of the hall. Good lord, he hadn't been awake five minutes and already he was bored out of his mind.

Madame Pomfrey, glancing up from her desk which was attempting to organize, sighed and conjured up a plate of turkey sandwiches for him, along with a cup of heated pumpkin juice. The cup itself was covered in an opaque lid, one like that a toddler would use. Turning back towards the desk, Pomfrey sighed--she knew that Draco would be furious as soon as he realized he was being treated like an infant, but, she insisted, desperate times called for desperate measures.

With one hand, she flicked her wand and directed the hovering plate towards the rear of the hospital ward, her eyes downcast and she continued to pilfer the papers. Perhaps, she would be able to solve this mystery that surrounded the Slytherin like a cloud.

"They're on the table," she told him before silently exiting the room in a flutter of pink and white, her destination the office where she kept stacks of old and faded books that might hold the key to this most perplexing and irritating riddle. She wanted Mr. Malfoy out of the infirmary as soon as possible--the boy, she felt, would only bring trouble, something that she liked to avoid at all costs.

Hearing her exit by the sound of the clicking of her heals on the cold marble floor, he turned slowly and begrudgingly to where his food supposedly lay. Draco wasn't particularly hungry, but, he supposed, he hadn't eaten in a while--or at least, not anything substantial. Groping for his food, his hands first coming into contact with the cool surface of the cherry table and then to the chilly metal surface of the tray. His fingers wound slowly about its hard edges, and unsteadily, he lifted it off the table onto his lap. With Pomfrey out of the cold deserted room, the feeling of helplessness slowly lifted from the lonely Slytherin, like the fog dissipating in the early morning hours of dawn at the first rays of sun.

Maybe he was beginning to feel like himself...then again, maybe not.

Taking a small bite out of pumpernickel sandwich his brows furrowed together. Goodness, it had to be pumpernickel, didn't it? Hadn't they ever heard of edible bread?

But, his hunger had got the better of him, and he continued to slowly chew on the food until he could take no longer. The bread seemed dry, as did the meat; the house elves never really learned how to cook...

His mouth seemed dry, and swallowing his own saliva, he felt blindly for his cup. Yet, despite his best avail, he could not immediately locate it. His temper flared, and in a wide sweet across the table, hoping that he had over looked the goblet, he found that his sweep had been too harsh and the cup had fallen onto the board with a muted crash.

Wincing, his cheeks turned pink, and panicking ever-so-slightly he quickly snatched up the heated goblet. Draco had expected that the contents within its brass depths had splashed across the cherry-wood expanse, but to his amazement, with the brush of his fingers, he found the surface dry. His fingers then turned to the cup, and feeling tentatively about the edges he discovered a plastic top about it. The Slytherin's expression turned stormy and he scowled silently to himself. No longer parched, his grip tightened about the goblets handle, but his face still burned with embarrassment. To them he was just another patient, with treatment that they gave every other accidentally blinded person. Didn't they know? Malfoy's had pride, unlike the rest of the god-forsaken magical community.

Of course...he thought in annoyance.

The Slytherin tore the lid off the goblet and felt it bitterly before flinging it furiously across the length of the room. It landed with a dull hallow sound, not at all satisfying to the ears. Shame, pride and indignation swelled within his chest and he bit his bottom lip in resentment. Shivering slightly due to a sudden draft, Draco lowered his head once again, the anger and rage still boiling within him.

"Damn it all," he whispered to no one in particular.

As he sat there, amongst the clean splendor of the room, a desire began to grow suddenly and furiously within him. It was an urge he had not allowed himself since he was a child. With the onslaught of puberty and his father's wrath, such action had stopped...but now, alone in the deserted room, he could think of nothing better than to momentarily indulge.

The goblet flew across the room, falling with a defining crash that echoed against the walls--but it was not nearly satisfying enough. He reached for the plate, turkey sandwiches still on top and in equal fever threw it across the room. A large crack and then the echo of the small pieces as porcelain wear broke in two. But it was still not enough. It was never enough.

Hesitating only momentarily as he pulled aside the covers of his bed, he gave it not a second thought...what was done was done, and now, he only wanted more.

Hoping Madame Pomfrey had disappeared to her office or the library, Draco stumbled across the marble floor until he walked right into a very solid object. Its edges were cool and elaborately carved: it could be nothing else but the cupboard in which Pomfrey stored ready-made potions. Finding the handle, he flung them open and reached out into the dark, his hands coming into contact with something that seemed like a small cold vile.

A grin spread across Draco's features, and the first of many such items, went to their death; creating but a small 'ping' as it hit the floor. The grin faded, and all too swiftly formed into a deep frown. His fingers found another object in the dark, and once again, it was shattered against the floor. One after another after another, until the echoes began to collide with each other and the room was just a crash, a blur of movements, a crash...

But nothing satisfied him. It was as though with each new sound, he desired a new item, a new and different sound, as though proving to himself that at least his ears still worked. He was not totally useless, he insisted bitterly as he shoved down a glass jar onto the ground with fervor. A sliver of glass rose of from the crash, and he felt the pain as it cut his bare feet.

Pain, it was nothing; it was but a physical sensation...

From within her office, Madame Pomfrey glanced up. She thought she had heard something smash, yet, listening for a moment, she heard nothing else, and became engrossed in searching through An Account of Accidental Occurrences in Experimentations for any information. What had gone wrong with Mr. Malfoy's potion?

But the sound came again, and snapping the book shut, she knew that it had not been her imagination. She may be old; she rationalized as she dug her keys out of her pockets (for the door locked from both the inside and outside) and searched for the specific brass-plated one she was looking for, but she was not deaf. Not finding it as speedily as she would wish, and becoming more anxious by the second with each new sound, she quickly slipped on her glasses to quicken the pace.

There was a very large crack--and Madame Pomfrey silently groaned. Only one jar could make that sound, the jar for the chewable cavity-remover pills. She heard a hiss as the small tablets spread across the door, and at last finding the key, she frantically slipped it into the hole and swung the door open.

A sea of broken glass and pottery met her eyes, and standing amongst the twinkling shards, bathed in their iridescent lights, stood Draco Malfoy, his hands clasped tight around a bottle of hang-nail remover serum. She watched, horrified, as he hurdled it directly at her, as though through the gauze he could see once more.

"Mr. Malfoy!" she shrieked, dodging the jar by a hair and covering her head in fear.

But he did not stop; his only reply was another ping as Mandrake Juice was thrown down upon the ground.

"Mr. Malfoy!" she called again, trying to make her way towards him, her shoes crunching nosily across the broken bits of sparkling glass, praying that the boy would not find the vile of Memory Loss Serum that had taken her the last sixth months to brew.

The boy had stopped now, and withdrawing her willow wand with a strand of unicorn hair embedded within, she held it tentatively at arms length, biting her lips wearily. Never had Mr. Malfoy demonstrated anger before--in all her years of knowing the boy, he had been thought of as cool and composed, a spoiled brat at times, but never one to behave so violently.

Perhaps this was what happened when the world was pulled out from beneath you...

Nearly falling to the ground as a large glass flask came hurdling towards her head, she caught herself just in time before landed in a pile of sharp shards of glass.

A high pitched shriek echoed through the room and off the walls from the old witch as another flask flew over her head.

He has really traveled beyond the point of no return...The old witch thought desperately, covering her eyes.

The sudden volley of medical equipment ceased as a smooth, baritone voice questioned from across the room, "Mr. Malfoy, what are you doing?"

A dark figure, cloaked in a long flowing cape appeared in the foyer of the room, his pale fingers wrapped gingerly about his arms, a look of mild irritation painted upon his chiseled features. His dark inset eyes narrowed, and his thin lips sneering, he repeated the question, this time more harshly, his tone more serious, "What are you doing?"

The room was quiet, and neither dared to move. Draco had turned to stone, his hand lifted above his head, the elegant fingers gripped around a large jar of chocolate.

Snape's icy tone continued, not waiting for a response from the young Malfoy, "Put the jar down, Draco. Your father would be most displeased if he were to see you in this state." He said simply.

Out of spite, Draco released his hold onto the jar, as the glass shattered at his feet, traveling into a million tiny crystals which caught the afternoon light. Sighing in annoyance, Snape glared at Madame Pomfrey and questioned discretely, "Don't you watch your charges better?"

The dark man walked across the graveyard of shattered vials, the glass crunching beneath his feet, towards the figure of the distraught boy who was curled up against the half open cabinet. The Slytherin's body hung there, limp and lifeless, and only his fingers, moved, twitching every so slightly, as though reminiscing the sensation of the cold vials and jars he has momentarily held. Drawing close to the boy, he put an icy hand atop the shuddering shoulder; one could think it was comforting, had they not known the professor's demeanor. Yet the teacher was cold and emotionless, even to those in his own house. It was only in his Potions class in which he showed any favoritism--but beyond that, he was curt and offensive to everyone.

Snape directed Draco towards his metal framed bed, and slowly away from the glinting shards of glass.

Regret flooded through the youth almost instantly. He felt cold and clammy. It had been years since he had allowed himself to behave so emotionally. Ever since he had entered Hogwarts some five years ago, he had slowly trained himself to keep his emotions hidden and undetected. Such outbursts were just not allowed--and if his father had found out that he had been disruptive then; he would pay the penalty once he returned to the Malfoy Manner during Christmas break.

Snape, seeming to sense these fears, having grown up in a similar household himself, informed him sternly, "Nothing that has happened within this room will leave this room. You have my word." He then shot Madame Pomfrey a vicious glare, and, withdrawing his wand, he quickly and effectively repaired all the damaged utilities to their former state and whisked them, once again, to their proper place in the cupboard. The bottles were intact, yet the potions themselves still remained splattered against the floor...

Pomfrey sighed as she straightened out her silvery hair back into a tight bun atop her head and smoothed the wrinkles from her apron. Seeing that Snape had the fiasco under control, she made her way back to her office; to search for something, anything, that would shed some light on Draco's dark situation. She would deal with the remaining contents on the floor as soon as the Professor left...

Perhaps, the aged Hufflepuff thought darkly, glancing over her shoulder at the two figures shed in the golden, afternoon sun, Their understanding has something to do with the fact that they are both Slytherins.

Snape turned his attention back to the boy lying in the bed before him. "Are you feeling better, now?" he asked, disgusted, with a frown. Draco said nothing, resuming his normal Malfoy air of indifference.

The Potions Master, however, was not amused. "You've missed quite a lot of class, Mister Malfoy. I have taken the liberty of getting you a tutor. You know, as well as I do, that Miss Granger is the only one suitable to do this if you do not wish to fail my class, so she will come in after dinner to tell you about the lesson. Of course, that information is to never leave this room as well, Mister Malfoy," he lectured his pupil, sending him a stern look he knew the boy couldn't see.

Draco, frowning deeply, said nothing. He nodded ever so slightly, the truth of his Professor's word ringing true, though he would not admit it.

Granger was the only one in the entire class, besides himself that was, that actually had the brain cells to get a high mark.

Snape nodded. "Very well, then. Good day, Mister Malfoy," the ominous man swept out of the sun-filled room, a deep scowl etched into his features, as though a permanent reminder to the world of how ill-tempered all knew him to be.

Draco sat very still in the bright, sterile room, hands folded regally in his lap with his feet extended before him. He couldn't sleep, even if he tried. He wouldn't let the filthy little Mudblood see him vulnerable as he slept, it was bad enough she had to see him at all. Oh well, he though to himself, It will break the monotony of my day to taunt the little Mudblood for a while... Just like before...

Draco remained in this same position for several hours, unmoving. His mind raced, but he never stirred, except the very subtle rising and falling of his chest. If one were to come across him, they could mistake him for a statue or perhaps dead. He had plenty of practice at being still and revealing no emotions. His father had made sure of that...

***

The door closed with a dull bang and the whisper of voices roused him from a light nap he had momentarily allowed himself. He had, after all, been waiting for at least five hours, and with nothing better to do--he found that his world of dreams and fantasies seemed much more interesting.

He heard Granger approach the Infirmary and relaxed back against his pillows, followed shortly by her soft footfalls as she made her way to his bedside. Continuing to not move, he listened as she quietly took her Potions book from her bag.

"Ready, Malfoy? I'm only saying it once," her sharp voice rang out in the quiet Hospital-esque room.

He sneered, "Then say it, Mudblood. I don't want to listen to you more any more than you want to be here with me," he snapped irritably.

She glared at his unseeing face before looking down to her book. She began reading out loud to the sightless boy in front of her.

He interrupted once in a while to ask a clarifying question, but remained silent for the most part. After half-an-hour, she closed her book and began to pack it away. "I'll see you tomorrow, same time, to tell you our Transfigurations and Charms work," she told him.

His lips twitched into a sneer, but he remained silent.

Hermione slung her bag over her shoulder and turned to him, waiting for his quip. Realizing one wasn't coming she turned and left. She wasn't one to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

The Gryffindor Prefect made her way up to the Tower Common Room. She entered the portrait (the password: "Sarsaparilla") and made her way to her chair, the plush one by the fire with gold and cherry colored lining. Setting her book bag beside her it, she flopped down, sinking into the lushness of it velvety depths.

"Something wrong, Hermione?" Harry asked, seating himself into the chair beside hers.

Her eyelids slid open, revealing the chocolaty depths beneath, a veiled hint of emotion stirred within them.

Perhaps pity, perhaps fear, perhaps annoyance. It was undecipherable, at least to the raven-haired Gryffindor.

"I'm worried about him," she stated in an exhausted tone, fingering the gold lining on the arms of the chair.

"Him? Who? Ron? He's serving his detention with Snape. He'll be back in an hour or two, depending on what the slimy old git has him do," Harry reassured his friend naively, a sly smirk sprouting across his features as he reached for a warmed bottle of butterbeer that had has stashed in his trunk for cold days.

Refraining from rolling her eyes and from sighing --as she much wanted -- Hermione shook her head. "I know that, Harry. I meant Malfoy... He's acting really...strange," the girl confessed to her friend.

Harry wrinkled his nose in disgust. "What are you talking about, Hermione? Have you gone mad!?"

Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes--she could not help the action, it was second nature to her now, especially after being friends with two of the most troublesome boys in the entire school. "Harry, shut up. Listen to me, will you?" She frowned at the dark-haired Seeker as he quieted before continuing. "I'm really serious. He only called me a "Mudblood" once, and that was the first thing he did. Otherwise he was, well, not nice, certainly not... But, well, polite... To me," she explained, not quite believing it, herself.

Harry frowned slightly and tried to rationalize this new information. Draco had changed...? Was this even possible? He had known the prat for five years now, and even with the onslaught of puberty the boy remained as obnoxious as ever. "Well, the explosion must have done something right then, huh?" he thought aloud.

Standing up and grabbing her bag, Hermione stormed off toward her room, muttering something about "Boys."

Harry sat in his chair, thinking...a slight pang of fear evident in the beating of his heart....

***