A Little Dust

Prologue

There were advantages to prison, he'd once read. It gave you time to think.

Of course, Azkaban was a bit different. Thinking, along with most mildly human functions, became the enemy. If he thought too hard, too happy, too sad, or too often, the dementors would smell it. Soon after, they would come for a visit. He couldn't very well conjure a corporeal Patronus without his wand. The vapory kind that emerged from his fingers worked to scare them off, just long enough to stop thinking and feeling.

They had taken his glasses before letting him in, so now he was also used to not seeing, as well as not feeling and thinking. It was dark anyway, not much to look at, so it didn't bother him.

Harry Potter allowed nothing to bother him.

But sometimes, when he knew the dementors were feasting elsewhere, he'd allow himself a thought or two.

The first few times, he'd thought about escape. He could have managed it, groping at walls, running. But he was too easy to recognize, and anyway, innocent men did not escape. He told himself that, when they sentenced him. Also, when they put him on trial, he had said it to himself, under his breath. And before that, when they'd captured him, standing over her body, with her wand in his hand.

Thoughts of escaping, of using whatever power he still had, made no sense now. Eight years had stripped him of the physical strength necessary for escape. He didn't think innocent men avoided escape anymore.

After that, he'd thought about Hermione. The way her hair puffed up in the mornings, before she took a shower. The gleam in her eyes when she'd figured something out. The way her body felt against his. Her complete trust in him, even when everyone else had thought him an attention-hungry bastard. The sound of her voice when she whispered his name. The way her dead body looked, as he stood over it, her wand in his hand.

He had to be careful not to let his thoughts spill over to the time when the dementors circled him. He had to keep everything in check when the Minister of Magic visited - first Fudge, now Percy - once a month, to ascertain that he was still Harry Potter, the Monster-Who-Killed, to see if he was still in one piece.

Thoughts of Ron followed on the next few times he had a chance to think. The way Ron had looked at him, pure hatred in his eyes. He didn't blame Ron, because he knew that, had he been in Ron's place, he too would have shot darts through his eyes. He would have found the strength to kill Ron. Ron did not find the strength, but hated him purely instead, a hatred that was worse than murder. The sight of Hermione's body as Harry stood over it, her wand in his hand, overpowered all trust, all friendship.

He had dedicated a few moments of thought to Voldemort, of course. At his supposed death, the one everyone believed in, everyone except Harry Potter, the Man-Who-Lied. Hermione had believed him, but that was irrelevant now. Dead people hardly ever make good witnesses. And since Voldemort was dead to all others, Harry was the obvious murderer.

He had to keep his feelings from spilling over, even if all he felt was emptiness. He hadn't spoken much since that day, when he stood over Hermione's body, her wand in his hand. He hadn't really needed to. The trial was a formality, his silence was well received, and his fate had long been decided.

Surviving Azkaban wasn't hard. Sirius had been a good teacher, even though his teachings had been cut short. All Harry needed to do was become an animal: he ate when he needed to, pissed and shat when he needed to. He had no reproductive needs, didn't much feel like jacking off. Shelter, of course, was already provided. It didn't matter that he was not an Animagus. It became evident rather quickly that he had the ability of being an animal shaped like a person.

But this wasn't living, he was sure. He wondered if this worked as fulfilment of the Prophecy. And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. Maybe not. Survival was exactly what he was doing.

And waiting.

But what for?

Harry felt the dementors gathering, heard the screams in the cell nearby die down. They would soon approach.

Harry Potter stopped pacing. He sat, quietly, on the stone bench and settled back to not thinking, not feeling, not being.

He was a skeleton drenched in skin.

He was the Prisoner-who-lived.

-----

There were a few things Draco Malfoy knew by heart.

The first was the inscription on the Malfoy Family Crest: There is nothing that can be accomplished through good that evil cannot do faster.

The second was his full name: Draco Lucius Damien Thadeus Malfoy.

The third were his allegiances: He had none.

The fourth was where his loyalties lay: Nowhere.

The fifth was whom he hated: Harry Potter.

The sixth was who his greatest enemy was: Harry Potter.

When his father had died in Azkaban during Draco's sixth year at Hogwarts, he had vowed to make Harry Potter suffer.

When Harry Potter was discovered standing over the dead body of Hermione Granger, holding her wand in his hand, during the summer after their Seventh Year at Hogwarts, Draco's resolve wavered, then crashed.

The first requirement for knowing whom you hate and recognizing your greatest enemy is to know him better than anyone else knows him. You know his habits. You know his weaknesses. You know his instincts, his next move. You know about every girl he's ever kissed, every man he's ever punched. You know how often he jerks off; how he makes love to the woman he loves.

You know if he has what it takes to kill an enemy.

And you definitely know if he is capable of murdering the woman he loves.

The seventh thing Draco knew by heart was Harry Potter.

And so, he knew if Harry Potter brushed his teeth three times a day (he did), if he could see without those stupid glasses of his (he could not), and he knew, just like he knew his Family Creed and the origin of each of his names, that Harry Potter had not killed Hermione Granger.

The thing about having your greatest enemy imprisoned is that regular life becomes persistently boring. If you've dedicated half a life to hating someone, that someone damn well better be available to be shown that hatred, and to toss some hatred back. What point is there to hating a man who's imprisoned?

It's like kicking a caged dog. Absolutely no fun at all.

So, as sport, Draco Malfoy, a man who was nothing if not fun, had taken it upon himself to prove his hunch correct.

He hated being wrong, but there had been no proof that he'd been right for over eight years.

He'd kept tabs on missing persons, on mysterious magic-related murders, on inquiries, on autopsies, and nothing. His line of work, described by many as "living off his father's estate", allowed for such endeavours.

There had been no evidence at the scene of the crime that pointed at anyone but Harry. There had been no bloody footprint, no second wand, no other wizard. There had been no witnesses, no screams.

Of course, this also meant there had been little evidence against Potter, but the Ministry didn't trouble itself with that.

There were so many loose ends: when a Priori Incantatem spell was performed on Hermione Granger's wand, no vapory figure emerged, no purging of past spells. The Ministry had gotten around that, saying Potter could have wiped the wand with a Spell Cleansing charm before Weasley discovered him. Why did Potter not use his own wand? Where was his wand anyway? What was Potter's motive? What was the purpose?

The Daily Prophet had called Potter a lunatic.

Draco knew this was not true, because he would have never chosen a lunatic as his enemy.

Lunatics make shoddy enemies.

Draco had watched the service from underneath an invisibility cloak. The funeral had been a sober affair, too sober, Draco thought. Despite proper request, Harry Potter was not allowed to attend Hermione Granger's burial. Ron Weasley and the Grangers had objected to the request, of course, loudly. Draco Malfoy didn't blame them. You don't usually invite the murder suspect to the murder victim's funeral.

For eight years Draco had searched every Muggle news publication on earth for similar murders, using a Comparative Text Analysis Charm he'd invented. It wasn't foolproof, so he had to supervise it, checking up on it every couple of hours.

While he waited, he leafed through a Spanish paper. The Bull Run in Pamplona had gotten off to a bloody start, two men trampled mercilessly.

If he had been concentrating on it, he wouldn't have seen it. He wasn't looking for it, he later reasoned, and that was why he'd found it. He'd set the coffee cup on top of the paper, gone to check on the charm, come back.

A dark ring had seeped onto the paper, the circle drawing attention to a corner of the Pamplona picture. There, in the middle of a crown, a pair of eyes.

He remembered these eyes. He'd seen these eyes unflinchingly stare at him when he was twelve, proclaiming him untalented. These eyes had kept steady as the hand of the person they belonged to made contact with his face. He knew these eyes, even though the rest of the picture was blurry, soggy. It didn't matter, because eight year had passed, and if he'd seen the rest of her face, he would have dismissed the eyes.

He had been looking for Hermione Granger among the dead. If the picture was any indication, she was alive, at least physically.

Draco Lucius Damien Thadeus Malfoy smiled for the first time in over nine years.

Someone had screwed up, royally.

And now he was getting his enemy back.

Chapter 1

Ginny Weasley almost hated going home. The Burrow had become a very glum place years before Hermione's murder. The Percy blow-out was the beginning of the end. Then Bill's death during one of the fights against Voldemort.

Hermione's death was the last straw. Ron had become bitter, he rarely talked. Hermione's name was not to be mentioned.

Harry had become non-existent.

In a way, Ginny had begun to fade into part of the décor as well. Maybe it was related to her childhood crush on Harry, maybe that was what kept Ron from ever smiling at her or talking to her beyond the exchange of pleasantries.

Charlie had married, another dragon-keeper. The wedding had been far from the Burrow; the only Weasleys to attend had been Arthur, Molly and Ginny.

The twins had almost lost their business because of Harry's involvement as a silent partner, which became quite public quite rapidly. Once they'd built it back up, they never seemed confident with themselves again. They stopped inventing as much, and had settled into a quet existence in London.

When she finished with Hogwarts, Ginny gradually started moving her things out of the Burrow, until one day she had nothing else to move. All her belongings ended up in a flat in London, which she shared with Luna.

Magic left a bitter taste in the roof of her mouth ever since Harry got sentenced, so she'd decided to keep magic to a minimum. Luna had gotten her a job at the Quibbler, where she was in charge of the crossword puzzles and quizzes. It was a methodical, mechanical, magic-less, thoughtless work.

It kept her from going insane. It kept her away from the Burrow.

But Ginny Weasley hadn't learned how to say no to her Mother. Molly Weasley knew this, and once a year, during the first week of July, she'd call Ginny and ask her to come over and spend Bill's birthday at the Burrow. And every year, she agreed.

And every year, she regretted it.

--------

Luna thumbed through the pages Ginny had handed in for the week's issue. The Quibbler's readership had grown and diminished and grown again through the eight years that had passed since Hermione's death, and Luna, once she'd taken over for her father, had decided to make the magazine a weekly instead of a monthly publication.

Luna Lovegood was the only person in the world to keep a picture of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger together. Most people had burned photographs that had them together; other pictures had disappeared from archives at newspapers and even from Hogwarts files. But Luna wasn't most people. She'd never needed evidence to believe something, but she felt she needed this one picture to keep them from fading away. Once Hermione died, people around her had set themselves on the goal of erasing any memory of Hermione's love for Harry and Harry's for Hermione. It was something understandable. But Luna didn't like it when people trampled over things she knew existed.

The photo had been one of the reasons Ron had stopped talking to Luna. The other, of course, was the fact that The Quibbler was the only paper that still published articles on the existence of Voldemort and a monthly column that printed sightings of Voldemort and other presumed-dead people, such as Pettigrew and Sirius Black.

"These are good, Gin," Luna said, tucking her pencil behind her ear. "I particularly like how you worked both Unicorns and Centaurs into this one."

Ginny nodded. "I was inspired by George Plazts article on their common ancestry," she replied.

"So you're going to The Burrow for Bill's birthday, right?" Luna asked.

"Yes. You know my Mum."

Luna shrugged. "Not really, but Dad puts flowers on my Mum's grave on their wedding anniversary still. It's what people do to get by."

She did not add that she wondered what Harry did to get by.

Luna had not believed Harry Potter when he'd said Voldemort was not dead, because she had seen Voldemort die. But Harry had held onto his conviction with such strength that, even though she did not believe that what he thought was true, she arranged an interview for him with The Quibbler.

She had believed Harry when he said he didn't kill Hermione. He hadn't yelled it from the rooftops, he had not granted interviews.

But the way his eyes looked in the arrest photograph was more than enough for her to believe it. Murderers don't mourn their victims.

Harry was mourning.

That she believed all this became another reason for Ron to keep his distance from her.

At least Ron had been given a chance to mourn, to cry over Hermione's grave. Harry had not had this.

These were things Luna could not talk about with anyone, not even Ginny. No matter what Ginny thought about Ron's bitterness, she believed that Harry had killed Hermione. She believed the evidence.

So did Luna.

Luna Lovegood believed in the evidence that rested on her desk, in a picture frame. She believed in the two people who waved at her, a girl with bushy brown hair, and the boy who loved her, the boy with glasses who kissed the girl's cheek and smiled.

"So when will you be back?" Luna asked Ginny, tearing her eyes away from the picture.

Ginny took the papers from Luna's desk. "Tuesday. I'm renting a car and driving up, then back."

Luna gave her a small smile and started looking for a pencil. There were at least five pencils already sticking out from her ponytail elastic, where she'd stuck them hours ago. "Tell Ron I said hi, will yah?"

Ginny nodded. "Sure thing."

----

Draco Malfoy had a plan.

All right, maybe not a plan, not exactly. He had a clear idea of what end result he wanted to accomplish. And he had a few ideas of how to try and achieve the desired result. It was the in-between he was having trouble with.

After all, through these eight years, he'd always figured the stroke of luck would hit differently. The news of Granger's real murderer would be printed on the front page of every newspaper, and Potter would be set free.

He'd never thought that it would be such a tiny breakthrough, minuscule, almost impossible to spot. And if he, the watchful eye, had almost missed it, there was a chance no one else had seen it.

So Draco had a few available paths. The first was to break his discovery to the Prophet. But he wouldn't do that. The Prophet would eat the story, then throw it up as a lovely piece on The Obsessions of Draco Malfoy, maybe adding a pun or two about his dubious sexuality.

That, of course, wouldn't do.

The second was to find an alternate medium to break the story. That, of course, could take some time. He remembered the story in the Quibbler that had accused his father and others o being Death Eaters, back when Draco was still in Hogwarts. It had worked, it had been an outlet. But there had been no official response, no inquiries.

If he left it up to the Quibbler's effect, Potter would be thoroughly insane or positively ancient before he left his Azkaban cell.

He cut out the clipping of the paper, duplicated it with the appropriate charm, and placed the copy in an envelope. On another tiny piece of paper, he scribbled a note, his quill inking the ends of his words with excessive zeal. His trusted white owl picked up the letter seconds after he'd finished writing the address down. That was the back-up, slow plan.

A bolder, faster plan was necessary.

Harry Potter needed to be broken out of jail.

Draco Malfoy shook his head with distaste. He was nothing if not a good enemy.

Enemies don't let enemies rot in prison.

-------

The drive up to Ottery St. Catchpole was harsh, and the wind from the road didn't compensate for the lack of air conditioning. But it was nothing compared to being home.

For Ginny Weasley, the sight of another full head of orange hair had begun to make her duck, dodge and weave when walking down busy London streets.

Now she was here, walking up the steps to the house. The clock in the kitchen indicated her new geographic place, KITCHEN.

Ron was in his Room, Charlie was Tending Dragons, Fred and George were in Weasley's Wizzard Wheezes, closing shop probably. Percy was at the Ministry. Ginny's mother and father were in the Living Room, and Bill was In A Different Plane of Existence, permanently, the clock read.

Ginny reached up to touch the face of the clock, to touch their childhood pictures. They had been perfect once.

Ron used to smile beautifully.

"I'm home," she sang out, to no one in particular. Molly Weasley stepped into the kitchen, pulling Ginny into a hug.

"My Ginny, you came," she whispered, holding Ginny tightly.

Ginny brushed the pain away. "Why on earth would you think I wouldn't, mum?"

Of course, Ginny knew why, she knew quite well.

Bill had died in July. Harry had been born in July.

It was part of the steady stream of coincidences that made Ron scowl.

"I'm just getting silly in my old age," Molly Weasley said, wiping her tears on her sleeve.

"You're not old, mum," Ginny countered. "I'm going to say hi to dad."

"Ron's upstairs, dear."

Ginny nodded. "I know."

------

Ron Weasley's old room was almost exactly as he had left it that day, a little over eight years ago, when he'd found...

He didn't allow himself to say what he'd seen, or what had happened. He could easily say that Harry was a murderer. And he could say that Hermione was dead.

But he didn't often connect both events out loud. No one needed him to, his eyes said enough, the corners of his mouth.

The orange of every Chudley Cannons poster was faded. Everything was faded.

He had no photographs in the room, no mirrors. He'd dispensed with the things that sickened him even here.

So as not to disturb anything, he slept on the floor when he was at The Burrow.

The soft knock on his door, followed by Ginny's appearance inside his room, was drowned out by the blood drumming in his ears.

She hated him, Ron was certain. She had to. Ron had been so stupid, he hadn't noticed what Harry was capable of. He was there, every day, and he didn't see it.

How could he even look at his sister?

Ginny's words bounced back from his ears without ever really reaching them.

Distance was preferable, Ron had decided. With distance, the curse that hung over his head, the curse that was Bill's death, Hermione's death, Harry's true being, it would not be transferred to her.

He nodded wearily at whatever words came out of her mouth, waving them away. She left the room, her eyes on the floor.

Communication and proximity were his enemies.

He pulled a pillow off the bed and settled onto the floor.

----

The youngest-ever Minister of Magic, Percival Hugo Weasley, checked his reflection in the mirror, retying his robes slowly. "How's that?" he asked.

"Striking," the mirror replied. Percy frowned. The mirror was all too complacent. The end result was quite annoying.

Wearing dress robes to Azkaban wasn't unusual. He did it once every few months, after a kiss had been performed. Nowadays the dementors performed one every other month, just for the thrill of it. There really wasn't much Percy could do about it. No one controlled dementors, not really. Anyway, there had always been enough prisoners.

The reason he monitored was not the kiss itself, but whom it might have been performed on.

For some reason, he still felt the need to check up on Harry Potter.

Maybe it had something to do with his prefect instincts, the fact that Harry had been a Gryffindor. But when the Dementors kissed someone, Percy would go... just to make sure.

The dress robes were for show. He wanted to be imposing, something quite difficult to achieve.

This visit was different.

Tomorrow, it would be Bill's birthday. Percy shook his head. Bill had fought alongside Harry... died for Harry.

When had Harry Potter become so arrogant that he repaid sacrifice with murder?

Not that Harry had a direct hand in Bill's death. But Bill had died for Harry's life, so that Harry would keep fighting. Harry, in turn, had become something far worse than Voldemort had ever been.

Percy needed, on a different level, to watch Harry Potter suffer.

The vacant look in Harry's eyes whenever Percy stopped by was a sign of suffering. So was the silence, the absence of a smile.

Today, he would walk in, gloat. Tomorrow, he would mourn his brother.

-----

George closed down the shop, charming it locked. Fred flicked his cigarette to the street, then crushed it with his shoe.

George wrinkled his nose. Smoking was the most disgusting habit Fred had acquired in the last few years, a Muggle habit he'd grown familiar with while dating a Muggle girl. It relaxed him, Fred said.

George got him nicotine gum for his birthday, but it didn't seem to help.

"D'you want to apparate from here, or stop by the flat first?" Fred asked.

"The flat," George replied, leading the way down Diagon Alley.

Fred and George's flat was small, with two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen and a few stray pieces of furniture here and there. It was in the centre of a semi-shoddy neighbourhood, but it was quiet.

They had once had more lavish living arrangements, but since almost going under they'd stuck to more austere housing. It was pretty neat, and the landlord wasn't too bad.

They had continued living together, which seemed odd to most people they met. Padma and Parvati Patil, the only other magically-inclined twins they'd met, had gone their separate ways long ago. But George and Fred had considered this and decided they were fine as they were.

Going to The Burrow for Bill's birthday had become a hassle. It meant moving, trying to blend back into their roles of pranksters.

Now they were more... commercial.

They had run into Angelina about one year ago, at Flourish and Blotts, and she'd mentioned how different they appeared. It hadn't sounded like she meant it in a good way.

Fred packed a few of his belongings, chain-smoked half a pack of cigs in preparation for a smoke-free weekend, then shuddered. "See you in a few."

George nodded as he watched Fred disapparate. They didn't apparate simultaneously anymore, careful not to shock anyone.

Their mother had had enough shock to last her a lifetime and they felt it unfair to lay even more on her.

George straightened out a few refrigerator magnets, triple locked their front door, checked the windows and the stove, and disapparated as well.

Somewhere inside the small storage closet, a twelve-year old Firebolt stood, forgotten, between the twins' brooms.

----------

"So, Potter, how is prison life treating you?" Percy asked, kicking the bars of the cell.

If he was aiming towards startling Harry Potter, he missed.

Harry Potter did not allow himself to be startled.

"It's Bill's birthday tomorrow. I'm sure you'd like to say a few words. Don't worry, I've ordered the dementors to stand back... they're off working on Ms. Scott."

Harry Potter turned his face towards the Minister of Magic in the most mechanical way. "Dementors aren't your pets."

"Brilliant comeback, Potter. What else do you have to say?"

Harry smirked. At times like this he could afford to exercise his tongue. His facial muscles seemed to jump painfully to life at the chance to speak. "Spiffing to see you, Perce."

Percy arched an eyebrow. "If you had died that Halloween, maybe Bill would be alive today."

"Story of my life, Perce. Hand me a time turner."

"Why aren't you ashamed of your actions? Why aren't you tormented by them?" Percy asked.

Harry thought fleetingly. Brief swatches of thought fabric, ideas cut in half. He couldn't afford to answer completely, couldn't allow himself to think fully. The dementors could still sniff him, however far they were.

"I didn't see you at the frontlines, Percy. I didn't see you bleed," Harry replied.

Percy had been hit below the belt. His absence from the war, his lack of judgement, had been rehashed often. Too often, for his taste.

"No, you did not. You didn't see her bleed, either. You cursed her and she was dead."

Harry looked at Percy with eyes full of fire. "One day all I've done will be placed in a balance. You will not be there to tip the scales. Go away, pretend I'm mad."

"You will be soon enough. Maybe you already are."

Harry Potter nodded. He regressed to his previous position, his head mechanically turning away from the bars, his eyes facing the wall instead.

His silence, his countenance.

For a second, Percy was certain he'd imagined the entire conversation. Maybe Harry Potter was mad indeed.

Then Harry finally spoke. "When Bill died, I held his hand. When I die, no one will hold mine. I am punished. Go be a bloody politician. We have nothing more to say to each other, Minister Weasley."

Percy pulled his wand out, tossing a Cruciatus curse at Harry. The wards on the cell absorbed the curse, the bars twitching and moaning in pain.

In a huff, Percy's cloak dragged along the dirt while he walked away.

------

Deep beneath the grass, under tombs and ancient war lands, underneath animals long gone and destroyed cities, the voices of the earth sing.

Men are not often privy to the sound of the earth.

But on a particular July night, one Draco Lucius Damien Thadeus Malfoy listened in.

And he talked back.

-----

It was like hammering inside his head.

On the Malfoy Family Book it had been described as a slight physical discomfort, but Draco realized that whoever had written that portion of the book had lied or had an extremely high threshold for pain.

Apparating into the Earth Chamber hurt like hell.

And the singing was worse.

Thousands of screeching pebbles talking of doom and deception in rock language.

Draco looked around. The air from his special apparating spell had pushed the walls of ancient dust back, leaving just enough room for him to breathe.

Draco was not well versed in rock language, or he would have heard the earth insulting him for the interruption.

"Human," a slow, low-pitched voice droned.

"I come here to ask for a favour."

The ground beneath his feet shook, the dust surrounding him. "He loves the dark. Yet he comes to us."

"We can be dark," replied another voice. The Voice of Dissent, Draco thought to himself. "Perhaps that is why he is here."

"To milk us for power."

"To take from us."

"Like his father."

"And the ones before that."

The Voices were deafening. Even though Draco could understand this better than their singing, it was hard to decipher every word.

"Do you know the Dark Arts, boy?" asked the loudest, eldest voice of them all.

"Yes, I do," Draco Malfoy answered truthfully.

The earth does not deal well with liars, that much he knew.

"Why do you come to draw powers from us?" the voice inquired.

"To rescue Harry Potter from Azkaban."

"Were you to live as long as we have, you would see that this event has no meaning to us," the old voice replied.

Draco took a deep, dust-filled breath. "If he stays in Azkaban, one day it will make such a deep indentation on the Earth that you would remember this day as the day you chose the wrong path."

"You threaten us."

"I warn. I speak the truth."

The voices around him murmured in that steely language that dirt and rock use. The air around Draco felt stiff.

"You know that taking from the earth means giving up a part of yourself," the Elder Voice said.

Draco nodded. "I understand."

"We do not think you do. You are here to save an enemy, your eyes say this readily. Yet you do not know why you do this. What we take from you may very well be the thing that would help you understand."

Draco shrugged. "I can live with being clueless."

"Don't disrespect us, boy. We are stone, earth, that which you will become..."

"What will you take?" Draco asked, defiant.

"Something you won't know you've missed until you need it. Something that can only grow in the dark, but that we'll thrust into the light."

"So you won't tell me."

"You won't listen," the rocks countered, their voices working in unison.

"I am listening now," Draco said. His eyes closed against the dust that had started floating around his cubicle of air, while the ground started to close in on him.

The earth shook and started to sing again.

Draco felt as though his ears were bleeding profusely.

When Draco Malfoy opened his eyes again, he was inside the Malfoy Mansion, surrounded by bookcases in the library.

The Magical Geology textbook and the Malfoy Family Book were filled with completely blank pages.

Upon further inspection, Draco Malfoy realized that all of his books, hundreds, thousands of them, were all blank.

For some reason, he was certain this was not the thing the rocks had meant, the thing he would miss.