Finite Incantantum

Finite Incantatum

By: Frances

Draco rolled over in bed, the shimmering moonlight caressing his troubled face. Exhausted as he was from his first day of classes, he couldn't sleep. It was cooler than usual that fall, and he noted that he had a nice line of chill bumps running up his arms. Shivering, he pulled the thick green comforter up to his chin, rolling over to face the picture that hung emptily beside his bed. Ironically enough, it was a landscape, perhaps compensating for the fact that no actual windows could be put into the gloomy dungeon dormitories. The picture appeared to be painted from the window of a lovely mansion, with swaying green trees, a pearly fountain brimming with goldfish, and lifelike marble statues dotting the lawn here and there. A squirrel scrambled hastily up a tree with a large nut, pausing only briefly to blink at Draco before disappearing from sight.

Sighing, Draco squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on the blackness that enveloped him as he did so. Sometimes, if he concentrated long enough, there would only be blackness, and he would wear himself out before having a single nightmare. Other times, the strain loosened his grip on reality and he would tumble away entirely.

He was just so sick of it all.

He couldn't lie and say that he completely disagreed with his father's activities, because that wasn't exactly true. He hated the ruddy mudbloods and their increasing population, he despised Potter and wanted him dead, and he had such a strong distaste for Albus Dumbledore and his filth-loving ways that he had begun to hate him, as well. He would have been completely indifferent if Potter just dropped off the face of the Earth, leaving all his little friends to stumble drunkenly through the darkness without their shining star.

But what had really started to bother him was the mounting number of killed innocents.

Mudblood, wizard, witch, or muggle didn't matter to Voldemort. He simply killed- not only those who opposed him, but the blameless, as well, whether they be inconvenient or unfavorable or simply a good laugh. In the beginning, it didn't even seem that bad. The planet was over populated anyway, wasn't it? And for the first time, his father was letting him be a part of things, letting him feel like a real member of the Malfoy family, like he had a father who cared for him and was proud of the things he did. But then there came the looming question... what if he was next?

The Dark Lord's logic was never entirely clear until the final strike. And then, of course, it was so stunning, so perfectly executed, and so obvious that it took your breath away, brilliant and horrifying all in the same package. But until then, you never knew. You could never guess whether you were the hunter or the hunted. Whether you were a player in the game, or merely a piece on the board.

Draco had never fancied games.

There was a breaking point, a stress gauge that snapped when the strain of the puzzle became too overwhelming; and he had long passed it.

But how pathetic was he, he often wondered. To participate in the elaborate tapestry that was the Dark Side for only two months, and already embrace the fact that his thread was pulling loose. Such a crybaby, he told himself, a spoiled brat lost in a suddenly very large and adult world. An image of Lucius kneeling before Voldemort flashed through Draco's mind.

Immediately, he kicked off his covers, sitting on the edge of his bed decisively. There was no way, he concluded. No way he would sleep tonight. Sliding his feet into his house slippers, Draco tiptoed to the door and exited the dormitories, moving stealthily to the common room. The fire was a toned down emerald color, greeting him with the glittering light it provided. He flopped clumsily into a chair, pulling his knees to his chest.

He sat like that for some time, though he wasn't sure exactly how long. He simply rested, comfortable in not thinking, analyzing or worrying, just existing without thought. The fire continued to crackle, sending up bright sparks and hissing excitedly. Never once did he move, too afraid of the other aspects of living that came with movement, such as pain, and guilt.

"Can't sleep?" said a voice from behind him.

Reluctantly, he turned his head. There stood Blaise Zabini, playing idly with a silver ban that adorned her finger. "No." Draco grunted.

"Neither can I," she said warmly.

He rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

"May I join you?" She gestured to a chair across from him.

Draco shrugged, returning his gaze to the fireplace.

"It feels so nice to be back after holiday. More like returning home, I think."

"Maybe."

Blaise eyed him curiously. "Is there something bothering you?"

"Nothing," he sighed, glaring at her in irritation. "I was just looking to be left alone."

"I see." There was a brief silence. "Did you hear about Hannah Abbot's parents?"

Persistent little bugger, he thought. "Yes." Of course he had heard about them. He had information on huge portions of the plan for their demise, complements of his father.

"A real pity. She's an entirely different person now. My mother says we'll be seeing a lot of that, Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors mainly, but also anyone who stands in his way."

"I wouldn't know. I don't usually associate with that kind of mudblood trash."

Blaise glared at him. "Not that I was implying they don't deserve it, standing up to him like that. I hate mudbloods just as much as the next real wizard. It just seems... surreal."

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"That he would really be back, you know. Putting us purebloods back on top where we belong, after fifteen long years..." Her voice faded to silence. Then, suddenly through the darkness, "I can't wait to serve him."

Draco looked sharply at her, his brow furrowing. Her eyes were dark yet lost, the deep light reflecting off her pale face and raven hair. Her expression was filled with loyalty and fear, mingling with the ever-present hatred that Voldemort instilled so well. "Yes you can," he said forcefully.

She turned her gaze to him, studying his face. "You've already been to him, haven't you?" she asked softly.

He nodded, his stare so intense that he saw her falter slightly beneath it. "He is as bad as they say... and ten times worse. It's all a sport to him." Draco swallowed hard, remembering the look on his father's face whenever he killed in the name of Voldemort. "He took his Death Eaters out, the first night I met him, went down to the muggle bus station about thirty minutes away, and he just killed them all; women, children, the whole lot. And then I watched the plan for the Abbots evolve... Once you see it, you can't get it out of your mind." He paused, his eyes glassing over in reminiscence. "You know her mum's not even a witch?" He shook his head. "They never saw it coming."

She lowered her head, quiet in contemplation. "It's almost impossible to know what to think, these days. With the world all messed up like it is."

"If that's what you call it," Draco said, slowly regaining his cool composure.

"How did we ever get to this?" She toyed absently with a lock of her hair, emotionless as she looked silently into the fire, her face shaded in a creepy, haunting half-mask.

"I don't know," Draco said, watching as she began a small braid on the right side of her head, her fingers moving expertly.

"I don't think it really matters anymore," she said despondently. "Does it?"

Draco didn't answer immediately, mulling over the question and churning it about in his head. "No. Not this time around. But what do any of us know?"

Blaise seemed to seriously consider his expression of hopelessness. "I know that if this really is the last battle, I want to be on the right side."

"And what would that be?" He turned to her a steady gaze.

Slowly, she took the band from her finger and pressed her thumb to the inside. It began to glow slightly, a reddish golden hue like fire, and, hesitantly, Blaise handed him the ring.

Engraved upon it was a skull with a snake slithering through the jaw, glinting forebodingly. Wordlessly, he returned it.

"Do you think I'm terribly stupid?" she asked, slipping it back to its place. Its glow extinguished upon contact with her skin.

Draco shifted from his position so that he could better face the young Death Eater-to-be. "I don't honestly know," he said.

"You haven't... promised yourself to him, have you?"

"No."

"But you met him anyway." It was a befuddled kind of statement rather than a question.

"He stayed at the manor for a few weeks in the summer," Draco said. There was a silence broken only by the crackling fire.

"Are you on his side?" She watched him with an almost desperate curiosity.

"Sometimes... I think that maybe there is no side for me."

There was another silence, longer this time, before Blaise rose and turned towards her dormitory, planting a fluttery kiss on his cheek. "If only there was a happy median," she said softly, slipping into the shadows and out of sight.