Omnia Mors Perimit

Oh yes, Draco had got the message and he had had no trouble understanding precisely what it meant. His mum! Poor mum! Those bastards! And if they did that to his mother, what would they do with him?! The cursed cabinet didn't work, it just didn't work, he had put it together from scratch four times now, just to make sure every tiny splinter was in the right place. He had nearly got himself killed when trying if it worked; the first time, it had taken him eight hours to get out, and two days in the Infirmary because of his injuries. What else could he do?! Maybe Montague had simply gone mad inside that thing and there had never been a passage at all! What should he do?

He slept no more than three hours per night, almost grateful when Dumbledore was in the castle, giving him an excuse to sleep a whole night through, but even in this respect, he was less and less cautious. Sod the old idiot - if he found Draco out, this one would try to Avada Kedavra him, and either he succeeded, or he was killed trying. It really made no difference who murdered him in the end, and Dumbledore would make it a quick one, at least.

But this was rubbish, rubbish, he could only say that because he had not found a minute of rest in the past fifty hours, drunk six pints of coffee and eaten nothing but three slices of toast. The question wasn't if he was killed - he didn't care about that so much any longer - the question was what would happen to his parents. They depended on him - already his mum had been - god, he must not think of it - and what about his dad in Azkaban - would some hired assassin slash his throat in his prison cell, or would the Dark Lord take on that task personally...

He was so tired, he fell asleep in Professor McGonagall's class, earning himself a week of detentions. Great. Just - great. Just what he needed. Was it possible to die of a lack of sleep? He had to start at the same evening, compensating by not going to bed at all in that night. In the next morning - still, the cabinet withstood every spell he used on it - he was without sleep for almost seventy hours now. He had difficulties to keep his fingers from trembling, and tried to solve his problem by drinking more coffee yet.

Theo Nott sat opposite of him at breakfast table, watching how Draco helped himself to the sixth cup in a quarter of an hour, and smirked. "You know, Malfoy, maybe you should pass on to intravenous shots."

This wasn't the time for witticism, in fact, Draco hadn't even got that Nott was being funny, so he gave the coffee pot an apprehensive look and murmured, "You think that'd work?"

Instead of an answer, Nott and some others around them burst out laughing. Only Greg didn't join in but appraised him worriedly. "Malf," he said under his breath so that no one could hear but Draco, "Skip a class and lie down. You look like shit, mate. You look like the walking dead!"

"Yah, because that's what I am, Greg! Dead Man Walking, didn't you know?" Draco giggled hysterically, he couldn't stop himself, seeing Nott stare at him, and cackling all the louder. He laughed until he was out of breath, snatched the whole coffee pot, got up and walked out. He took a twisted pleasure in drinking the entire pot with some huge sips, ignoring the pain in his stomach. Yeah, he was having his first peptic ulcer at the tender age of seventeen, why not? He was feeling much, much older than that.

He had a sweet hour of rest in the library that afternoon, just before trotting over to McGonagall's office to start with his detentions. He was supposed to correct papers that the First Years had handed in; deciphering those abysmal hands kept him awake luckily, but he hadn't quite finished the third one when McGonagall came over, stopped right before him and scrutinised him with her hands on her waist.

"Follow me, Mr Malfoy," she said curtly. "Now."

Whatever. He obeyed, realising that she took him down to Snape's office, where she told him to wait outside while she was having a word with his Head of House. Whatever. He slouched down the wall to sit on the floor, hearing McGonagall's and Snape's voices through the closed door.

"- got to see Madam Pomfrey, Severus!"

"Did your First Year papers make him sick then?" Draco could imagine the disdainful sneer on Snape's features, and had to smile himself.

"Have you taken just one look at him recently?!"

"Yes, I am his Head of House if you'll allow, Minerva!"

"And? You think a healthy boy of seventeen looks like that?!"

"This is no pageant, I'm afraid!"

"The operative word was healthy! The boy is distressed - I can't blame him! With his father imprisoned - the shock's overwhelmed him eventually, don't you -"

"Look after your own distressed students, Minerva, and leave mine to me."

"He's fallen asleep in class yesterday!"

"I understand that this is no compliment to your teaching abilities, but I wouldn't take it that personal if I were you."

"Severus," McGonagall snarled coldly, "just so we understand each other thoroughly. Either you in your position as his Head of House, will do something for the child, or I, being the Deputy Mistress and consequently your superior, will!"

"Following your logic, he's ill because his father is in Azkaban. I gladly give you precedence to do something for the child and spring Lucius Malfoy out of prison."

"Very well, Severus, very well," McGonagall hissed, and Draco heard her stomping footsteps approaching behind the door. In the next second, she stood towering above him, ordering him to go up to the Infirmary at once. Draco got to his feet again, shrinking back from her vigour, nodded, and obeyed. Well, he did walk up to the Infirmary, but passed it with long strides and headed further up. He had just won himself three extra hours, he'd knew how to use them.

The week continued in this fashion and the weekend started. Rather proud, Draco realised that he had come by with only fourteen hours of sleep in seven nights, beat that! But the cabinet thwarted every attempt he made, it mocked him by its sheer existence, and Sunday afternoon, he nearly smashed it himself, out of sheer fury and frustration. He was shaking, everything was flickering in front of his eyes, and he gave in to the urge to take a break before he'd do something desperate that he'd regret as soon as he'd done it.

He walked down to one of the bathrooms, but he hadn't quite entered it when he spotted his old acquaintance, the ghost of Moaning Myrtle. Jeepers! She shot at him, bitterly complaining that he hadn't visited her for so long, if he could possibly imagine the extent of her loneliness, that she had thought him to be a kindred spirit - pardon the pun - that she had missed him, that -

She flew closer, narrowing her eyes. "What is wrong with you?"

"So sweet of you to stop your ranting only to inquire after my well-being!"

"You look awful!"

"Gee, I'm getting a whole lot of compliments of that kind lately! Thanks!"

"I'm concerned for you!"

"Yeah, well, thanks, I reckon you're the only one there."

Following a whim, he told her that he didn't advance one bit with his mission, that he'd be killed, that his mum would suffer for his failure. He got so aggravated, he felt tears streaming down his cheeks but he didn't bother any longer. Pandora's box opened, he couldn't control himself anymore, the words came just out of him like the tears, he felt as if he had uncorked the bottle with the demons, now swooshing out of the neck, surrounding him, encircling him. The wretched cabinet - he had been wrong - how could he have erred so badly - how could a single person be so entirely wrong in each and everything -

"Don't - tell me what's wrong! I can help you!"

"No one can help me," he moaned helplessly, trying to stop sobbing so pathetically. "I can't do it - I can't - it won't work - and unless I do it soon... He says he'll kill me -"

Get a grip, get a bloody grip, he scolded himself, straightening his pose for a start. Only then, he realised that he wasn't alone with Myrtle. Bottomless horror got hold of him - Potter - Potter of all people - Potter had overheard what he had told the ghost! Whirling around and grabbing his wand was one. He had to take Potter down - but he mustn't kill him - he must keep Potter from forwarding what he had just heard -

He hurled a Stunner at his enemy, missing him, and they began to fight, ruining the interior but not succeeding otherwise. Potter slipped, Draco tried a Cruciatus but before he could even complete the incantation, Potter shouted, "Sectumsempra!"

What the... He felt a scourging pain, white, cold, clear, like ice piercing him, and then it stopped like it had come and he felt nothing at all, he saw nothing, heard nothing, and he vaguely realised that this must be it.