The Readiness Is All

He was wandering the corridors, aimless, errant...
... in search of a way up.
Always up.
Up until there was nowhere left to go.

... except through a trapdoor in the ceiling and onto the roof of the North Tower.
He could see the whole world from up here... past the Forest, the lake...
He was face to face with the mountains.

And there was Potter.
Standing on the peak of the roof, deadly precarious.
Deadlier calm.

He heard himself call out.
"What keeps you from doing it?"

Empty green eyes, and then...
"... That the Everlasting had fix'd his canon 'gainst self-slaughter."

And Draco pushed him.
He watched as Potter, falling as if through water, became a hundred golden snitches, a thousand of Niobe's tears, a million shards of glass.
It was merciful.
Utterly merciful and beautiful.

****

Draco woke with a start within the now-familiar confines of his bed-hangings. He was more at peace than he had been in weeks. What had he been dreaming of? He remembered raining glass, wind... As he pursued the details, they evaded him-teasing at the edges of his peripheral consciousness only to fade promptly into nothingness.

He sighed.

His mind was, clearly, unwilling to conjure obscure, half-remembered details this early in the... Christ, was it really only 5 a.m.?

Unable to reclaim sleep-though not quite awake, either-Draco dressed and went down to the common room with Hamlet in tow to idly pass the early morning. He settled into one of the green velvet armchairs. The morning light that filtered through the windows had a newness to it. The silence enveloped Draco and cushioned his fragile aura of peace, so recently and conditionally acquired.

A few-all too short-hours later his house awoke. They elbowed their way into his pocket of content-prodding and consuming it-and Draco took up the lead of their routine procession to the Great Hall. They walked in a collectively organized group. Like troops, almost. Like a dress rehearsal for war, ascending from the dungeons into battle. Draco didn't have to go first to be the leader. He didn't have to assent to it, either. He simply was. Saddled with another duty, gifted with another inheritance. He was not grateful.

Not for the first time in the past few weeks, he marveled at how alone he was capable of being amidst his hovering rank and file. Though it was a relief to be mentally divested of his hangers-on, he was beginning to suffer for it. A profound loneliness was surfacing from his deeper spheres-nothing new, but suddenly impossible to ignore. Draco Malfoy, quintessential spoiled brat, needed the one thing he'd never had: an equal. Well, that and to be loved-but he was far from ready to even consider breaching that particular subject.

He slid into his usual perch at the Slytherin table-sandwiched rather inelegantly between Crabbe and Goyle-and stole his requisite glare at the Gryffindors. God how he hated Potter, his friends, his infuriating mirth, his ability to be what Draco never, ever could.

Perhaps hate was merely privative. Perhaps it was, better yet, a perversion.

Best not to think on that now.

The same inane, hateful chatter diffused among the Slytherins like a sickness and it made him decidedly nauseous. All of it: Crabbe and Goyle stuffing their faces on either side of him like savages, Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini giggling into their plates like idiots... Over what, Draco couldn't possibly imagine. He arched an exquisite, disapproving eyebrow at their ridiculous antics.

Suddenly, he felt trapped, feral, as though he was drowning. A wild panic was building in Draco's chest, unbidden. He had to get the hell out of there. His tongue felt thick in his mouth as he mumbled something about "getting a decent fucking seat in Potions for once," rose stiffly, and all but fled from the Great Hall.

****

The damp air of the dungeons felt deliciously cool on Draco's panic-flushed face. The echo of his even footsteps was hypnotizing, calming-it allowed his breathing to return to normal and the oppressive tension in his chest to ease slightly.

Once, they had been a daily occurrence-cause for Draco to fear that he was falling into insanity-but he hadn't had an attack like that in quite some months, and Draco cursed himself for failing in his vigilance. He should have felt it coming on, paid attention to the telltale signs-the sweaty palms, that dull headache-and taken control. That morning, though, he had felt almost peaceful, had awakened in a deceptive, dream-induced calm. He couldn't allow that to happen again. He couldn't allow himself to be so effortlessly disarmed. It was dangerous to give anyone anything to wonder about. Word might get back to his father.

Draco shuddered involuntarily as he dropped into an inconspicuous seat at the back of Snape's classroom. No way in hell was he doing any active potion-making today. Not with the way this morning had gone. Instead, he flattened his palms against the cool wood of the tabletop and pressed his forehead to the edge. Tuning out the sounds of other students filtering into the room and taking their seats, he concentrated on breathing- in, slowly, out, steadily, in, shallowly, out.

From snatches of Professor Snape's lecture, he gathered that they were to make a Truth Serum-one of Veritaserum's weaker cousins. He twirled a Jobberknoll feather between his thumb and forefinger and cast a wandering eye about the classroom. He allowed himself a small smile as Neville Longbottom blundered hopelessly, his puffer-fish eyes flying in all directions. Granger hovered annoyingly over the daisy roots Weasley was chopping, buzzing in his ear ceaselessly for a few minutes before finally wresting the knife from his grasp entirely.

"Oh, really, Ron. Just let me do it."

Weasley looked slightly indignant, but wisely said nothing. Instead, he turned to Potter, at the adjacent cauldron. In no time they were snickering together about God-knows-what, and Draco felt a pang. Of jealousy? He quickly shifted his attention to Pansy, who looked like she'd rather die than touch the rat spleen she was supposed to be simmering. God forbid she soil something. Snape was weaving between the desks, robes billowing, descending on easy prey. Draco watched, amused, as Dean Thomas tried to keep it together-and avoid cutting his fingers off-with the Professor looming ominously over his left shoulder. Finnigan was standing stock-still and tense beside him. Draco doubted he was even breathing. Nobody could intimidate the way Snape could; Draco would give him that. It probably had something to do with the hair. And the black robes. And the filth.

There was, of course, also the inexhaustible ire. Ire that-Draco was fairly certain-would never dare touch him. He didn't miss the pursed lips and furrowed brow. Left well enough alone, however, Draco hardly cared. The thought of Snape doing anything to anger Lucius-higher-ranking Death Eater that he was-was ludicrous. And so, Draco was content to trace the grain of the table with the tip of his feather and forego class altogether.

****

The Great Hall at lunch was still worse than breakfast. Midday gossip was a formidable force.

Professor Sprout caught Justin Finch-Fletchley snogging some Ravenclaw skirt behind Greenhouse Four right in the middle of Double Herbology. It had taken him all term to coerce her into skipping class for such deplorable extracurricular activities. The first years were learning Wingardium Leviosa in Charms and someone had levitated Professor Flitwick on the sly. Again. Millicent Bulstrode's mother was a giantess. Potter had spent summer break curing cripples, giving sight to the blind, and having afternoon tea with Christ and they still couldn't stop talking about it. Rumor had it that McGonagall was going as a man this Hallowe'en. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher had a thing for nipple clamps. Snape was planning to poison them all. Draco was finally a Death Eater-Mandy Brocklehurst had seen the Dark Mark when he rolled up the sleeve of his robes in Potions not more than three days ago. Never mind the fact that Mandy was a Ravenclaw and that Slytherin and Gryffindor had Potions together on Thursdays-not Mondays-it was irrefutable proof. Filch was having a torrid affair with Mrs. Norris. Gryffindors were still despicable, Ravenclaws prude, Hufflepuffs ridiculously stupid gits. And could Susan Bones' acne possibly get any worse? Honestly. It looked as though a potion exploded near her face. Or she'd gotten in the way of a bad Furnunculus curse. Fred and George Weasley would have enough alcohol to last all night this Saturday behind the Quidditch pitch on the north end. Everyone was to sneak out and meet at eleven. Of course Dumbledore knew. Of course he wasn't going to stop it. Quite on the contrary, the twins had his blessing. Hermione Granger was a closet dominatrix. Ronald Weasley secretly delighted in this. Some terrible virus was circulating in the waters of the lake. The giant squid had taken ill and was tainting them. One toe in, apparently, and you were a goner. It was transmitted by absorption through the skin and human immune systems were helpless against it. Terry Boot fancied Pansy Parkinson fancied Kevin Entwhistle fancied Ernie Macmillan... and, my, but what a scandal that was...

... And Draco didn't care. Couldn't care less, in fact. The whole thing gave him a massive headache, and he wasn't quite able to decide whether to seek out a cure from Madame Pomfrey or hex Pansy's mouth off to shut her up. Either required entirely too much effort, so he settled on scowling and massaging his temple fiercely.

This day stretched on forever both behind and in front of him. Draco felt lost in it, direction-less and floating outside of time. He willed night to come faster so that he might escape into sleep and darkness where it was safe and perfectly alright to be alone.