The Readiness Is All

Finally--though by early evening Draco had begun to fear that the sun might have actually stilled in mid-orbit just to spite him--night fell. In the darkness and relative solitude of his bed, he was usually able to relax. Yet, to end a perfectly awful day perfectly awfully, he felt himself panicking instead. The darkness that ordinarily comforted and cloaked him was choking and oppressive. Draco's shuddering breaths began to hitch in his chest.

"Oh, Christ, I know I haven't been minding the symptoms, but twice in one day? This is fucking ridiculous," he whispered, stricken, into the deaf night.

****

Something had snapped. Insomnia descended on Draco. He hadn't slept for three straight nights, and there was nothing for it. Sleep wouldn't come, and Draco Malfoy wasn't one to sit idly by and let himself become either hysterical or bored, sitting up all night again. Instead, he dressed in full school uniform--if he was going to be caught, he sure as hell wouldn't be caught in pajamas like a common fool--and a heavy, hooded black cloak, and left with a soundlessness borne out of years of practice at being inconspicuous.

Wandering the halls at Hogwarts was an entirely different experience than doing so at the Manor. There was no fear for him here. If he was caught, no consequence beyond detention and a point penalty awaited him. He could easily handle that, Draco mused as he plodded quietly along the drafty corridors that led up from the dungeons. Their slow incline was causing a slight burn in his calves. The sensation made him feel alive and grounded. Why hadn't he thought to do this before?

Some minutes later, roaming leisurely where he knew the Gryffindor common room to be located, Draco heard voices. He ducked into the shadows behind a suit of armor, poised to make a run for it if he hadn't been quick enough. The voices, however--hurried whispers that sounded distinctly distressed--retreated along the corridor.

Interest piqued, Draco followed, wondering if he might somehow be able to tip Filch off--without incriminating himself, of course--and land a Gryffindor or two in detention for being out after hours. God knows he deserved it. Three fucking nights, and not more than a quarter of an hour's slumber to speak for them. His days became a waking nightmare. He couldn't concentrate, he couldn't feel anything but anger and hollowness, and his patience was paper-thin. He'd no appetite, despite the gnawing pain in his gut, and in the past day he'd even fallen mute, refusing to speak to either housemates or teachers. He knew he was but a breath away from being called to Dumbledore's office. Snape had made that abundantly clear. Though it was the last thing he wanted, the last thing he could handle, he simply could not bring himself to speak. It wasted too much of what dismally scarce emotional energy he had left.

He pursued the disembodied voices, gaining on them steadily and surreptitiously, to the library. A brief silence and a rapid whisper--almost certainly a spell--and the heavy wooden doors opened of their own accord. Still no sign of the lurking Gryffindors as the whispered conversation drifted away from him and into the library. Nonplussed, Draco delayed a moment before following.

He slipped inside just in time to see the air near the Restricted Section displace itself, followed by the appearance of Potter, Weasley, and Granger seemingly from thin air.

Potter was clutching an invisibility cloak in his hands and looking distinctly pained.

"Bloody figures," Draco muttered under his breath.

Rather than stage an obscure exit and make for Filch, Draco decided to eavesdrop on his most hated peers. A little information gathering always proved more useful in the long run. Always. He crept toward the trio, thankful for concealing shadows cast by the bookcases. He settled into a table cattycorner to the Restricted Section and partially obscured by shelves. From there he could hear snatches of anxious conversation with little chance of being seen.

Potter was clearly distressed about something. He couldn't seem to stop wringing that damned cloak. Truth be told, he looked near tears, but Draco passed it off as a trick of light. The thought of a weeping Potter unsettled him more than he would have liked. He couldn´t be seeing properly. Weasley was trying desperately to calm him down, and Granger appeared to be attempting the same by doling out pragmatic orders.

"... Harry, I'm sure he's fine, mate. Don't worry."

"Ron's right, Harry. Now, if we're going to find him we'd better get down to business. Ron, go pull all the books you can find on Detection Spells and Location Charms. I'll start here and find out all I can about using dark arts for incarceration and binding purposes. You can help me, Harry... Harry?"

Potter barely nodded, but it was enough of a response, it seemed, to throw all three of them into action. Draco watched with interest, as they worked. A seamless unit. It would have been fascinating if he wasn't so disgusted.

Once they'd heaped a table with more texts than Draco could count, they sat. Granger checked her watch.

"Alright, it's about one. Let's keep at it for four hours or so. We should turn in by five. Two and a half hours with that Deep Sleeping Draught should be just enough."

They'd only been "at it" for five minutes, though, before Potter dropped his book on the table with a dull thud and started to--for lack of a better phrase--flip out.

"I just know he's hurt... what the hell good is reading supposed to do? How can I sit here while Snuffles is out there, maybe dying... maybe dead already... Why the fuck did..."

"Harry," Hermione cut in sharply.

He just looked tired now. He continued his rant, but his voice had traded its desperate edge for weariness. Draco was just beginning to become annoyed by the smooth quality that seemed to emerge from Potter's voice when it wasn't laced with anger when...

****

... the library was suddenly blinding and his neck hurt like hell.

"Mr. Malfoy, I hardly know what to say."

What the fuck was Madame Pince doing, looming over him like that?

"May I ask you just what you presume to be doing in the library at eight thirty in the morning?"

Oh, fuck.

He'd fallen asleep...

... Wait... He'd fallen asleep?

"Well, Mr. Malfoy? You haven't lost the capacity for speech, have you?"

Ironic that you should ask....

"No, ma'am. I must have..."

"Breakfast is nearly ended, Mr. Malfoy. I suggest you hasten unless you'd like to endure morning classes on an empty stomach."

"Yes, ma'am."

Draco collected himself and fled. He felt like kicking something--someone--how could he have fallen asleep in the library like that? He felt like crying for relief. Thank God, he'd finally slept.

He felt--incredibly, finally--almost like himself. He smoothed out his robes, arranged his hair, and regained his untouchable exterior for the first time in four days. As he sauntered into the Great Hall--owning it, disdaining everyone else inside--all lingering traces of his hysteria melted away. Within seconds, they were a shadow of a memory. He was Malfoy again, and he wasted no time in making sure everyone else knew it.

He scoffed at Pansy, reprimanded Crabbe and Goyle, belittled Hufflepuffs and sneered at Gryffindors. He was in top form, and his housemates weren't quite sure what to make of it. Everything was back to normal, and Draco refused knowledge that it had ever been otherwise with a few well-timed, quelling glares. It only took a moment for the rest of the Slytherins to surrender and forget as well. His influence was that pervading. The implied power of it was almost frightening.

Draco risked a glance at the Gryffindors. Potter looked better than he had last night, and the Trinity as whole appeared rested as ever. Must have been a damn good Deep Sleeping Draught to diminish a full night's sleep by that much. Ten points to Gryffindor for Granger, who had undoubtedly concocted it. Potter looked better than he had last night. Draco cringed inwardly to realize he'd never found out what they'd been doing in the Restricted Section so late. Damn him for being so weak as to nod off in the face of such a rare opportunity. Potter looked better than he had last night.

Draco returned to his breakfast, picking at his food a little listlessly, considering the possibility of further eavesdropping to see what more he could find out, when the mail arrived.

He watched, disinterested, as one of the family owls deposited the Daily Prophet and a care package from his mother at his plate. The same rehashed, hysterical nonsense about the coming war and chocolates, no matter how expensive, were want to hold his interest lately. The subsequent approach of his father's personal owl--a huge tawny--with a letter in its beak, however, was enough to make Draco bolt upright in his chair. He watched the parchment, fall into his outstretched grasp as though in slow motion. His father never sent him messages with this owl... his father never sent him messages at all. The slow burn of fear lit within him. Despite appearances, it seemed Draco had hardly made any move toward actual recovery from the stress of the past four days. He was just this side of another breakdown. Thankfully, no one was paying him any attention at the moment.

He opened the letter--hands shaking--covertly underneath the table.

Draco,

I have greatly displeased our Lord. I must pay for this transgression with my life. I am writing to you now to ensure that, in my wake, you will do everything in your power to uphold the integrity of the Malfoy name. Though I hardly think you ready for such responsibility--nor any responsibility at all, for that matter--I have no choice but to turn our household over to you upon my death. I trust that you will not add insult to injury by doing anything less than serving the Dark Lord to the fullest extent possible. If you cannot make me proud, Draco, at the very least refrain from besmirching my name. Narcissa will have complete control of your funds until after graduation.

-L

A smear of dark red mottled the initial. The sight of it made Draco vaguely nauseous, though he wasn't entirely sure why. Oh, yes. It was blood. Most likely his father's. Little bursts of color began to explode behind his eyes. He had just slipped the letter into the pocket of his cloak before blessed darkness overtook him...

Across the Great Hall, Harry Potter jumped to his feet in alarm.

... Draco Malfoy slumped onto the Slytherin table in an uncharacteristically disordered heap, unconscious.