The Darkest Night

Chapter 11: Suspicion

A faint dripping of collected water upon the worn, moss-covered stone floor could be heard as one dark individual after another slowly entered through the large double doors, gathering with a collected group of robed figures centered around a poorly lit circle. Small snatches of conversation arose among those who were either too powerful or too stupid to remain quiet. They shifted from foot to foot, black robes whispering and white masks gleaming, watching on nervously as they awaited the reason they had been summoned. It was the third summon in one month, and that was never good news.

It was pitch-black and menacing inside the towering room, with high arched ceilings that would have reminded any other visitor of a quaint country chapel. But the room gave no comfort to those who entered its doors. Instead, each man could not help but think there would be little hope or salvation remaining to them if they dared displease their Lord.

"So why is it always so dark when we meet? And weapons, there's always an excess amount of weapons hanging on the walls, like we didn't use wands or something."

"I don't know," whispered another voice. "Maybe it makes the Dark Lord feel more manly or something. Or maybe he's compensating-"

"Quiet you two," hissed Lucius urgently. "Do you want to get yourselves killed?" The voices sounded quite young. And if they didn't shut up soon, Lucius mused, they surely would not survive long in this dangerous company. The recruits seemed to get dumber and dumber as the years passed. Maybe the gene pool was starting to thin again, thought Lucius silently. Sometimes he didn't know why he even bothered.

"This is so stupid," continued the voice in what he must have thought was a whisper.

"Be silent," hissed Lucius irritably, daring a glance back at the fools who dared prattle on.

"This is your fault. All yours. You always get me into this kind of mess and I'm frankly tired of..." The voice stopped abruptly when a light shone upon a previously unseen platform towards the back of the room. The Dark Lord stood on the platform, towering over the group and watching them with a critical eye. He descended the single stone staircase, which was crumbling with age, yet showed no hesitation with each confident foot step. To the normal observer, his movements would have conveyed a sense of frailty and defenselessness. He was pale as chalk, and his black robes hung off his skeletal body. Only the eyes conveyed the true power collected in what many outsiders would consider a miserable sack of flesh. They were red, fathomless, and sparked like the depths of Hades, ready to burn into the soul of any man before his gaze.

Not a murmur was heard from the crowd as their Lord and Master stepped forward and eyed their numbers appreciatively, yet his displeasure was evident. He too was robed in black, although the only mask he wore was his own hideous countenance. Voldemort allowed his displeasure to fully show as he scanned over his minions, all of whom suppressed their fear to the best of their ability. Some did it better than others.

"Lucius," he hissed quietly, as if trying not to disturb the sanctity of the chapel. He eyed a single man standing in the front row. "Come."

Lucius took a breath and stepped forward, nearly regretting that he had asked for this conversation. He kneeled before the Dark Lord in supplication, one knee forward and the other steadying himself upon the floor, and bowed low to the ground, feeling like the pet dog that he was. The aristocrat closed his eyes and waited in silence. He could almost feel those hard red eyes boring into the top of his blonde head, searching for any sign of disloyalty.

Voldemort stood straight-backed and stern as he evaluated his servant. "You fear for the boy," he stated. The Dark Lord was not one to dance around an issue.

"I do not fear, my Lord," tried Lucius, not wanting to appear weak in a time when he needed to be his strongest. He took a deep breath and willed his voice to be steady and firm, allowing no sarcasm to reach his words. "I need not fear anything under your omnipotent and most sagacious guidance." He paused and measured his words carefully. "If you'll allow me to give a proposal?"

Voldemort eyed Lucius scornfully, while the cloaked figure before him kept his eyes firmly rooted on the stone floor.

"Go on." His harsh voice held no patience. One wrong word could mean the difference between torture and freedom.

"I believe," began Lucius, raising his eyes from the floor to stare into the inky darkness behind his Lord, "that we are acting prematurely." The blonde stopped, waiting for the curse that would surely hit any second. The former Slytherin gathered his courage when it did not. "I believe that our subject," he said between clenched teeth, "needs time to understand and respect this valiant undertaking that will be impressed upon him."

"Impressed?" countered the Dark Lord. "You imply that it is being done against his will. Are you saying that he is not trustworthy, Lucius?"

"Not at all, Master," he breathed, bowing once more. His back was cramping. How long had he been bowing? Probably about two minutes, but it seemed like a lifetime.

"And what do YOU propose I do, Lucius?" said Voldemort silkily, a trace of irritation rising in his voice. It was the calm before the storm.

"Perhaps choose another leader, one who is worthy of the honor that you bestow upon him."

Voldemort hissed between tight gray lips and unconsciously bared his yellow teeth. "This has been planned for many years. It is my choice to make Lucius, not yours." He was clearly unhappy. "If the one I choose is unworthy, what does that say about the rest of my servants? Are they also unworthy?" The crowd shifted anxiously. "Perhaps," he said carefully, walking closer to the kneeling figure. "Perhaps you are unworthy as well."

"I have served your Lordship to the best of my ability." Lucius was kneeling so low now that his nose almost touched the ground. He forced down the spike of fear that tried to shoot down his spine. "I completely trust your judgment and will follow you unto death."

"As it should be. The matter is settled." Voldemort turned to survey his other Death Eaters.

"Master," continued the kneeling man, keeping his eyes locked on the dusty stone floor. Lucius just could not let this go on, although the voice of reason and all things rational screamed at him to let the subject drop. "He's just a boy," added the man quickly. He knew he had just made a terrible mistake.

Voldemort pivoted back to his spot and fixed the older Malfoy with a murderous glare.

"You dare defy me, Lucius?" he whispered, sounding far more threatening than if he had yelled.

"No my Lord. I-"

"Sanguin Inflamarae!"

Lucius screamed, unable to hold back as torrents of pain shot through his body, like alcohol being pushed through his veins. He writhed on the floor, nails digging into the stone as his body was racked with the curse. Finally, several seconds of this torture, Voldemort lifted his wand, leaving his victim panting and quivering on the stone floor.

"I do not want to be the cause of your pain, Lucius," the Dark Lord spoke, letting his voice become softer and understanding. "You are one of my most trusted Death Eaters, and I cannot let such fear cloud your judgment. The results would be... most unpleasant. Do you understand?"

"Of course Master. Thank you Master." Lucius could barely force his lips to form the words. Slowly, he crawled to his Lord and kissed the hem of his robes, ducking his head in reverence. VVoldemort watched as Lucius shakily lifted himself to his feet and hobbled back to his spot. A cloaked figure beside him helped to support the blonde's weight. Lucius leaned against the proffered shoulder heavily, unable to stand otherwise.

"Severus," rasped Lucius. The cloaked figure gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

It would have been most unwise to continue the matter through so-called diplomacy on the part of the Dark Lord. Obviously, other avenues would have to be explored. But he couldn't dwell on the subject now, thought Lucius grimly, still struggling to keep his knees from buckling. His master was far too skilled when it came to delving for secrets from his followers. He was known for being a superb Legilimens. The utmost secrecy would be priority. But he couldn't do it alone. He would ask Severus once this wretched holiday in Hell had ended. Yes, Severus would help him.

"Back to important matters," hissed Voldemort, eyes searching over his minions. Lucius concentrated all of his energy and willed his mind to remain closed to all intrusions. It would not do to lose so early in the game.

"Winston," his Master said, pointing with a deathly pale hand towards a small figure towards the back of the room. WWWWWiwintonsAlthough his face could not be seen, Winston was visibly shaking in terror. No man blamed him. "I have not seen results. W We have a problem to discuss." Voldemort grinned evilly, sending a shiver through the crowd.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

By his third day of transformation, Draco had never felt so horrible in his life. He would have preferred a month's worth of dragon pox compared to a day of werewolf transformation.

When he had finally awoken the first morning, he could barely move on his own. Small beams of sunlight had filtered through the cracks in the slatted walls, becoming quite irksome. But when Draco had tried to move out of the way, his breath caught in the back of his throat. There was pain everywhere. There was no better way to describe it. Everywhere. His legs, arms, chest, and especially his back had felt he had gotten a massage from a Hungarian Horntail. Twice.

Draco had been able to move enough to give a short survey of his body. He had been black and blue over a good portion of his rib section, and great slashes ran across his abdomen and upper arms, contrasting sharply with the sickly pallor of his pale skin. There must have also been slashes on his back, even though he was lying on it. It felt like someone was pushing glass over it. How had his claws reached his back, of all places?

He had instinctively known that his arm was broken. Having never broken a bone in his life, it almost came as a surprise to him that he knew. But the second the Slytherin tried to move, the rational part of his brain said that it was best not to damage his body by moving more than he should. The smartest thing to do would be to wait.

Luckily, Pomfrey had arrived rather early and gave him a sleeping draught, which allowed him to heal in the hospital. He had no idea how he had gotten back to the hospital. The mediwitch had probably floated him there or something, but at the moment he hadn't really cared. He would have to ask.

When he had returned the following night, he realized that the Shrieking Shack looked about as bad as Draco had felt. Although it could be said that it was hard to make the Shack look any worse than it already was, the Slytherin felt sure that he had not helped the dilapidated structure. He vaguely remembered seeing the torn remains of his chair. Poor thing didn't have a chance. Neither did the walls apparently. They too had great slash marks in them, as did the remaining and nearly unrecognizable pieces of furniture. And to his great distaste, a distinct smell of wet dog pervaded throughout the house. Which was better than rat droppings, if nothing else.

Draco was positive now that the house was magically held together, because there was no way the house could have held up otherwise. He could also now see why no one had bothered to clean the shack afterwards. There was simply no use to it, seeing as how it was ruined over and over again three nights in a month. Maybe there was something he could do, some spell that he could cast to preserve the shack a bit more? He really hated having to sit starkers on the dusty floor. His skin was rather sensitive.

But that was the least of his worries right now. Dear Merlin, he'd never been in so much pain in his life. After two consecutive nights of transforming into a near rabid animal, Draco ached all over his body, and it was not just one of those dull aches that stayed with you. It was the kind that keeps a person incapacitated and in bed all day, where moving would almost certainly mean sheer torture.

And torture it was. By the time the mediwitch had finished her examination, she concluded that Draco did indeed have a broken arm. Not to mention two broken ribs, several pulled muscles, numerous slash marks that had been easily repaired, and a minor concussion. But apparently he had faired rather well compared to the usual first transformations. According to Pomfrey, such violent transformations usually subsided after the first year or two.

Granted, he couldn't do anything but lie on his stomach the entire day after the first night, but Pomfrey insisted that he go to class the second day, or else someone would surely start to piece together that he was missing school on the full moon. So he dragged himself through potions (Snape actually went easy on him), stumbled to Transfiguration and even made Longbottom look good that day by succeeding in making virtually every mistake possible out of utter exhaustion. He nearly fell asleep at the lunch table, but finally opted out of Care of Magical Creatures to take some private "study time", or a good long nap.

So he finally retreated back to his dorm and slept for a good part of the day, awaking just in time for his stomach to warn him that he was about to be late for the evening meal. Quickly throwing on his shoes and cloak, and with one last look in the mirror, Draco raced down to the Great Hall. And what a meal it was. It was the best thing Draco had ever tasted, and he was completely ravenous! Even the salad looked good, and every person who hates vegetables knows that if it's green, it's gone bad.

After thoroughly stuffing himself once more and scaring several second years in the process (they should have known better than to grab the same chicken leg that Draco wanted - next time they'd lose a hand if they tried that again, although it did draw several strange looks from his fellow Slytherins), Draco realized that he was actually looking forward to tomorrow. Tonight was the last day of transformation, and starting tomorrow, he could be perfectly normal for the next couple of weeks. Well, as normal as an 18 year-old werewolf, son of a Death Eater a and heir to one of the largest fortunes in Britain could be. Yes, he would be perfectly normal. One of his best classes was tomorrow - History of Magic! Given, it was with the Gryffindors, but it was also set in the middle of the afternoon and provided a prime time for sleeping. This meant that he could have some rest and not look quite as suspicious.

Draco set his napkin aside and rose from the table, intent on leaving as soon as possible and retreating back to the hospital wing before anybody could ask questions. He quickly stepped back over the benches and threw his cloak back over his shoulders. Waving a hasty goodbye to Pansy and the rest of the 7^th years, he turned to leave.

"Hey, Draco, wait up!" Blaise yelled as he too rose from the table, placing his hands on the table and pushing up. DDDDraco was almost to the doors. The redhead hurriedly threw some pastries into the center of a napkin before wrapping it up and stuffing it into his pocket. He grabbed a slice of bread as well, then ran to meet the other, even as Draco sped up his pace. But, seeing as how Blaise was coming whether he liked it or not, Draco slowed his walk until his friend caught up.

"In a hurry, are we?" smiled Blaise good-naturedly, flashing white teeth. He took a bite out of his bread, spilling white crumbs onto the front of his black robes.

"Sorry, my mind is somewhere else right now," said Draco half-heartedly. He was in no mood to socialize. With Blaise following him, he had no choice but to head to the common room.

They walked in silence through the Great Hall, past the entrance hall and down the stairs into the dimly lit Slytherin dungeons, shoes echoing against the worn stone hallways. Torches hung on the walls, flickering light across the stone and their faces as they walked deeper into the belly of the castle. Draco shielded his eyes initially, not prepared for the sudden brightness as the torches flared brighter, providing better light for the two boys as they meandered through the dank corridors. This did not go unnoticed by Blaise, but he quickly averted his gaze.

The cold of the dungeons had already begun to seep into Draco's bones, motivating both Slytherins to quicken their pace. Robes billowing, they rounding yet another corridor in the maze of the dungeon. Although he had never noticed it before, the dungeons smelled strongly of decay. The smell strengthened whenever they passed through a particularly drafty corridor, but at those moments Draco could also pick up the scent of the potions classroom wafting in the breeze. Something extremely sour and pungent, most likely pickled hogs feet, was the first thought that came to Draco's mind, which meant that the second years were brewing insect repellants. TT That particular smell assaulted his senses, making Draco crinkle his nose in revulsion. Why did Snape choose the nastiest ingredients for his potions? There were always cheaper and far better smelling alternatives that could be used, like stewed willow bark in this instance, but the professor insisted on everything being as fresh and close to the original recipe as possible. Unfortunately for Draco, he would just either have to put up with the stink and learn to cope, or make his own olfactory deadening potion and lose the ability to taste his food for hours at a time.

Blaise cleared his throat, and the blonde glanced over at his good friend. Draco could tell that Blaise was dying to ask him something. The boy had been mildly uncomfortable around Draco all through dinner, although he did his best to hide it. And now, even though he tried to be nonchalant, Draco could see an inner struggle raging in the mind of his best friend. The redhead was frowning, his eyes unseeing as they walked the corridor. A silence ensued once more.

"Draco," he began, breaking the silence yet obviously struggling for words. Scratching the side of his auburn head nervously, he opened his mouth again, only to close it, still thinking over his words carefully. Finally, Blaise just blurted it out. "You would tell me if something was wrong, right? If something wasn't....right, you know, with you, or if you needed help. You would say something to me?"

For about half a second Draco panicked. His breath caught in his throat, before he realized that Blaise couldn't possibly know that he was a werewolf. Could he? He had been so careful. Draco hated lying to his best friend, but there were just some things that even friendship couldn't help. He thought it best to play dumb. "What do you mean?" questioned the blonde Slytherin, screwing up his face in confusion as if the mere suggestion that "something" could be wrong was the most ludicrous thing in the world. He eyed Blaise closely. He couldn't slip up now, not when he had been doing so well.

The two continued to walk slowly. They were approaching the Slytherin common room, and Draco knew that if he could drag it out until they got to the door, then Blaise would drop it. He wasn't the type to discuss private matters in public, thank Merlin. Draco didn't know what he would do if his best friend was a total gossip.

"I- I don't know. Maybe I'm being stupid," said Blaise, not making eye contact. "You've just been awful busy of late. And acting weird," said the redhead in a hurry, his face flushing.

Unfortunately, Blaise was slowing his pace, whether deliberately or unintentionally Draco could not be sure. And the blonde was getting extremely nervous, and was once again second-guessing himself. Had he not been careful enough? Had Blaise somehow figured out his secret? Had he told anyone else? Palms sweating profusely,D Draco desperately looked around him, trying to change the topic of conversation and determined not to make eye contact.

"What do you mean "weird"?" replied Draco, sounding as he'd just been insulted. In reality, Draco knew that Blaise was probably right, but if he could learn what he was doing wrong, them maybe Draco could correct his mistakes.

"You know," responded Blaise awkwardly, moving his hands out in front of him and eying Draco like it was quite obvious. When Draco blinked and stared back, Blaise let out a frustrated sigh. "You act strangely around everyone, and you're always jumpy. It's not like anyone's out to get you or something." Blaise eyed his friend expectantly.

"Go on," said Draco irritably, feeling slightly peeved although he tried not to show it.

"And you're just not yourself. You haven't started a proper fight with the Gryffindors in weeks, and you're always by yourself. You don't talk to anyone; you just go to your room and work. And now that Pansy doesn't really have anyone to hang on, she's coming after me! Did you hear that Draco, me!" he cried desperately. "Did we do something wrong? Did I do something wrong?" asked Blaise pointedly, a hint of desperation in his voice.

"Nothing is wrong. I think you're just overreacting," he said, hoping that his friend would not push any further. Draco chose not to make eye contact. If he had looked at Blaise, he would have had to look at the hurt in his eyes, or the sullen expression that the redhead now wore.

Since they were almost directly under the lake by now, it was little wonder that the walls constantly seeped water from between the stones. But Filch made sure no mold or mildew could be seen along the main corridor. Draco's eyes traced a line down the stone blocks, following a drop of water as it trickled down the wall. Mmm Maybe the water-repelling charms were weakening.

"I'll be glad to get back to Quidditch practice next week," tried Draco, feeling somewhat guilty that he had been ignoring his friend. "Pomfrey finally released me. She says I should be almost completely over the flu by now. I think with a bit more sleep, I'll be ready for the next game in no time. I think we have pretty good chances. What do you think?"

"To be frank, I think you look horrible," stated Blaise. Eying him more closely, the redhead continued. "In fact, I think if you got hit by a bludger right now, you'd be more use to the team as a paperweight than a seeker." He gave his friend a glance over as if to confirm his suspicions as Draco looked on, completely shocked. This was not the comment Draco was expecting. So Blaise wasn't going to drop the subject, was he? He was hoping for a good conversation about Quidditch, but if Blaise thought his appearance so bad as to comment about it, then maybe it was time to do something about it. Was this Blaise's way of saying that he could see the changes caused by the lycanthropy?

Draco had been relying on Pepper-Up Potion to keep him alert these past two days, but truth be told, he looked downright ragged. The two previous nights of transformation had left his body racked, and the dark circles under his eyes made his lack of sleep obvious to anyone. He was paler that usual, with the spidery blue veins in his hands creating a stark contrast to his ghostly pallor. And obviously, he would have to eat more next time, considering how frail and thin he seemed, even after just a few days. The Slytherin had thought that he had been eating enough for a small country the previous days, but a werewolf's transformation required so much energy from his sapped body that it had obviously not been enough. Perhaps he could arrange special dining times other than meal times, or maybe sneak down to the kitchens and attempt to find the entrance. But until then, Draco felt that he would probably stay looking thin and sickly.

Overall, Draco was fairly certain that he looked more like a vampire on its deathbed than a werewolf. But at least his hair still looked good, even if it did change color.

"I promise, Blaise. It's nothing I can't handle. I'm just tired," said Draco, trying to look as sincere as possible but having trouble keeping the grumpiness from edging in his voice. It wasn't working. "I haven't really slept well at all these past couple of nights. Nothing to worry about. Who knows? Maybe it's just the flu resurfacing."

Blaise seemed reluctant to drop the issue and somewhat hurt that Draco had apparently brushed him off so lightly, but thankfully they had finally reached the common room entrance.

"Here we are," said Draco loudly, a hint of anxiety still ebbing in his voice. The hallway looked like every other foot of hallway that they just passed, with the exception of a large, circular water stain that covered the entire floor. He stepped towards the left wall, pulled out his wand from the inner lining of his sleeve, and tapped a number of the stones in the precise order required to open. Blaise hurriedly moved away from the water stain. As he finished, the Slytherin stepped back when the floor started to melt away to reveal a dark stone pit, exactly the same size and location as the water stain. The entire pit was line with stone as far as could be seen, which wasn't very far at all. In all appearances, it was a pit into nothingness.

Satisfied that the pit was fully formed, Draco cleared his throat and stated clearly "Bobotuber Pus" into the night air. Stone after stone seemed to liquefy and fall into nothingness, only to be pulled to the sides by an invisible force to form a spiraling stairway lining the pit as solid as any other stone under their feet. Draco smiled. That was so much better than a simple picture frame. Both boys walked down the stairs.

The method of entry had been changed in Draco's 6^th year when an unidentified group of Gryffindor students had somehow broken in and changed the colors of the room to red and gold. Draco had thought it rather unimaginative and predictable, but it had been enough to send Snape into a frenzy. Not two days later, the wall had been changed.

The smell of wood smoke drifted from the roaring fire in the hearth, centered in the common room and lighting the room with a warm and homely glow. It provided a welcome contrast to the damp and chilly atmosphere of the rest of the dungeons. He squinted again. His eyes were so much more sensitive on the nights of the full moon, as was his hearing. The assault of chatter and the crackling of the fire as the walked into the room was distracting, to say the least.

Crabbe and Goyle were sitting at one of the tables, but Draco highly doubted they were doing homework, as every now and then one of them would laugh stupidly. Most likely, the two had probably captured Longbottom's toad again. What was its name? Tommy? Troy? Even Draco felt sorry for the poor thing.

And now, Draco had precious little time to ditch his friends and head back to the hospital wing. He pretended to follow Blaise to the steps that led to their dormitory, avoiding several groups of students gathered around the room, sitting upon the squishy brown leather couches with their homework laid out upon the heavy mahogany tables under green lamps, or stretched out in a study circle upon the brand new Oriental rug in front of the fire. Slytherin alumni often donated their gently used furniture to the common room, so it was not unusual to come downstairs to find the furniture or the wall hangings changed overnight.

But the blonde stopped suddenly, as if abruptly remembering something.

"You know, on second thought," he started, knowing that he sounded lame even as he said it, "I think I'm going to get a dreamless sleep potion from Pomfrey." Blaise turned on his heel to stare back down at Draco, eyebrows furrowed in skepticism. He blinked, and then scowled at the sheer oddness of it all. His friend had been acting so strangely of late.

"Draco, are you sure you're-"

"Yeah, it's nothing," lied Draco hastily. He didn't have much time. His talk with Blaise had wasted entirely too much time. He had to leave. Now. The pull of the moon was becoming stronger the longer he waited. "She might want to keep me longer, you know, maybe she can find out exactly why I'm not sleeping so well. But I'll see you tomorrow in class." Blaise eyed him in disbelief and snorted, but Draco ignored him.

The blonde turned back around and walked swiftly out of the common room and under the low-ceilinged mahogany beams, avoiding Blaise's dubious expression and trying not to attract too much attention. He knew his excuse was shoddy, but he didn't exactly have time to plan up a medal winning explanation. Draco would just have to patch it up later.

He practically bounded up the ancient stone stairs, taking them three at a time as he raced to the hospital wing. There was still the long trek through the tunnel to be made before he was completely secure.

The matron was waiting nervously at the ward entrance, clearly agitated at the boy's tardiness. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyebrows, forehead wrinkling in agitation. "Leave a little earlier next time, Mr. Malfoy." She berated quietly. But Madam Pomfrey was more relieved that anything to see her charge, and quickly dismissed any of his excuses. Light from the setting sun was already streaming through the hospital window in hues of orange, yellow, and blood red. It was time.

"Ready to go?" she questioned. Draco could hear her heartbeat quicken by a fraction of a second, but he knew his was racing much faster. One more night, and it would be over for a month.

He nodded. Draco was ready.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

The smell of his surroundings was always the first thing Draco noticed in the mornings, even before he opened his eyes. Upon awakening, the Slytherin would instinctively breathe in deeply, giving him instant knowledge of his whereabouts and the people near him. Usually, the first scent that assailed his nostrils was the stench of unwashed bodies, as it was almost always the strongest scent when one happened to live with Crabbe and Goyle. Mingled with that scent, there were always the weaker yet familiar aromas of ink and paper, dusty bed hangings, or the smoky hint of the fire lit the night before wafting up from the common room.

But this morning, even before he opened his eyes or thought about the events of the night before, the blonde instantly knew that something was different. It was not the odor of smoke or ink, nor the smell of teenage boys that he identified. Instead, the aromas of soft linen and magically sanitized hard steel were the strongest, followed by a myriad of scents that Draco recognized as standard potions ingredients. The typically present sound of his roommates' steady breathing was gone also, only to be replaced by the murmurings and random sounds of clinking tools and glass that could only mean one thing. He was in the hospital wing. Again.

Slowly opening his eyes, he flexed his muscles, testing for injuries. Nothing appeared to broken or horribly injured. Frowning, he pulled up his sleeves just in case, turning his arms as he looked for scratches or signs that the medi-witch had bandaged him up in some way. Nothing. Not altogether convinced, Draco lifted his flannel pajama top and peered at his abdomen. Everything seemed to be alright. Besides the usual stiffness and joint pain, it appeared that he had escaped any serious injury after a night of werewolf transformation. Thank Merlin!

He heard more voices drifting from the medi-witch's office.

All at once, as if hit by an invisible force, Draco detected another presence in the hospital wing. Another inhuman presence. Although he had no idea if it was friend or foe, the Slytherin instinctively felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and fought down the growl that was rising from the bottom of his throat. Eyes dancing around frantically for the source, he sat up in bed, not knowing why he was so on edge but fully knowing that something was wrong. Where was it? What was wrong? Danger? Should he run? Fight?

Mouth dry with anticipation and mind alert with possible escape routes, he madly scrambled out of his bed as the source came closer. If he could only make it to the door before they realized he was here, he would be home free. And if they gave chase, he could easily hide behind the statue of Glora the Enormous and evade detection. Afterwards, a race down several flights of stairs to the Slytherin common room would secure his flight. No one could enter without a password.

It was a good plan. And it would have been even better if it worked. Unfortunately, Draco's simple yet effective escape plan ended rather prematurely when he became entangled in his bed sheets, and only succeeding in hitting the hospital wing floor with a resounding "oomph". In a few seconds, he was nothing more than a twisted knot of sheets and limbs on the hard, cold floor.

"Should I come back at a better time?" said an annoyingly familiar voice.

Throwing back the sheets over his head and gripping them tightly, Draco finally extricated his disheveled head enough to get a good look at his adversary. But at first glance, even Draco couldn't stop his words as they tumbled from his mouth.

"Oh no, not you?" he cried, a look of utmost consternation and disgust sweeping across his face before he could stop himself.

"I'm afraid so," replied Remus Lupin, inclining his head towards the ground. He tried to hide his surprised smile, but failed miserably. The older werewolf smiled good-naturedly. "It's nice to see you again, too."

A silence between the two followed, at which time Draco suddenly realized how stupid he must look sitting on the floor of the hospital wing in nothing but his pajamas and a pile of bed linens.

AN: Should I continue?