The Spaces Between Shadows & Night

by: Silver Prophet
the combined talents of:
silverphoenix & poetic licence

Halfway to Hogwarts, Draco was still unable to throw off the confused jumble of ideas in his mind.

How Potter had looked, bone thin and raged, his hands covered with rice paper instead of skin, the knuckles dark with blood; the hollows in his face more obvious than ever. And Granger swearing...that's certainly a turn-up for the books, thought pondered to himself, I never knew she had it in her.

He scowled at Pansy, who had been chattering mindless, mindlessly being the only way she could operate, ever since accosting him on the platform, angry at him for not writing to him over the summer. I've got more important things to worry about than writing to Miss Pug Face, growled his Inner-Draco. Even in Slytherin Pansy was a simpering joke with too much make-up. Too little brains and too much ambition, becoming Mrs Draco Malfoy being number one on her list, which made her a definite bane in Draco's existence.

Draco shifted his attention to his two 'friends' Crabbe and Goyle, who had the intelligence of half a boiled egg between the two of them. They were the brawn - Draco told them what to hit and how hard it hit it and that's exactly what they did. Repeatedly if it didn't lie down and shut up the first time.

But even here, surrounded by Slytherins, reverting to God-like status that came from money and prestige, both of which he had in abundance, Draco was unsettled.

When Vince suddenly made use of his one brain cell and suggested they go harass 'Potty and the Gryffindorks', Draco had told him sharply to sit down and shut up, making everyone in the carriage start with surprise, including himself. Pansy stared at him as if he'd gone off his tree.

He had waved it off with some fast thinking, something that he was excellent at. "The Weasel isn't there. You can't just pick on two of the Tosser Trio, it has to be a complete set you idiots, otherwise what's the fun? Go annoy the Hufflepoufs if you want. I'm having a nap."

Luckily, they'd bought it, and all clumped out together, taking the sickening Pansy ('Are you alright Draco? Do want some water Draco? Something to eat Draco?') with them.

Draco closed his eyes, leaning his head against the window, blonde hair falling out of place over his eyes, feeling the train shake and rattle along the tracks, feeling faintly queasy. What the hell was he thinking?

And with that last uneasy thought, sleep encumbered him.

~~ ~~~ ~~

Draco was still feeling out of sorts when the train pulled into the station and everyone piled into the horseless carriages, except the first years that all scrambled for the boats in Hagrid's imposing shadow. Darkness was gathering rapidly, the night seemed darker in sympathy with Draco's mood, still unsettled from his encounter with Potter on the platform. The lanterns swung as the castle loomed into visibility, a menacing force rising out of the cliff-face.

Draco's carriage swung close to another, and he scowled when he saw Finnigan's head stick out the window, taking in the view of the school, before turning back to say something back into his own carriage. Hermione's face joined him for a moment, her brown hair dyed black in the faded light, her face set.

Draco drew a breath. Wherever Granger is, Potter's not far behind.

He was proved correct when Finnigan and Granger dropped out of sight and Harry popped into view, his face even more gaunt in the minimalist light, his hair as lifeless as his eyes, staring hollowly towards Hogwarts. Draco watched his impassive face for some long moments, until they were swept into the castles shadow and he could see Potter no more, the latter was just another inky black head in the cloudy darkness.

~~ ~~~ ~~

The sorting ceremony was as long and as tiresome as ever. Having eaten very little on the train, Draco by this stage, was ravenous, and his stomach growled in a rather undignified manner as he watched with faux interest as the first years tripped onto the stage and underneath the Sorting Hat's all-knowing stance.

Some looked pale and weak-kneed; some were calm and indifferent; some just looked plain out confused by the whole thing. Mudbloods, his Inner-Draco scowled, they should go back to where they belong! He was somewhat amused by the fact that some of the more confident first years, mostly purebloods who had been told beforehand what the ceremony involved, seemed shocked at the decisions that the Sorting Hat was giving. Draco, on the other hand, was faintly amused by the whole thing, well, he would have been if his stomach wasn't talking to him so loudly.

Bored, he began to shift his eyes around the Great Hall appraisingly, making sure his face was still and blank, tuning out the Slytherins with a certain grace that came with breeding and four years of practice. He scanned the teachers table first, scowling as Dumbledore clapped politely, his fingers slapping his palm lightly, his smile vague. Draco knew though, from experience, that the Headmaster saw and heard a lot more than he let on, and also knew that it was not a wise idea to cross him. Or his precious pet Potter, he scowled firmly before letting his eyes drift a little more.

McGonagall was there, looking as stern as ever. Professor Sprout, dimpled and smiling sickeningly at Professor Flitwick, who was perched up on cushions, his feet dangling. Professor Snape, hunched a little, frowning deeply into his empty plate.

Draco made a quick deduction in his head and sought out their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, glowering when he found the culprit. Yes, definitely a Weasel.

Even if Draco hadn't been present to overhear Granger and Potter on Platform 9¾ he would have been able to tell that their new teacher was a Weasley. The youth couldn't have been more than twenty-five, with long shocking-red hair, thin and tall, a fang dangling from his ear. Draco faintly recognised him from nearly three months back, on the night of the Third Task, his face a pale mask as he rested his hand on Ron's shoulder as Granger had wept uncontrollably after Harry had gone missing.

He shivered with the memory. His father had never spoken about that night when Draco had returned to Malfoy Manor, locking himself in his study for days on end, making hurried calls with his private fireplace and receiving owls at all times of the day and night. Draco had kept one ear to the ground all summer; intercepting owls; bribing the staff; harassing house-elves by pulling their ears until they talked; snooping though his fathers desk, gathering information everywhere. He even drove himself to seek out his mother's haunts and sitting at her feet pretending to read, his sharp ears taking in every slip of the tongue.

Lucius Malfoy had plans, that much was obvious, and Draco knew full well what was expected of him when he turned seventeen. Draco, on the other hand, had no intention of turning to Voldemort, but saw no sense in turning over to the 'Side of the Light' either. There was no way he was going to be one of Dumbledore's watchdogs and pawns. Draco wanted out of England completely, planning to leave for America at the first chance he got, leaving himself free to do what he wanted to do.

What that was exactly was still a mystery.

He shook his head inwardly, eyes running a cataloguing and appraising eye over all the students within his sightline. Who was sitting next to whom? Where did the alliances stand? What groups would hold certain power and privileges this year? Study groups, rivalries, love interest...this kind of information was highly priced to Draco. He liked to remain on top of things, in and out of Slytherin; he knew fact from fiction, truth from lies, instance from gossip, reality from speculation. He was a mastermind when it came to this kind of cunning, playing one person off another, using weaknesses to his advantage. He knew how to gain information without seeming obvious, many of the portraits in the school knew him on sight, and were more than willing to stop and have a chat for a moment or two with the charming blonde Slytherin. In short, he could make a very affective weapon against any side, if he ever decided to lay his loyalties down.

But for Draco, that was not an option.

Finally the Sorting was over and McGonagall removed the hat for another year. The food was quick to appear and everyone fell to it quickly, finding their appetites after such a long wait. Draco piled food on his plate and chewed thoughtfully, choosing to ignore Crabbe and Goyle in their attempts to see just who could fit more in their mouths; a disgusting exercise that seemed to happen every meal. Pansy, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content to sit and gossip with Blaise Zabini, talking a mile-a-minute about something unimportant.

Draco found himself staring down at the Gryffindor table, which he always faced, preferring to keep the Gryffindorks in sight at all times, evaluating their petty lives carefully. The Tosser Trio were just to the left of his sight focus on Ginny Weasley, who was gazing with rapt attention at the Boy Wonder himself.

Draco felt sick to the stomach.

Granger was sitting next to her, ignoring the youngest Weasel completely as she spoke hurriedly to Potter. It looked as though she was trying to reason with him about something, with Weasel on the other side of him torn between arguing with Granger at Potter's behalf (or vice-versa) and shovelling food in his mouth. Potter on the other hand, seemed to be ignoring both of them, leaving them to snipe between themselves, munching half-heartedly on a chicken thigh.

The black haired boy looked up suddenly, his eyes resting for just a moment on Draco's face, seeing his stare and matching it perfectly with one of his own. They held the look for the briefest of moments before Draco forced a scowl on his face and turned to Goyle, an inexplicable anger rising in his veins.

"Will you two stop acting like pigs and more like human beings?!" he snarled at them, putting a definite halt on their eat-a-thon.

Somehow relieved by their muttered apologise, and feeling, once again, like the Prince of Slytherin, Draco returned to his meal, not looking at the Gryffindor table again, even when the slightly metallic sounding laugh of Harry Potter resounded in his ears from the other side of the hall.

~~ ~~~ ~~

Draco stared at his ceiling and gave up on sleep for the fourth time that night, slipping out of bed silently and padding softly, wrapped in his black bathrobe, down to the common room, it's fire smouldering, spreading forth a great deal of heat, even at two in the morning.

He folded himself gracefully into one of the padded sofas nearest the fire and stared into the depths as he considered the information that had already been presented to him since his return to Hogwarts.

The Hufflepuffs seemed more bonded together than ever, creating an unbalance in the school. It seemed, that these days, they trusted no one but each other, all in firm belief that what happened to Cedric would never happen again to one of their own. They were determined, brittle...fools, spat Inner-Draco to him, they think they are strong as a united force, but it makes them weaker. The usually trusting Hufflepuffs were full of suspicion and glares, and not all of it was focused towards the Slytherin table either. Draco had switched seats with Carla Fracell, a haughty sixth-year, and spent several minutes talking to the Bloody Baron.

The Baron was much like Draco in a way, always in the hunt for information, and was one of Draco's main contacts, considering that the ghosts could travel anywhere in the school - no bars could hold them in, nor walls to halt their progress. And since they weren't solid, people naturally assumed that they didn't hear anything, so they were perfect allies if you knew what to ask. The Baron made an excellent spy, and Draco used him at ever opportunity.

The Baron had informed him that the Hufflepuffs were restless at their ranking as bottom of the school, especially after their champion last year had been outshone by an underage Potter; who had always maintained that he did not put his name in the Goblet of Fire, nor did he know who did. And then Cedric had died at the hand of He-Who-Must-Never-Be-Named (except by Potter who didn't know any better) which had caused much unrest and speculation. There were many dark looks towards the Gryffindors, and especially towards Potter, because he still refused to die. Everything came down to Potter, it would seem.

The Ravenclaws also seemed more bonded, although their animosity towards Potty and the Gryffindorks was not so hostile. Cho Chang had spent most of the meal refusing to meet anyone's eyes, and had left the hall as soon as she could, swamped with her friends and close supporters. Draco had watched Potter follow her out with his eyes, regret on his face at his involvement of her pain. He was so obvious, with his feelings towards Cho, crush or otherwise; and Draco rolled his eyes at the fact that Potter, Boy Wonder, had simply fallen for a pretty face.

The Baron had also mentioned that the Portraits had been gossiping more than usual as the holidays had drawn to a close, but he was not sure why exactly. Something to do with the Prefects or some such nonsense. The Baron paid little heed to the Portraits, preferring to turn himself invisible and glide noiselessly around the school, eavesdropping. There was no fun in talking to people...it was much more interesting doing the dirty work yourself, especially if you happened to be floating around for a couple hundred of years, and more often than not, bored out of your nonexistent skull.

Draco had been made a Prefect, much to his mother's delight, and obviously at Snape's insistence. Let's face facts here, his Inner-Draco preened, it was either me or Crabbe or Goyle, knuckleheads anonymous. As a Prefect he had certain...privileges that he was open now to exercise, well, as least exercise with the back-up of teachers, something that he had never bothered about in the past. He had received his letter, along with the password to the common-room, a week before leaving the Manor, so with this knowledge well in hand, he gave over the reins to Zabini to show the first years to their rooms and went to talk to his more favourite Portraits.

He found himself on the second floor, underneath one of the moving staircase (with a disappearing step a third of the way up) in heated conversation with Violet, who was, incidentally, a friend of the Fat Lady who guarded the Gryffindor tower. She was a gossip queen that could rival Pansy, rarely found in her own frame because she was too busy sticking her painted nose into other paintings' business. The only frame she refused to be in was Sir Codigan's, the mad knight near the Divination tower, and Draco did not blame her in the slightest, having encountered the knights antics one too many times himself.

"Potter was made a Prefect?" he asked, astounded at the knowledge and trying to figure out how he had missed him wearing the badge, reprimanding his keen eye and cunning.

"Oh yes! And he turned it down flat too!" Violet was in full flight by this stage, her fan fluttering as her hand twitched with excitement.

"He turned it down?" echoed Draco, slack jawed.

"Told Dumbledore himself that he didn't want the responsibility. That he wasn't the right person for the job. Dumbledore was most disappointed in him I can tell you. I heard it from one of his personal Portraits half-an-hour ago!"

"So who are the Gryffindor Prefects?"

"That lovely, polite Miss Granger." Draco snorted, remembering her swearing act on the platform. "And Mister Thomas."

"Mudbloods...both of them. Thanks Vi," growled Draco automatically, his mind still on Potter's refusal to take a role of Prefect. I would have thought that he would have jumped at the chance to add another notch to his already full belt...I bet that's what Granger was trying to talk to him about at Dinner. Draco continued this line of thought as he strode forcefully towards the common room, letting his autopilot take over and lead him back.

So he was startled when he noticed a too-thin figure step out from a side door some metres in front of him. Draco came to a halt and slid behind one of the suits of armour, fading quietly into the shadows. The figure moved in a disjointed fashion, as if unused to their legs and Draco growled inwardly to himself. Potter, sneaking out after curfew again.

Draco watched him carefully for a few minutes as he stared blankly into the night through one of the windows; watched him sigh deeply, brushing his too-long hair out of his eyes with frail hands; watched him turn and return back the way he came unsteadily, heading in the direction of the tower and his bed.

Watched the memory of him by the window as if it were the answer to everything.

~~ ~~~ ~~
TBC
~~ ~~~ ~~