White Shadow (Pureblood, Book I)

He decided that this whole "Inner Eye" thing could be pretty cool, after all.

By the time he made it to his usual seat at lunch, the allotted time was almost over. He pretended not to notice when Blaise, Crabbe and Goyle collectively stared at him. Shoveling food onto his plate as fast as was possible, he heard the first to speak up was Blaise.

"What happened?"

"I'll tell you later," he said distractedly. "Pass the fish-and-chips, Goyle."

They didn't question any further mainly because they didn't have time to. Only a few minutes later the students were dismissed and Draco ate faster than he ever had in his entire life, though he was sure it was going to make him sick.

But he managed to struggle through the rest of the day. His note from Trelawney worked on Professor Vector, the wizard who taught Arithmancy. His impression of the class was neither to one extreme or the other. He liked it, he thought it was interesting, but it wasn't his favorite subject.

He didn't answer the burning questions of his three companions until they made it back to the dorm rooms after dinner, and even then, he stalled.

When they were all situated on their beds, Blaise said, "Alright, now tell us what the hell happened! I'm worried sick!"

"Relax," Draco said. Blaise stood up huffily and walked out of Draco's line of vision.

"That's easier said than done," he snipped as he moved across the dormitory.

"I don't—" He stopped suddenly when his instinct once again let off a warning signal. "You know, I think I might give you a demonstration, instead. Blaise, watch out for the bed."

"Wha--? Ow!!"

He'd stubbed his toe on the edge of Crabbe's four-poster bed. Draco turned his head to see him rub the afflicted foot, then look up again. "What was that?" he asked hotly.

"Err..." Draco paused, wondering how to phrase it. Should he go for the subtle approach? That would take much too long. Besides, Draco was never very good about beating around the bush. So, with a deep breath in, he said:

"Guys, I'm a Seer."

A stretch of silence overtook the dormitory. Draco hesitantly looked about at each individual reaction -- Crabbe and Goyle just looked confused, while Blaise looked like he was sucking on a lemon.

"You're a Seer?" echoed Blaise in a high voice. "You're a Seer?"

Draco suddenly felt very small. "Yeah. I mean -- at least according to Professor Trelawney, and everything she said seems to add up, so..."

"So, what," Crabbe said suddenly, "does that mean you can see the future or something? Like, whenever you want?"

"Not really. Not yet, anyway." He paused. "At the moment, it's just little things, and I can't really control it. I don't know when I'll See things and I don't know what they'll deal with. They're quite spontaneous."

"What's 'spontaneous' mean?" Goyle asked.

"Wait, we're s'posed to look it up in the dictionary, right?" Crabbe said.

Blaise ignored them both and walked toward where Draco was sitting. "What does all this have to do with you collapsing in the middle of class?" he queried, sitting down across from Draco.

"She said it had something to do with my Inner Eye opening for the first time. Like it was adjusting or something... I don't know; I wasn't really listening." He shrugged and looked to one side and out the window, where he saw a long stretch of milky blackness, scattered with rags of twilight. "But it was apparently enough to send me into some sort of coma-like state for a few hours."

"What happened after we left?" Blaise continued to pry.

"Well," Draco said slowly, "when I woke up, she explained what happened. Then..." He frowned, trying to think. "Then she signed a pass for me to get to Arithmancy, and I made her promise that she wouldn't -- that she wouldn't tell anyone, and guys—" he looked up at Blaise alone even though he'd used a plural pronoun, "—I'd really appreciate it if you didn't, either. It's not something that I'd like to publicize."

"What? But Draco—"

"Promise me, Blaise."

Blaise paused for a very long while, his dark eyes searching Draco's. In any other circumstance, he would have averted his gaze, but this was too important.

"Alright," he said finally. "I promise." Draco smiled a relieved smile. "But I don't understand."

"I don't expect you to," said Draco, sounding almost sad. "I don't think there are very many people in the world who can." He stared down at his knees. "Between my family and my figurehead status, it would just be a very bad idea for the word to get loose."

He didn't look up, but he heard Blaise stand and move to the bed on which Draco sat, sinking down on his right side. "Well," he whispered, "maybe I don't understand. Maybe I never will. But I do know one thing that makes it all moot."

Draco felt a hand on his shoulder. "I know that you're my friend," he said, "and if you give me a secret, I'll take it to my grave."

Something warm squeezed in his stomach, and he smiled as he looked up to once again meet Blaise's gaze. A friend. He had a friend for the first time in his life.

Sure, he'd had plenty of acquaintances. His family had been host to dozens, maybe hundreds of family since as long as he could remember, and there would occasionally be a child his age with whom he would speak briefly and never see again. That was the way life had always been and he'd come to accept the fact that it probably would never changed.

And then Blaise had come into his life and so shamelessly, fearlessly declared him as his friend. It was a sensation he'd never before encountered. How could he possibly put all he was feeling into words? How could he show his gratitude in English alone, or all the tongues of man? How could he express how much this meant to him without ripping out his beating heart and giving it to the person sitting next to him?

"Thanks," he whispered.

The last traces of summer had completely vanished from Hogwarts, leaving the grounds stained in the reddish-gold shades of autumn. The air had a definite crisp tang and the days were slowly growing shorter and shorter.

When Draco woke up the next day and glanced casually at his wall calendar, he noticed that it was almost halfway through October. Halloween was rapidly approaching, but that wasn't what he was thinking about a few seconds later.

What had woken him, he realized, was a sharp tapping on the small window above his bed. He grunted and slowly pulled his legs off the bed, stumbling to his feet and opening it with a groping hand, where promptly a small black owl toppled onto his bed with a disgruntled hoot.

Draco smiled wearily. "Hi, Nantucket," he said softly, sitting down on the bed. "It's about time. Mortimer said he'd write days ago..."

Nantucket ruffled his dark plumage and dropped a folded parchment in his lap, then nudged his hand forcefully. With a weak laugh, Draco scratched the top of the owl's head with one hand and with the other broke the black seal on the parchment and unfolded it. Like he assumed, it was in a finely refined script and entirely in French:

Sorry, Draco!

I would have written sooner, but your grandfather had me do an odd job out at Knockturn Alley that, suffice to say, took more than a few hours. Don't worry, though, I managed to get out unscathed. How's school going? Do you like your classes and teachers? Made any new friends? Better yet, seen any girls that have caught your fancy? Just kidding! -- or am I? God knows you're only eleven, but I had my first girlfriend when I was twelve, so who knows?

Your grandfather's health has continued to deteriorate, like we all expected. I'm not sure how much more time he has to live, Draco, and I know you don't remember what he was like before old age took most of him. All the same, he's flesh and blood, and I think it's a good idea that you're coming to the chateau over Christmas, after your trip to Paris, of course.

Which reminds me: your mother wanted me to inform you that Aunt Bella backed out of the trip at the last moment, which leaves a spot open. If there's anyone over there you'd like to take to Paris with you over Christmas break, just write back to me.

I think that about takes care of the letter, so I'll be signing off.

Bisous,
Mortimer

Draco smirked and stood up, leaving Nantucket on the bed. He moved past the beds of his sleeping roommates and sat down at a small desk, producing a clean sheet of parchment and a quill and ink well. He unscrewed the well and looked down thoughtfully, where he saw Shadow padding softly into the room, water on her paws. Draco laughed and decided it must have been one of those questions that was best left unanswered. Then he began to respond, in French, of course:

Hey, Mortimer,

It seems wiser to not ask about the situation in Knockturn Alley, so I won't.

School is going great. I like most of my classes well enough. Of course, I haven't had some of them, yet, but I have been to Herbology, which was extremely interesting. I also took History of Magic, which, despite being somewhat interesting, is taught in the absolute worst way possible (a ghost names Professor Binns teaches it -- he doesn't talk, he drones!). Muggle Studies is particularly fascinating, but don't tell Father I said that! The teacher is a young woman named Professor Cringle, and she's very enthusiastic about the subject. Charms is nice, too. Professor Flitwick teaches it. Professor Vector teaches Arithmancy, and I guess it's pretty interesting. Could be worse.

Besides that, Transfiguration is cool but very, very hard. Care of Magical Creatures is just dangerous. I did meet the gamekeeper briefly, who's the one that should be really teaching the class, but anyway...

Draco suddenly stopped writing. The class he had after Care of Magical Creatures was Divination. Should he tell him what had happened? Of course he would trust Mortimer with his own life, but there were some things that were best kept in total secrecy.

Then again, it might be a good idea. Mortimer wouldn't judge him. He might even be able to help him, advise him. Swallowing, he continued to write:

I also went to Divination. Mortimer, I have a confession to make... after I passed out in class after divining for my first time, I... Well, that is, I found out that I'm a Seer.

Please, whatever you do, don't tell Father! You don't have to believe me. In fact, I'd feel a bit better if you didn't, but please don't tell Father. I know it'll send him off the deep end to know that I'm not more adept in the "harder" forms of magic.

But I digress. Yes, I have made a friend, and that is singular. His name is Blaise Zabini and he's in my year and house. He's pretty cool, and I'll run the Paris trip by him. I know you'd like him, so keep your fingers crossed that he can come!

No, I haven't met any girls. Well, I mean, there's Pansy Parkinson, but she looks and has the mental capacity of a pug dog and it'll be a cold night in hell before I find myself attracted to her in any way at all. In fact, I despise her. She's very uppity and pretentious and I'd much sooner put my head in a hungry lion's mouth then associate with her more than is completely necessary.

Crabbe and Goyle's sons are here, as well. Yes, they're just as stupid as ever. Goyle managed to get himself attacked by a half-conscious rat. Long story.

And that about sums up my first few days at Hogwarts! Hope to hear back from you soon.

All the Best,
Draco

He signed the letter with his usual flourish, added a small heart for good measure, and folded it twice over itself. He turned back to Nantucket and whispered, "Ready for the return journey?" Nantucket let out an indignant hoot. "Fine, you can go back up to the owlry, but at least take it with you." He held out the letter. Nantucket took it into its beak, rumpled its feathers, and then took up out the window without another noise.

Draco sighed and watched the owl leave, his eyes lingering on the window for a few moments longer. Then he looked to the clock -- there was more than an hour before he was required to be anywhere, so he decided that he'd treat himself to a long bubble bath.

But it was ephemeral, because forty-five minutes later, Crabbe was banging on the bathroom door. Draco heaved a heavy sigh and emerged from the layer of bubbles on the surface of tub, wrapping a towel about his waist and relenting the bathroom to his roommate. He dressed and brushed his hair, then picked up Shadow from his pillow and put her in her usual spot in the hood of his cloak, which was open until he found himself outside.

The first class Draco had after breakfast was Astronomy, which got the same reaction as Arithmancy out of him; he liked it, it was interesting, but it wasn't his favorite subject. He had memories as a child of Mortimer taking him up onto the roof of Chateau Lestrange, showing him all the different constellations across the sky. Orion, the Pleiades, Cygnus, Cassiopeia and (his favorite), Draco the Dragon. Unfortunately, Astronomy was about much more than picking a few constellations out of the night sky, as he quickly learned.

He went to lunch slightly disillusioned after having taken several pages of notes the movement of stars and the effects thereof on ways of life. That was forgotten, however, when he, Crabbe, Goyle and Blaise once again compared schedules.

"I've got Potions next," grunted Goyle.

"Same," sputtered Crabbe through a mouthful of meat.

"Me, too," Draco said, "with Professor Snape." He looked toward Blaise expectantly, who appeared as though he hadn't heard a word of it. After a few moments of silence, Draco prompted with, "Blaise?"

"Hm?" he said, looking up sharply. He seemed to have been preoccupied.

"What's your next class?"

There was a pause before Blaise said, "Oh. Err, next up for me is just a free period." It took a few long moments for the words to settle into Draco's psyche; Blaise took the opportunity to fill his mouth with bread so he wouldn't have to answer:

"What? You're not taking Potions?"

"Fowwy," he slurred through his food.

"Don't talk while you chew," Draco reprimanded irritably.

Blaise rolled his eyes, swallowed, and then said, "I said 'sorry.'"

"Well, that's all well and good," said Draco, setting his fork down on his plate, "but it doesn't change the fact that you're not taking Potions!"

"Hey, I said I'm sorry!" Blaise said defensively. "It wasn't really my choice, anyway."

"Not your choice?" came Goyle's fumbling interrogation. "How come?"

Blaise didn't respond, so Draco prompted with, "Yeah -- how come?"

With a sigh, he said, "Because I didn't choose my schedule, alright? My parents did, and they didn't want me in Potions class, for whatever reason."

"Your parents chose your schedule?"

"Well that's stupid," Draco said. "Potions is one of the most practical classes offered. Why would they not want you to take it? Every witch or wizard should have a basic understanding of potions; it'd be very difficult to get along otherwise."

"I don't know," Blaise relented. "I think it's because they're worried I'll blow something up."

"Will you?" asked Draco.

"What--? Well, no, but--"

"Then what are they worried about?"

"It's not that simple."

"It never is," he sighed, taking a bite of sourdough bread.

There wasn't much time left in lunch and when they left, the four of them walked into the dungeons but parted ways at the first intersection. The moment Blaise was out of earshot, Crabbe and Goyle were exchanging theories.

"Maybe his parents are trying to learn mind-control," suggested Goyle.

Draco would have slapped him upside the head if he could. "Yeah, that would make sense," he said spitefully, "if you ignore the whole 'logic' thing." He added air quotes for emphasis.

"What'cha mean?"

"Don't you two read the Prophet?" he said as he rounded a corner. "The Ministry has been heightening the penalties on mind-control magic ever since that nasty incident up in Bolton last month. His parents would have to be out of their minds to even try experimenting with it."

"Well, aren't we just a font of current information?"

The voice had come from a few feet ahead. When Draco looked up, he saw none other than Severus Snape, in all his dark-eyed, greasy-haired glory, leering like a distorted shadow against the wall. Draco managed a smile. "Hello, Professor," he said.

"Good afternoon, Draco," replied Snape with a taut politeness. His empty black eyes moved past Draco and to the enormous boys flanking both sides.

Draco, who wasn't unskillful in the fine art of etiquette, promptly said, "This is Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. Guys, this is Professor Severus Snape."

As the two of them mumbled their hellos, Snape drawled, "Ah, yes. The sons of Edmond Crabbe and Dorian Goyle, I assume?" They nodded. "I've had my associations with them. They were both very good students; I expect nothing less from the two of you."

Is he ever in for a disappointment, Draco thought amusedly.

"And you," Snape said, redirecting his attention to Draco. "Your father and I were at the top of our class back in the day," he informed him. "You've got quite a bit to live up to, young Mr. Malfoy."

With every inch of his willpower, Draco smothered the urge to sneer. "I'll do my best, Professor," he said, trying very hard to sound sincere.

"Very good." With one hand, Snape motioned behind him into what Draco assumed to be the classroom, which looked and felt like the laboratory back in the Manor to an uncanny degree. There were only a few students presently in the room, so Draco had the pick of seats. He ended up off to the side near the wall. Crabbe and Goyle, like the brainless sheep they were, followed and lumbered into the adjacent seats on either side.

Only a few minutes later did Snape begin to call roll. It was relatively uneventful until Draco noticed that Professor Snape had faltered in his speech.

"Ah, yes," came the soft voice. "Harry Potter. Our new -- celebrity."

He heard Crabbe and Goyle chuckle, and he played along obligingly as Snape continued on with the roll, then stop and turn to address the class in a cold, harsh whisper:

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand," he said, "the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses."

He paused for a very long moment as he stalked down the aisle between the aisles of desks before he continued.

"I can teach you," he whispered, "how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death -- if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

A stretch of uncomfortable silence before: "Potter!"

The cry was so sharp that even Draco jumped. He turned his head in Harry's direction, expecting to see him whispering or passing notes, but doing neither of the two. In fact, he seemed as though he wasn't doing a thing wrong at all.

"What would I get," he demanded, "if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Draught of the Living Death, thought Draco instantly. It was a sleeping serum that was so powerful, it created the legend of Rip Van Winkle, the man who fell asleep for eighty years. His father had created it once when Draco was younger and used it on a lab rat; the rat was sleeping to this day.

"I don't know, sir," Harry replied, which elicited a sneer on the professor's face.

"Tut, tut," he said. "Fame clearly isn't everything." He folded his hands in front of him and said, "Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

A farm, his mind replied. A bezoar was a stone found in the stomach of a goat, and had mass amounts of healing properties and almost limitless uses. There were more than a few in the Manor's laboratory, and he had vague recollections of his mother using it to heal his case of the measles, as well as the time he got food poisoning.

"I don't know, sir," Harry said again. Draco was trying his very best to seem horribly amused by it all, but it was proving extremely difficult.

"Though you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?" said Snape calmly. "What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Draco thought, There is no difference. They're the same plant by two different names. But Harry still looked clueless, though Draco did catch him giving Hermione a sideways glance.

"I don't know," he said. "I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?"

A few people chuckled; Draco didn't. He didn't often associate with Snape, but he had done so enough to know that there was one thing you should never do to him, and that was cross him. He felt a genuine twist of worry in his stomach and he watched for his reaction anxiously.

"Sit down," Snape said sharply in Hermione's direction. "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of the Living Death. A beazor is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of acotine." Draco filed that last bit of information away. "Well?" he said suddenly. "Why aren't you all copying that down?"

Draco was probably the only one who wasn't scrambling for parchment and quills that moment, because he had a feeling that this would be one of those classes, the ones that went over everything you already knew and bored you to tears.

His assumptions on the class proved correct. The first exercise was creating a potion for curing boils, which Draco found mind numbing in its simplicity. He could have done this at six years old, blindfolded, with one hand tied behind his back. Yet still, some of his classmates proved to be infecting the gene pool. Neville Longbottom had screwed up the worst when he added the porcupine quills before he took the cauldron off the fire. Soon a thick red liquid was spreading across the floor and covering the boy, who was beginning to break out in boils.

Draco rolled his eyes. This was by no means a difficult potion. You'd have to be really trying to mess up with it. But as Snape swooped in towards Neville like a hawk and began rapidly chastising him, Draco realized for the first time that maybe they weren't incompetent -- maybe he just knew more on the subject than others. The concept was hard to grasp.

By the time class was over, Draco had occupied himself with watching ink dry on his parchment and hadn't realized the time. As he scrambled to pack up, Crabbe and Goyle were already halfway out the door. He'd just shoved a folded parchment into his textbook and had turned to make his hasty exit only to find that someone was blocking way, and not unintentionally.

Professor Snape said, "Young Mr. Malfoy, do you have a moment?"

"What?" he said before he could stop himself. "Oh. Well, I guess." He was pretty hungry, though, and was looking forward to dinner.

"You gave off two impressions to me today," Snape said. "You appeared both quite adept and quite bored by the criteria in this lesson."

"With all due respect, Professor," he said, "that potion could be done by a well-trained monkey." Snape's thin lips curled into a wicked smirk.

He said, "Indeed it could have been, Draco, but it is required knowledge to first years, and as I'm sure you saw today, not everyone is quite as skilled in the art of potions as you." Draco felt no swell of pride in the professor's cold, critical analysis. In fact, he'd said it almost as though he was chastising him. "I'd like you to take an equivalency test."

"Equivalency test?" he echoed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I want to put you in a higher level class," Professor Snape said calmly. "I don't think there's any information you could learn in this one."

A higher-level class? Well, that would certainly earn him a few brownie points for his father, and it wouldn't keep him bored to tears.

"And though I think I know which class you should be put into, the law requires me to give you a test in order to prove your skills." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Does the idea appeal to you?" he asked with an arched eyebrow.

"I..." He paused, trying to decide if it did, in fact, appeal to him or not. "I suppose," he said after a moment. "Do you have a time in mind?"

Snape nodded sharply and turned, sweeping back through the now empty classroom and towards his desk. Draco blinked, shifted his textbook onto his hip and followed for lack of better things to do. "I'd like you to take it as soon as possible, but this being the first three weeks of school, that will be difficult," he said. "Preferably before your next class. When is that?"

"I believe it's the Tuesday after the next."

Snape had begun to rummage through the contents on the top drawer of his desk. A moment later he produced a thin black book, which he opened, and a quill that he set to the parchment. It appeared to be a schedule of some kind and Draco watched as his beady black eyes went down across the contents of the third page. "Then how about next Wednesday?" he offered.

"What time?"

"After dinner?"

"That sounds fine," Draco said, adding it to his mental calendar. A moment later, he remembered a conflict. "No, wait." Snape paused in his writing. "I'm sorry, I can't do it on Wednesday."

"Why ever not?" said Snape calmly.

Draco sneered without meaning to. "I have private lessons with Professor Trelawney after dinner on Wednesdays," he said.

At this, Professor Snape appeared more than a bit surprised. "Trelawney?" he ruminated. "The divination teacher?"

"Yes, sir."

Draco could tell by the look on his face that Snape didn't have a favorable opinion of her -- not that he could blame him, necessarily. She did give off a vibe that was very... fake. However, after the events of the day before, Draco knew that she was a book that was not to be judged by her cover.

"Very well," he said slowly. "Then how about Thursday?"

"Thursday's fine," replied Draco, sounding sure this time. Snape began to write in the book, and stopped a moment later, closing it.

"Alright. Come here after dinner; I'll give you the test alone." Special treatment, he thought bemusedly. Father would be seeping pride.

"Yes, sir," Draco said respectfully. "I'll be there." And Draco left the classroom and went to dinner, once again belated and very hungry. Now two of his teachers were insisting that his skills in their course exceeded the expectations of a first year. It was starting to get on his nerves.

As he expected, Blaise instantly began to question his whereabouts, and this time he was quite a bit more at ease with answering.

"So you must have been practically raised in a laboratory," Blaise assumed.

"You could say that," he replied. "Pass the mashed potatoes."

He did. "So I guess that means you won't be in Potions anymore, right?"

"Depends on how I do on the equivalency test," he said as he dropped a scoop onto his plate. "I took one of them once for French."

"French?"

"Yeah. My dad was considering sending me to Beauxbatons instead of Hogwarts for a while, and they wanted proof that I could speak French." He took a bite of his mashed potatoes, swallowed and then went on. "They start out really simple and get more and more complex towards the end. I was only eight when I took the test, and they were asking me about dangling modifiers by the last page."

"What's a dangling modifier?" asked Crabbe.

"No, Crabbe," said Goyle, "we're supposed to look it up in a dictionary!"

Draco pointedly ignored them. "Anyway, I'm not too--"

"Catch it if you can, then!" With a faint glisten of glass, he threw it as hard as he could across the field, the whistle catching in his ear. Harry suddenly launched forward from behind him and a gust of air was all he felt as he rocketed after the small glass sphere. Down it went, down it went, and Harry was following like a natural. With a last stretch of his hand, he caught it.

"HARRY POTTER!"

"Draco? Draco!"

Suddenly, there was no more field; no more Harry on a broomstick. There was no more glass sphere and no shrill voice, just his half-eaten dinner sitting in front of him. Draco felt distinctly dizzy, but he shook it off when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Draco, what's wrong?" demanded a familiar voice. He turned slowly and saw Blaise, concern etched into his chocolate-colored face. Dazed, he neither thought nor felt a response for a moment.

"I-- It was... I think it was a premonition," he said softly.

"Premonition? About what?"

He paused. He wasn't sure of the significance of the vision, or if there was one at all. But it had been crystal clear, which was more than he could say for the strong nudges of intuition that seemed to dominate everything his Inner Eye sensed. Yes, he thought, this was going to be important somehow, though he didn't know why.

"Nothing important," he whispered.

At breakfast the next morning, Draco was moving across the Great Hall to his seat next to Blaise, with Crabbe and Goyle behind him. As he moved past the Gryffindor table, something caught his eye.

It was a small glass sphere filled with white smoke. Admittedly, it wasn't particularly interesting to behold, but it was something else that made him stop.

It was the glass sphere he'd had in his premonition.

Without thinking, he snatched it out of a boy's hand to inspect it better. Yes, there was no doubt about it. This was what he'd seen the night before. Something in his stomach squirmed as he stared at, but his face kept stony and emotionless. He didn't even notice Harry and Ron, who were both sitting across from the boy, stand up in sync until Professor McGonagall seemed to appear beside them.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

"Malfoy's got my Rememberall, Professor," said the boy (what was his name? Norman?).

A Rememberall, Draco thought as his gaze returned to the small sphere.

He forced a scowl and tossed it back onto the table. "Just looking," he said before leaving the scene.

The rest of the day Draco was left thinking about the Rememberall and what it meant. It had to have been a coincidence, hadn't it? His Inner Eye had only just opened. Surely it couldn't be doing much more than telling him to avoid dungbombs and unwanted run-ins with teachers.

Yes. Coincidence. It had to be a coincidence.

At three-thirty that day, Draco was scheduled to have a flying lesson. Admittedly, the entire idea of a flying lesson made Draco groan. Like so many other things this school was teaching him, he'd been flying since he could walk. His father had made sure he was both adept at magic as he was at using a broomstick and wondered vaguely, as he followed Blaise towards the location at which they were practicing, the level at which they would be starting.

Sunlight fell on his face and he squinted and looked up. Suddenly, he stopped walking.

This field -- an enclosure built in the center of the castle -- it was the one he had seen in his premonition. He was absolutely certain. Yes, there was the tree he was next to, and the sky was completely cloudless, just like he remembered.

Coincidence. It had to be a coincidence.

"Draco, are you coming?" Blaise asked, sounding annoyed.

"Oh. Sorry."

Laid out across the grass were approximately two-dozen broomsticks, of a cheap, generic make that Draco assumed was typical of schools. He, himself, flew a very expensive racing broom called the Nimbus 2000, and he wasn't quite sure if he would be used to flying anything else.

It wasn't very long before the flying instructor made her grand entrance. She had hair that was the color of salt and pepper and curious yellow eyes that reminded Draco of a hawk. Like so many others in the Hogwarts staff, she seemed stiff and stern and not easily swayed. It was either her way or the highway. As she made her way toward group of students, who were standing in a huddle off to the side, they quickly quieted down.

The first thing she said?

"Well, what are you all waiting for? Everyone get by a broomstick," she barked. "Come on, hurry up."

Draco, who wasn't particularly enthusiastic about the lesson, let his peers rush in front of him in a frantic race to get the better, less tattered brooms. After the initial scramble, he moved toward the nearest unoccupied one.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom," said the instructor, "and say 'Up!'"

There was a chorus of scattered "ups" and Draco sighed. So we're starting here, are we? he thought glumly as he stuck out his hand. "Up," he said, almost lazily. The broom immediately lifted off the ground and pushed his palm, where he closed his fingers.

Just as he'd anticipated, they started from the bare minimum. Mounting came first, then grips. He wasn't expecting the teacher, Madame Hooch, to stop at him when she was inspecting them.

"You've got your wrong hand on top," she snipped.

Draco looked up. "What?"

"Your hand," she repeated. "Your right hand is supposed to be on top." And she grabbed his wrist and fixed it. He could see Harry and Ron looking highly amused at the sight.

"But--" She was already gone. "But I'm left-handed," he said weakly. Blaise gave him a sympathetic sideways glance to which he sighed.

"Now, when I blow my whistle," Madame Hooch called, "you kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle -- three -- two --"

There was a sudden shriek and Neville Longbottom (Draco had heard Harry talking to him and confirmed that his name wasn't, in fact, Norman) was sent shooting up into the air. Draco watched in disbelief as the broom bucked vigorously beneath him. The first thing his father had ever taught him about riding a broom that he should treat it like a living creature. Similarly to a horse, a broom could sense if you were nervous or uneasy, and similarly to a horse, they wouldn't like it if you were.

"Come back, boy!" she cried, cupping her mouth with one hand.

But a moment later, it was too late.

WHAM.

Draco flinched as he heard a sickening crack -- something had definitely been broken. The better half of the class rushed toward the site, but something else had caught his eye.

Something had fallen out of Neville's pocket. The Rememberall.

Now sheer instinct had taken over. Draco walked over towards the small sphere and picked it up with one hand, inspecting it. He was no longer sure this was coincidence. The events seemed just a bit too similar to his premonition. He was silent until his instinct told him to LAUGH, and laugh loudly.

So he did. Along with the laughter came words:

"Did you see his face, the great lump?"

There was a group around him, all of them Slytherins, which began to laugh along with him. It was the first thing he saw when he tore his eyes away from the Rememberall, and Draco suddenly wondered about the image he gave off, and how much people respected it.

A Gryffindor girl said, "Shut up, Malfoy," in scathing voice.

TOSS THE REMEMBERALL NOW.

So he did. He looked around after he did and noticed that no one, not the Slytherins or anyone else, had noticed that he had.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom? Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati!" It was Pansy Parkinson who'd said it.

His instinct said, "Look!" He moved quickly forward and snatched the Rememberall he'd just discarded up off the grass and lifted it up. It caught the light and flashed a yellow-white.

"Give that here, Malfoy."

The voice was soft and commanding and very familiar. Draco turned towards it and saw none other than Harry Potter, stern-faced and solemn, walking slowly forward.

DENY HIM.

He smirked. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find it -- how about -- up a tree?"

"Give it here!" said Harry, loudly and more demanding.

But Draco had already snatched his broom, mounted, and went soaring up into the sky. "Come and get it, Potter!" he taunted from up in the air.

Yes, he thought. Come and get it.

From below him there was a scuffle as a bushy-haired Gryffindor girl tried to keep Harry away from his broom, but he wasn't paying attention to her. With a flourish, he mounted and soared up with him.

Draco was left stunned. He knew a natural on a broom when he saw one, and Harry Potter was definitely a natural. For someone who'd been raised in a Muggle family without even the faintest knowledge of knowing it existed, his ability to fly was incredible, almost unreal.

"Give it here or I'll knock you off that broom!" shouted Harry.

"Oh, yeah?" His character was cracking; he could feel it. He could almost feel his premonition approaching like an oncoming train, and he knew at that moment that this was no coincidence.

Harry leaned forward and was sent darting forward. Draco didn't even realize it until his instinct had pulled him out of the way. He watched as Harry did a 180 and went steady.

Oh, God, he thought. It's starting.

"No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy!" Harry jeered.

NOW.

"Catch it if you can, then!" With a faint glisten of glass, he threw it as hard as he could across the field, the whistle catching in his ear. Harry suddenly launched forward from behind him and a gust of air was all he felt as he rocketed after the small glass sphere. Down it went, down it went, and Harry was following like a natural. With a last stretch of his hand, he caught it.

"HARRY POTTER!"

He'd landed. He didn't remember telling his broom to do so, but he'd landed. Professor McGonagall came sweeping across the grass towards Harry, her glasses flashing in the sunlight.

But he wasn't listening. All the shouts and cries had become a meaning blur of sound.

His premonition had come true. He really was a Seer. The idea was more than overwhelming, and all he could do was stand and stare at his broom, his mind whirling. He really was a Seer.

The bushy-haired girl came stalking over to him, and only when she slapped him sharply across the cheek did he register her presence. He didn't react, though. As she stormed away, his face stayed turned to one side. His cheek didn't even sting.

Blaise came over to him. "Draco, what the hell was that?"

He dropped his broom.

"I have to go."

"What?"

Draco took off in a dead run.

He needed to see Professor Trelawney.

And he needed to see her now.