Fourth One Down
by Silvia
They lie; the first one is easy. Draco barely notes it, a scuffle of feet across the ground at the corner of his eye. Thinks, "Oh, I did that," and he's not horrified, he's not elated, he simply thinks it's. Kind of neat.
He did that -- the soft, slightly swollen thing on dusty stone that people walk around. It doesn't feel like power (they lie) but it's sort of interesting. On an intellectual level. Fact based, like noticing an irregularity in the system, and isn't that interesting. He has the oddest sense that he should dip the tip of his wand between his robes, rub the stain out that his father is seeing, eyes jerking back over and over to stare for cool, weighted instances, but it doesn't feel dirty. It feels fine.
He feels fine. Slightly winded from the in and out popping from manor to castle to school to forest to small, cramped stone place that has a name (it must) that he has no way of knowing. Winded, thin wisps tickling and prying at this lungs, but good to go.
Drip, drip, drip above him, stale droplets sliding down the back of his neck to soak into the neckline of his robes, pressing the cloth flat and heavy to his skin. Takes a second for that to hit him, that he's underground. He wanted the back way, and this, this is each and every bit the back way. And then some. Chunks of dirt glisten wetly between where the stone has ruptured, pushing out and up through the cracks like overripe, split fruit. Red-brown and damp and blooming. Farmer's soil.
He picks at it, scraping, and it flakes off, lining his fingernails so easily that he knows they're close. New earth, packed into a tunnel by magic still breathing within the air, panting, hot and festering across his skin. It's worried.
He sings to it, "Hush, bedtime now," though the words are in Latin and his throat is sharp.
The second one isn't real. It can't be. Too much like an echo: revolving doors and déjà vu. Snap of the wrist, letters curling about his tongue, unfurling, and he thinks, "Oh, that rhymed, why that's a bit funny," and steps through the haze and emerald flickers.
Gravel beneath his feet, loose and spinning beneath his slick bottomed shoes, and he stumbles, palms skidding along the walls.
He can hear a raw hitch of breath; dull, round pop like a cork pried out.
The third one is. Not his problem. It's his father's and he keeps moving. He does not inch forward, though perhaps he should. He ducks cobwebs and does not rattle the grate, but he strides with wide, seasoned steps. His father said, "You would bring this family down with you?" and he said, "Yes," and he meant it, and he would. He will.
Any moment now.
He will hit the spot, fingers sinking, digging for it, and say the word (need only say the word, say the word and it will open). Push at the door and--
"Coming?" he says, and Potter nods so eager-quick that his face is all shadows, chin, and blur.
Hands
on knees, onto shoulders, down arms (brush, brush). Tidied now and bright faced
and even earnest in his scrambles, feet pitter-pattering up funnels of dirt air.
Out the door and to the left, elbows careening off edges and rocks but not
worried. No, Potter is never worried, never, and his eyes said, quick, in the
first blink and out, I knew you would come.
Draco thinks, in a vicious little stab, You don't know me, and
then (he can't escape it): but you could have, could have. Wants to know suddenly, desperately, what they would have been. Pointless. He
waits for the echo of footsteps, cocks his head, because his father could still
stop him. Could still tell him that this is not his job, it's a job for-- "No," he says, out loud, and Potter begins to speak and it could
have been something like, "what?" except he'll never know -- they'll
never, any of them. Puts a thumb to the thin mouth and whispers a lullaby, "Shhh." Straighten arm, wand tip still warm (can feel it from here), warm on Potter, on his marking and chalky skin. And -- the spell sizzles and crackles (made
for it, all hisses and sharp clicks on the lips and tongue) -- he does
nothing but take it (they lie). Take it in and glow so bright and be the boy who could have, could have,
but didn't. Didn't and turned cold (resting, they will hope, say at first: he is
only resting) and goodnight, goodnight. Everyone, all of them, will be angry, so angry, but. Finders is keepers (never
sticks around, so tired of waiting) and the first one was easy, and. And the
fourth one.
Hush now. It's all downhill from here.
"I know you've been out of the loop for a while, but I'm still evil.
I don't do errands unless they're evil errands."
- Angel, The Series