The Darkwood Wand

Bitten

Multiple points of view can get a little tricky, and here we pick up the action with Draco from Chapter 45.

Anne Ammons and Kate Itscometothis were invaluable in the final development of this chapter. Their insights added both clarity and depth to Draco's experiences here. It was my first time using a beta and it was awesome. I was juggling not only Draco's actions, but Tennant and Harry's as well, and Anne and Kate helped keep me honest.

As always, thank you, everyone for sticking through the twists and turns of this story, and for all your great comments.

love,

Thebe

Draco stood outside Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, tugging at the Medusa tapestry's loose thread. Lovegood had been battier than usual tonight, dancing around in those sheer robes. Wonder where she keeps her wand ...

The thread snapped. Fuck. Draco tossed the frayed string aside and checked his pocket watch. Nine-thirty-seven.

Concentrate. Draco located the green thread again and pulled more gently. Medusa's woven snakes writhed, the thread unraveled and the tapestry rolled up to reveal a dark staircase.

A quick glance up and down the empty corridor and he stepped inside, moving down the stairs by the light of his wand. He'd just check this passage and then visit Isobel in the infirmary before returning to his bedroom. Draco still had no idea what to say to Hermione when he got there, of course. Sorry I called you a slag hardly seemed adequate.

He continued to descend the silent, empty stairway:

I'm sorry I hurt you.

I'm sorry I can't be better.

I'm sorry I'm not the hero.

I'll never be—

Draco's knuckles ached, and he realized he'd struck the passage's curved stone wall. He stuck the injured hand into his pocket and continued on. The air grew colder, and soon Draco was pushing open a stone door leading to the castle grounds.

A menacing full moon gave everything—grass, trees, the thestral pen by the oaf's hovel—a silvery glow. Draco doused his wand's light and crept a short way along the outer walls. Trees whispered, the gravel crunched under his feet. Grey clouds rolled above, reminding him of the image in Trelawney's scrying mirror. He felt disquieted, exposed, almost wayward, like he was on the wrong path.

Shaking off such thoughts, Draco opened the castle doors with a muffled creak. He moved through the empty, cavernous Entrance Hall and through the corridors to the hospital wing.

The infirmary was dimly lit, with a single occupied bed near the window. Draco could see Pomfrey's silhouette behind a white screen as the matron tussled with a small student. The boy whined: He didn't like medicine, he didn't feel sick, he'd tell his parents and get her fired ... Just pour it down the brat's throat.

Draco walked between the rows of beds, the faint clicks of his dress shoes on the stone floor covered by the sick child's whines. And there was Isobel, eyes closed, long hair shining in the moonlight. My fault. He touched her hand and it was warm, the pulse strong.

He stood over her for a time, but the girl didn't move. Draco shifted anxiously, ignoring his mother's voice. (Don't fidget, Draco.) He needed to leave—Hermione was undoubtedly sitting in his bed right now like a human Howler, ready to explode if ignored for too long.