Non Sequitur

Chapter Three: In the Ruins of Hogwarts

february 11 1999

Early the next morning, Draco Apparated to Hogwarts—or what was left of it. Its magnificent spiralling turrets were crumbling, several walls cracked open and disintegrating to dust before his eyes. Patches of grass were charred black, and if one were to fly above the school, they would see the Dark Mark burned into the grounds.

Yet despite the half-burnt state of the castle, he still felt a faint resistance to his Apparition. It was as if some billowing force was pushing against him yet had little substance. It was the remnants of Dumbledore's anti-Apparition wards, Draco realised, now beginning to understand just how powerful of a wizard the old man had been.

And there stood the Astronomy Tower, an ivy-laced skeleton crumbling in the wind, half-destroyed but still recognisable. It left a sour taste in his mouth. It brought back echoes of his old mentor, Snape, who had been unpleasant at times but surely had not deserved to die, and Draco's own failure that he was still left paying for in more ways than one. He scowled and waved his wand, a path into the castle opening as he swept the dust and stones aside.

He walked through, and suddenly found himself in the Great Hall. The high, arching windows, through which hundreds of owls had flown each morning, were partially destroyed. The vast ceiling, a perfect replica of the sky above, was broken. A massive fissure had splintered through, leaving a gaping chasm of darkness behind. Draco could see his Hogwarts years as ghostly scenes amongst the ruins: there he made fun of Potter, there his friends regaled him with tales of mischief, and there the professors made small talk over scones. They were just memories, he reminded himself. Nothing more.

He was about to turn away—there was nothing important to find here—when he realised that the ghosts had taken form. Some of them had appeared from the walls, swooping towards him in their insubstantial silver forms. They were murmuring, their voices lofty.

"Crabbe!" Draco couldn't stop himself from calling, having spotted his friend hovering somewhere nearby. It was strange to see him in this wispy form.

"Malfoy?" Crabbe floated towards him. "What're you doing here?"

As he drew near, Draco stepped back involuntarily. There were burns all over his body, his clothes singed and ashy, half of his face disfigured with damaged skin. His right eye was remarkably blank and scarred. The Fiendfyre in which he had died had left its awful mark.

"I'm looking for something of Theo's," Draco said, hoping that his hesitation had gone unnoticed. "A wristwatch. Do you know where it is? It's somewhere in Hogwarts, isn't it?"

Crabbe's expression was half-confused and half-blank. "I dunno. Did Nott wear watches? Why do you want it?"

Of course he wouldn't know. Crabbe had never been the brightest when he was alive, either, which had made him and Goyle good cronies.

"Never mind," Draco said, turning to leave. "Forget I asked."

"Hang on," said Crabbe slowly, and Draco paused in his tracks. Had he remembered something? "I think you might wanta talk to Daphne. She hangs around the Slytherin tower a lot, y'know."

"Daphne Greengrass?"

"Yeah, the blonde one. She was in our year."

"Yeah, I know who she is," Draco snapped; he was taken aback. "I didn't know... I mean, she's—I had no idea she'd—"

"Died? Yeah." Crabbe shrugged loosely. "Dunno how. Probably some curse or other. There were a lot of those. In the battle."

Draco hadn't known Daphne well during their schooling years. She had gone to the Yule Ball with Blaise back in fourth year, and they'd had some classes together, but they had never been friends. Still, it was somehow jarring to know that someone he had grown up with—who had received her acceptance letter at the same time and eaten at the same great wooden tables—was dead. A Slytherin, too. Supposedly, one of their own.