FAILSAFE

Chapter Thirteen

It was disorienting—this lack of a reliable sense of time. Draco found his eyes wandering the dimly lit corridors, trying to decipher the subtle shifts of light on the floor to infer the hour. But it was a futile endeavour, a maddening dance with shadows that left him longing for the simple flick of his hawthorn to reveal the time with a whispered charm.

During Draco's time in Azkaban, he desperately craved the familiarity of his magic - the tingling in his fingertips, the exhilarating rush of power pulsating in his veins. The absence of his magic had left him feeling empty, as if a part of him was missing. It was only in the desolate silence of his cell that he realised he had always taken these sensations for granted. Even after returning to the magical world, he could no longer effortlessly use his wand to tidy a room or neatly arrange his scattered parchments within the castle walls. The void created by the loss of that power gave him a newfound appreciation for the mundane, for the way Muggles navigated their world with nothing but the touch of their hands and the strength of their minds.

Hermione, of course, was the prime example of this peculiar approach to life. Before the war, He often found himself drawn to her, fascinated by the manner in which she approached everything with such deliberate intent. He couldn't help but ponder why she opted to stretch her arm towards a book perched high on a shelf in the library, rather than effortlessly summoning it with a wave of her wand. It was a lingering question amidst a myriad of others, intensifying her already intriguing allure.

As he would watch her move with a quiet determination, Draco couldn't help but wonder if magic was truly the pinnacle of their existence. His upbringing taught him to believe that it was. That they were inherently more refined, better in all ways simply because of the purity of their blood, and the power they possessed right at their fingers. Yet there was a certain beauty in the way she reached up, her fingertips brushing against the spine of a book before drawing it down. It was a sight that held him captive, a trance he often fell into.

The hallways seemed to bend and warp around Draco as he walked with the redhead, the dim light casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls. Ron, true to his promise, avoided the darkest paths, but even the well-lit main hall felt like a maze of uncertainty. Each window was a beacon of safety amidst the labyrinth of openings, but the spaces in between appeared as gaping chasms of unknown depths.

Draco couldn't shake the feeling of eyes boring into his back as they passed each darkened corridor. The prickling sensation crawled up his neck, raising the fine hairs on his skin. Yet, within the unsettling stillness of the shadowy alcoves, there existed a chilling sense of tranquillity that both intrigued and unnerved him, causing a shiver to run down his spine.

He quickened his steps, eager to break free from the suffocating silence that enveloped them. Ron, however, seemed unaffected, his easy manner belying the eerie surroundings. He rambled on, his words filling the space with a semblance of normalcy. Sometimes it was nonsense; other times, a tune hummed under his breath, and occasionally a laugh would escape his lips at some private joke. He appeared to be more familiar with the hallways than Draco, which irked him, but he wasn't sure exactly why.

"How do you know where we are going, Weasley?" Draco's tone was sharper than he intended, a hint of frustration lacing his words. They had not spoken since their conversation about the battle, and the silence had slowly become stifling.

Ron glanced at him, a mischievous twinkle in his gaze. "The twins always seemed to pop out of random spots throughout the castle, spooking me for the fun of it." The wizard laughed under his breath as his eyes scanned the hall in front of them. He moved forward, past another dark corridor to the left.

Draco winced internally, his heart sinking as he hesitated to bring up a topic that could reopen the raw grief they had just discussed. He could almost feel the weight of their shared pain, an unspoken hollowness they both tried to suppress. With a flick of his wand, he cast a spell, the soft whisper of magic filling the air.