What the Room Requires

Chapter Four

VVVVVVVV

DRACO

            I grabbed a fistful of barley, ripped up out of the ground and flung it, roaring as I did. Dirt flew. I kicked the high stalks all round me, stomped them down, then stood there alone in the restless wind.

Then, as I watched, the barley grew back, hissing and murmuring as it did, until it looked as if I had done nothing.

“Moron,” I muttered, then shouted at the place where Granger had disappeared. “Halfwit! You don’t know anything about anything! That’s your trouble, Mudblood!”

Silence. Nothing moved but the wind. Then, suddenly, I found that I had been holding my breath, listening for a reply.

“Mudblood,” I spat again, just for good measure, then swept off toward the willow again, away from that gaping forest, away from that swallowing blackness. But the sky was darkening above me here, turning pink, and soon night would come. I swallowed. Would it get completely dark? And if it did, could the visions from the forest come out into the field where I was? I hurried my pace.

However, the willow did not get any nearer. I broke into a trot. It stayed where it was. Or rather, I stayed where I was. I let loose and ran, ran with all my speed. But though the grass whipped past me, the scenery ahead of me did not move. I stopped, panting.

A pang jolted through my chest. My ribs tightened. I pressed my hand to my heart and my brow tightened as my breath shortened. I turned around, gazed at the forest again, then sat down hard.

My father wouldn’t kill Granger’s parents. Not like that, without provocation, without reason. I shook my head and clenched my teeth. He wouldn’t. Aunt Bella…I wasn’t sure. But my father—never. If Granger would give herself up in that situation, Father would be reasonable. He wouldn’t murder a man, no matter how pathetic, if he wasn’t armed.

My throat closed, and my stomach turned over. I squeezed my eyes shut.

He wouldn’t poison a man, either. Or smuggle him a cursed piece of jewelry.

No, said a voice in the left side of my head. He would ask his son to do it.

I gripped my left forearm with my right hand, pressing my hand down on my sleeve and the dark tattoo beneath. I swallowed again—and ice slid down my throat and into all my veins.

Killing Granger’s parents didn’t make sense to me—not if Granger surrendered. But would it really matter to my father?