A Throne of Blood and Stars

Chapter Two

Draco's halfway down the second floor corridor the next week when he hears the voices.

"He hasn't responded to any of our letters, how are we supposed to know if he's alright?"

"He just needs time, 'Mione. It's not that difficult to comprehend."

Draco halts in his steps, he thinks about poking his head around the wall but he knows exactly who is around the corner.

There's a brief pause and then Hermione speaks. "You don't think he's--"

"If you say what I think you're going to say..."

"God, no, Ron," she hisses, and there's a very audible smack. "I was going to say he might be hiding."

"Hiding? From us?"

"From everyone! He doesn't want to be at Grimmauld Place because that's not his home. He's definitely not gone back with the Dursley's."

"So, he's here? But where?"

He could feel the girl roll her eyes rather see it. But Draco didn't need to hear anymore. His feet jerk into action and he sprints, up and up and up and up until he sees Barnabas the Barmy and he stills.

He hasn't been here since...since that damned cabinet drained all his energy for months on end.

But there's more important things to tend to than dwell on the past, so he walks through the stone archway entrance and he paces, three times like so long ago, though with a little more urgency.

And the whole time, he's thinking, take me to him. Take me to him. Please, take me to him.

And then there's a door.

It's blue. The paint is chipped off a little and it looks like it's sweating. He turns the knob.

And as he lets the door click shut behind him, he thinks, and don't let anyone else find us.

There's a blinding moment of pure light, and it's undeniably warm, and there's a scent of...dirt. Not dirty dirt. It's moist soil he's smelling, something he recognizes from following his mother after a rainy morning as she tended to the garden roses along with the house elves.

He smiles at the memory.

Draco trudges forward into the white space and very quickly realizes the warmth he's feeling is sunlight. He's outside, somewhere, and he raises his hands before his eyes so they can adjust and make sense of the situation.

Looking around, Draco sees he's in a copse and between the trees there's thick vines hanging from the conjoined branches, creating a curtain that keeps him inside.

He turns, this way and that, but the door seems gone, he doesn't even feel a trace of magic.

Magic.

His wand!

Draco pats his pockets ridiculously fast until he feels the piece of wood scratching against the skin on his hip. Alright, I have a means of defense, he thinks. Now, off to find this buffoon, who knows what trouble he has gotten himself into now.

He pats the rest of his body down to make sure he's accounted for when he hears a whisper somewhere from behind. He's immediately entranced and his back straightens, attentive and ready.

"Circe," he breathes quietly, his feet making quick and quiet work of the soft grass. He steps closer and closer to the vine curtain, and as he approaches he swears he sees deep etches in the bark of the tree in front of him, shaped like...it looks like, "A face?"

He hears another echoing whisper, and he's beginning to wonder if it's in his head when he flinches--the vines rustle.

"Hello?" He wants to sound loud and affirmative, it comes out a short whisper, weary.

"Closer," something whispers, the vines rustle again. Draco shakes his head in denial, goes to step back but then there's something washing over him, almost inviting.

It feels bubbly and warm, like the fine champagne his parents would let him sip at galas, when he'd get to wear his most exquisite robes yet, and almost everyone would swoon at his charming smile.

"Yes, yes, yes."

It sounds excited now, and Draco was more than glad to step closer to the curtain, his feet almost dancing to the orchestrated violins and the soft keys of the piano he could hear in his head. He could feel his mother brushing her hand across his shoulders, a tradition she's accustomed him to as to tell him good job, you're doing great, my son. And he could hear the tick tack of his father's cane, but felt no anguish as he heard it come closer, and closer, and closer.

And just like that it was gone.

And in replacement of his mother's soft touch he was being held, strongly, against something firm. And instead of beautiful music it was ragged breaths. And instead of champagne, he could taste cotton. He also smells something clean.

And...is that chocolate?