Sinister

Eleven | Frostbite

MARGOT woke suddenly to a distant clattering. She sat up, peering groggily around the room, when a faint groan floated from the Common Room.

"Hermione," she hissed to the neighboring bed. "Did you hear that?"

A pillow struck her in the face with impressive velocity. "Go to sleep, Margot."

But she couldn't. In a castle brimming with ghosts and secrets, Margot never quite managed to conquer her fear of the dark. She wouldn't be able to rest without being certain that nothing evil lingered.

With less agility than she'd hoped, Margot slipped out from beneath her thick covers, grabbed her wand, and made her way downstairs to the Common Room.

Her first overview revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Wool rugs, a crackling fireplace, the familiar aroma of cinnamon and burning wood - the normal things. She'd been about to head back upstairs when a muffled creak drew her attention to the coffee table.

"Draco?"

Surely she was dreaming. But even after giving her eyes a vigorous rub, she still saw his lean, motionless figure curled on the table. Her gaze dropped to where his hands clutched a spot on his gut.

A very, very red spot.

"Go away," Draco panted, trying, in vain, to wave her off.

Margot was close to doing exactly that. She could turn away now with her pride still intact, and let Draco face whatever consequences would find him when he was discovered in the morning. Or, she could listen to her conscious and help him, and endure whatever atrocious things he was sure to say to her.

"What are you doing?" Draco asked as she hurried forward.

"Helping you, asshole," Margot said crossly. She kneeled quickly in front of him, batting his persistent hands away from his abdomen.

The sight underneath was ghastly. A nasty laceration spliced his skin in two, oozing blood at an alarming rate. Margot searched their surroundings and found the culprit - a letter opener. It laid on the floor next to her knee, stained crimson.

"Leave me alone," Draco insisted, attempting to turn away from her. "I don't want your help."

Margot let out an impatient exhale. "Listen here, you ungrateful twig. If you want your cause of death to be a fucking letter opener, that's fine by me. In my opinion, it'd be a fitting end to your awful reign. Otherwise, you're going to shut your mouth, swallow your pride, and let me do what needs to be done."

She could literally see the internal battle raging behind his eyes.

"Fine," he said at last, setting his mouth into a grim line.

Margot wanted to call him out on his rude behavior, but knew it'd only be a waste of breath. Instead, she stayed silent and helped him stand.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked, reluctantly looping an arm over her shoulders for support. He was much taller than her, she silently noted, and smelled like peppermint and expensive cologne. His chin brushed against her temple, causing an unwelcome shiver to skitter down her spine.

Margot gestured to a small door only a few paces away. "There."

"Your plan is to shove me in a broom closet?" Draco asked incredulously. "I've changed my mind. Leave me to die."

"I'm tempted to," Margot shot back, her patience growing thinner by the second.

She ignored his additional protests and forced him into the room - which was, admittedly, little more than a supply closet. Rickety shelves lined the corner, crammed with an assortment of gimmicks, and a single armchair sat against the far wall.