Monthly Challenge #2
Lyric
“Wise men wonder while strong men die.” ~Breaking Benjamin, So Cold



It is not quite two in the morning. It is the deepest part of the night, when shadows thicken like glutinous forms and the molasses sky seeps down into the earth. There is no moon out; the only gleams come from the few pinpricks of stars, which lend little light, merely an eerie glow in the fog.

Somewhere, deep in the gloom, comes a rustle followed by the snap of a twig. Silence follows. The clearing still looks empty, but now it is the emptiness of something trying very hard not to be seen. Then, suddenly a shadow slips up the side of the low bank. Ferns rustle as it creeps along the hillside. Without warning, it disappears into the side of the hill with a hollow bump, followed by a muffled “damn.”

Picking itself up, it limps along the rough stones to the end of the cave. There sits a pedestal with a worn depression in the top. A bundle, not much larger than a baby’s fist, lies inside, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a fraying length of twine. The shadow reaches out and grabs the grubby little package from its seat in the hollow stone.

“Gotcha,” it whispers, then turns and creeps to the mouth of the stone grotto. Slipping out from behind the screen of ferns and vines, the figure carefully looks around before sauntering to the center of the clearing. Here it pauses once more, as if it ias nonchalantly examining the scenery.

Then it sighs, and runs like hell.

-----

Neutrality, Draco decided, was by far the smartest choice he could have made. Of course, it had taken a great deal of effort to wriggle into the good graces of his former enemies, but now he had the protection of the Order of the Phoenix.

He knew they didn’t like him, and they sure as hell didn’t trust him, but he could live with that. In fact, staying alive was his number-one priority. This was why he wouldn’t work for the Order. Oh, they asked and begged, but nothing would get him to change his mind. Draco knew he wouldn’t ever work for Voldemort again, but it would be absolute suicide to work against him. And Draco was anything but suicidal.

“You’re a bloody coward,” Harry had shouted at him after one of the Order’s appeals for help. “You don’t care about anything but saving your own skin, you cowardly prat...”

“Excuse me if I value my skin more than I value yours,” Draco drawled from where he lounged, elegantly draped over an armchair. “But then, I am a Slytherin after all. Don’t be afraid Potter; I’ll make sure you get a decent burial when all your misplaced heroics are done.” He watched with satisfaction as Harry pulled out his wand and pointed it at him, red with fury. “Tsk, tsk, Potter; can’t have you cursing me while I’m under protective custody. Wouldn’t reflect very well on the Order, now would it?”

With supreme effort of will, Harry pocketed his wand and stalked to the door. “Just wait until this war is over, Malfoy. We’ll see how cocksure you are then.”

Draco grinned into the door’s slam. Yes, neutrality certainly was the place to be.

-----

Now the shadow is fully out of the woods, bent double with cramps from its ungainly sprint. The shadow gives several shuddering gasps, trying to regain the breath it has lost. At last it has enough wind to give a brief whistle, a puckered up noise like a sour lemon. Pitiful though it is, the whistle seems to do the trick, as an answering snort sounds a stone’s throw away.

Slowly, a large black horse ambles through the trees. But it is like no horse ever seen. Its skin is stretched taught over its bones as if there is no flesh between. Large, almost ragged wings protrude from its back, like an overgrown bat. Oddest of all is the face, reptilian and cold, with the widespread eyes of a predator. This is a thestral.

“Good boy,” the shadow whispers, producing a hunk of meat from somewhere under its cloak. With practiced care it tosses the morsel to the thestral who catches it with ease.
Awkwardly the shadow bounces on a fallen log before hauling itself on to the thestral’s narrow and bony back. “Let’s go now, back to the castle.”

With beauty and grace unexpected in so odd a figure, the thestral soars into the sky while the rider clutches its cloak tighter around its narrow form. As they bounce from thermal to thermal, there is a small groan. “Why didn’t I just use a broom?” the shadow asks, while trying not to be sick.

-----

“It’s getting closer.”

Draco paused in his stroll at the sound of Harry’s voice. He crept over to the half open door and peered inside. Harry lay flopped in an armchair staring moodily into the fire. Ron and Hermione sat next to him, their heads bowed together like children sharing secrets.

“Harry, you have to rest,” Hermione’s voice coaxed. “You can’t keep going on like this. The circles under your eyes would rival a raccoon’s.”

“Hermione’s right, mate,” Ron pitched in. “You’re not doing yourself any good.”

Harry slammed his fist on the arm of the chair. “You don’t understand. There’s still one Horcrux out there. And the battle is getting closer. I have to find it. Now.”

“But Harry, be reasonable. You can’t fight the battle if you’re half dead.”

“I can, and I will, Hermione. I owe it to Dumbledore.” With that, Harry threw himself off of the chair and stomped to the door.

“Let him go, Hermione,” Ron said, frustrated. “I’ll talk to him again tomorrow.”

Draco jumped away from the door, but had no time to hide before he came face to face with Harry.

“What are you doing Malfoy?” he asked aggressively. “Eavesdropping?”

“Just taking a walk,” Draco said, pulling together his dignity.

“Well shove off, and walk somewhere else.”

“I’ll walk where I want, Potter.”

The boys glared at each other, Harry fiercely, and Draco with a small smirk playing around the corners of his eyes. Draco looked away first. “Much as I’d like to do this all day, Potter, I’ve got better things to do.”

Harry snorted derisively. “Right.” He turned and walked away.

“They were right about the raccoons, scar face,” Draco shouted at his back. “You should get some sleep.”

Harry turned and yelled back, “And there’s only about a week left, ferret. I’d pack and run while you still have time,” before continuing down the hall.

-----

A dark form drops out of the sky and plummets through the leafy boughs of a forest, before touching down gently to the ground. The figure on its back slides off, and staggers to a bush, where it is quietly sick. Pulling a flask out from a pocket, it swills the cool water around in its mouth before spitting out the rancid taste. “Good boy,” it murmurs to the thestral, who watches the proceedings blandly. “Good boy.”

The figure slides again into shadow, following a path though the trees, until at last it breaks through by a wooden hut. Careful to make no noise or disturbances, the shadow creeps past, up the hill, to the castle that crowns its summit.

Silently, the figure lets itself in a small side door, then slinks through the maze of passages. Several times it pushes itself deep against a wall, becoming as still as possible, as pearly ghosts drift past or hungry people sneak by, in search of a midnight snack.

At last it reaches a familiar door, and the shadow smiles beneath its cloak. “Flummoxed,” it whispers, and the door majestically swings open.

Inside is a normal bedroom, showing signs of recent use, from the mess of clothes tossed on every available surface. A desk and wardrobe stand at one end, opposite the bed, both covered in scraps of parchment and heavy, open books. With practiced ease, the shadow begins roaming about the room picking up this and that, and stuffing it into a large cloth bag it pulls from underneath the bed. When everything is packed to its satisfaction, the figure walks over to the desk.

It flicks a few old socks off the chair before seating itself. Then, with a sweep of its arm, it clears a space, knocking scraps of parchment to the floor in a flurry. Selecting one of the larger scraps, it rummages around again until it pulls out a long elegant quill and half full bottle of ink. It sucks thoughtfully on the quill before quickly penning some lines. It reads them, sighs, and crumples the parchment up. Selecting a new piece, the shadow tries again, and again.

Frustrated, the figure stands, and paces around the room. It stares out the window, into the night, for long minutes. Then, struck with inspiration, grabs the quill and tries again. This time, the shadow looks at the short note with satisfaction. Quickly it sticks the note under the string of the package it has retrieved, then grabs its bag.

“Time to go,” the shadow whispers, almost sadly. It leaves the door to its room ajar, then vanishes into the gloom of the coming dawn.

-----

As Draco rounded a row of shelves at the back of the library, his first thought was that Madam Pince was doing spring cleaning. A huge pile of books lay on a table, in various states of disarray. Curious, Draco edged closer, and discovered a black mop of hair sticking over the top of one particularly large volume. Turning to leave, Draco bumped into one of the piles next to the table. It shook unsteadily before melting away like a card house. Ankle deep in old books, Draco head his name spoken by the one person he would have rather avoided meeting.

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.”

“What are you doing here Malfoy?” Harry rubbed his hands tiredly across his forehead, as though Draco was one of several small inconveniences that could make his life so much easier by just disappearing.

“It’s a library, Potter. I do know how to read, although I grant that mine is at least a bit more stimulating than, what is this…” He pulled the book away from Harry, glancing at the title on the spine. “Subterranean Great Britain.” He curled his lip distastefully. “And what’s all this? The History of the Grotto, riveting I’m sure. Lineage of the Founders, Hogwarts Greatest and their Descendants. Still looking for the heir of Slytherin are we Potter? Dense as you are, I thought you’d found him already. And of course the largest collection of maps, atlases, and genealogies I’ve ever seen. What are you doing, Potter?”

“Never you mind.”

“Well, not having too much luck then, are you?”

“Shut it, Malfoy.”

“Why don’t you have the Great Brain working on this? I thought great heroes let other people do their thinking for them. Your purpose is just to go out in a blaze of glory.”

“What if it is?” Suddenly Harry looked tired, older, almost defeated Draco thought. “Besides this is my job. I want to keep them out of it, safe. Not that you’d understand anything like that.”

“You’re searching for the last Horcrux,” Draco said dryly.

“How do you know?” Harry sputtered.

“Eavesdropper, remember.”

“Right,” Harry mumbled, “I forgot.”

“I’m not surprised, you look half dead.”

“Why do you care?”

“If you get yourself killed, I’m in a bit of a bad position. The Dark Lord doesn’t look kindly on defectors.”

Harry gave Draco a look of disgust. “So you just want to save your own skin.”

Draco leaned in. “What I want to do is live. If you find that selfish, so be it, but there is damn little you can do when you are dead.” He spoke unapologetically, his voice hard. “And when the war comes, or if I think I’m in danger, I’m going to run. I am going to live, and if the world I’m living in is shit, at least I’m alive. You may choose to die heroically; well, I choose to pick my battles and fight those I can win.”

“So you think that I’ve lost already?” Harry asked quietly.

“I don’t know.” Draco gave a bit of a crooked grin. “Personally, Potter, I’d rather you didn’t.” He turned and headed back the way he came.

Harry’s voice stopped him. “Draco, thanks.”

He gave a curt nod. “Get some sleep, Harry. You have to save the world tomorrow.”

Harry nodded, his eyelids fluttering as he tried to return to his work. Draco slipped behind a shelf and peered at him between the books. Slowly Harry’s head lowered a bit, then more and more. “Just for a few seconds…. sec…s,” he murmured, as his mind slowly slipped into unconsciousness.

Draco slipped out from behind the shelf and, cat-like, walked back to the table. Flipping through the notes Harry had made, he started looking at the open book pages. Furrowing his brow in concentration, he sat down at an empty chair, and started sorting through the material, making notes of his own. Six hours later, at dusk, he had it.

-----

Sunlight slowly filters through the high windows of the library. It creeps over the books and the desks, steadily marching across the room, until it reaches out to caress the face of the boy slumped in his chair, sleeping over a mountain of paper. It traces the scar on his forehead before shining its morning call in his eyes. Harry wakes with a start.

“What?” He notes the sun-filled room and his eyes frantically search for a clock. “Seven… shit, I haven’t got time…” He pushes himself out of his chair, and notices something falls to the floor with a clunk. Stooping, he picks it up. It’s a grubby little package, no larger than a baby’s fist, wrapped in brown paper, and tied with fraying twine. A small piece of parchment is tucked in the top. Thoroughly bemused, Harry pulls out the note. For the hero, from the thinker, he reads with a bit of a smile. Unfolding it he quickly glances at the rest.

Hey scar face, here’s the last one. I was wrong. You might just have a chance after all. See you when it’s all over.