His footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone stairs as he approached the great wooden doors. Before he had always felt them to be welcoming, like arms flung wide and drawing you into the castle’s wide embrace; but now they held a more sinister air, and he could feel his footsteps slowing as he drew ever closer. At last he stood below them, gazing up, feeling as though he was a child again, and living in a world of giants. Tentatively, he reached out one hand and felt the warm solidity of the wood, keeping his palm pressing into the roughness of the grain as the clock above him slowly began its mournful toll.
One…
Two…
Three…
Four…
Five…
Six…

“Goyle, how many times do I have to tell you, I take three sugars in my tea, not six!” Draco sighed with exasperation; he had been up quite late last night because of McGonagall’s transfiguration essay and all he wanted now was a proper wake up with his usual cup of tea.

Goyle looked somewhat abashed, his face folding up in what might have been considered sorrow, or perhaps he only had to sneeze, and started to take the cup away. “No, leave it,” Draco said, snatching it out of his hands. “I shall have to drink it, even if it is vile.” Taking a sip, he pulled a face as the sugar exploded in his mouth, but there was no time to fix it, he had an essay to deliver. Standing up, he heard Crabbe grunt beside him as he strained to un-wedge himself from between the bench and table where he was pinned.

Suddenly a number of shadows began to pass over head, drifting, dipping, and weaving over the floor. One grew larger and larger in the corner of Draco’s eye. “Ow!” he yelled as a letter bounced off his head and tumbled to the floor. The owl who brought it was a large brown owl, common and completely unfamiliar. It eyed him thoughtfully before taking off, whacking him in the head with its wings as it flew past. “Stupid bird,” Draco swore as he rubbed his skull, fingers carefully checking that it was whole and unbroken.

“Mail’s here,” Goyle stated in a belated attempt to redeem himself.

“I know that you idiot!” Fumbling on the floor, he retrieved the letter. The parchment was heavy in his fingers, and it took a moment for his eyes to decipher the black scrawl as letters. Squinting at it, he read.

Irresistible lure
Custom-built prize,
Awaits the doer
Who makes it in time.

Just for you,
Was this treasure made,
Collect the clues,
And survive the maze.

If you can name it,
This thing danger bought,
Then you can claim it,
But don’t get caught.

Outside the doors,
At ten tonight,
With these skills of yours,
Will your glory shine bright.

“What in the name of Salazar?” Draco muttered. Quickly he read the parchment again, then a third time. Suddenly, halfway through the fourth reading he could feel the parchment growing warm in his hand. Within seconds it burst into flame, and Draco dropped it hurriedly with a strangled yell, and a halfhearted attempt to stomp out the flame. Only when the last bit of parchment was consumed did the fire slow, then vanish without a sound. Warily, Draco prodded the small pile of ash with the toe of his shoe, but it only settled a bit before slowly blowing away in the breeze from the open doors.

It must be a hoax, he thought. Someone’s idea of a poor joke. But deep inside his mind one treacherous little part let slip the thought, but what if it’s not?

It couldn’t possibly, could it?

Irresistible lure. Well he would just have to resist it then. Right?

Seven…
Eight…
Nine…
Ten…

The doors blew open, and Draco jumped back, tripping on the hem of his robe, and falling down hard on the floor. Instead of opening to the outside, Draco could see a long corridor, eerily lit by blue torches, shadows beckoning him onwards. Gripping his wand nervously, he pulled himself up and slowly inched forward until he was standing just at the threshold.

He stood there, teetering on the balls of his feet, uncertain of whether it was more important to go on and prove to the empty nothingness that he was not a coward, or if he should hightail it back to his bedroom and hide under the covers until the sun came up and he could face the decisions a bit more rationally. Yes, he decided at last, he should play it safe and if he really needed to prove something he could always come back tomorrow or the next night. Besides, who would know anyway? Draco slowly began to shift his weight back, he did not want to present his back to whatever was behind the doors, when he felt a sudden shove between his shoulder blades. And with a yell of fear and outrage, Draco Malfoy was inside the maze.

Stumbling forward, Draco tried to regain his balance, fell, and turning, he leapt for the door only a moment too late. The wood swung closed with a crash, his fingertips just brushing the surface as it slid past. From this side, the doors met seamlessly, with no handle of any sort, no protrudence for seeking fingers to find.

“Alohamora!” Draco bellowed. The doors remained as they were, passively eyeing him, as though they were curious what sort of a boy thought he could get past them armed with naught but a stick of wood. There was no way out, but onward.

Wand held at the ready, Draco crept to the edge of the hallway and stealthily began moving down its length. Slinking like a shadow he walked and walked and walked. The hall seemed to go on forever, then suddenly it simply wasn’t there anymore. It was as if the walls had melted away, the carpet under his feet turned to brick and he was left in a courtyard garden.

The edges swelled out around him, the yew and privet trees which marked the edge were no more than a green blur in the distance. The bricks marked a path, a straight arrow through the jungle of greenery around him, and Draco followed it nervously, leaning away from the plants that he recognized, and further from those that he didn’t, imagining even worse uses of them. A small path led towards a patch of pumpkins, but remembering Hagrid’s complaints of the giant slugs which pervaded such areas he moved away with a feeling of revulsion.

A sudden bout of sneezing arrested him and he scooted sideways before realizing he was almost off the path. Sneezewort, he thought in disgust, and I walked right in the middle of it. Blinded by his streaming eyes, he dropped to his knees and felt the brick reassuringly under his hands before crawling forward. After a few tortuous feet he realized that he could breathe again, and wiping his eyes on the corner of his robe he blinked into the light and began to see again.

Moving more quickly now, he kept his eyes open for other traps, but there seemed to be nothing more harmful than ginger and valerian. At last the path stopped in front of a stone bench lined with old stone jars filled with bits of roots and plants. Puzzled he prodded through a few he recognized from his potions lessons before noticing a small rough sack next to what could only be a Mimbulous Mimbletonia. He remembered how one that Longbottom brought had sprayed its stink all over Potter on the train. When he heard about that he hadn’t stopped laughing and only wished he could have been there to see it himself. Pity about that, but he had made sure he knew what the plant looked like so he could torture Scarhead with it some time in the future.

Reaching for the sack, his hand bumped one of the jars which spilled its dried purple leaves all over a leather notebook which he had overlooked before. Brushing them off carelessly, he picked up the book and examined it. Real Dragon leather he noted, and a high quality at that, they certainly know how to do things right when they put their mind to it. Flipping it open he saw very familiar scrawl running off the page.

“Oh no,” he groaned, “no, no, no. Not again.” But there was no denying it, and there was no other way he could think of to find out what was going on, so he read.

In my midst you’re sure to find
Plants and Herbs of every kind

Search me well and you will see
Fluxweed, Hellebore, and Gillyweed

Beware the Mandrake’s cry if you
Should ever dig for Gurdyroot

Before you leave me you must bring
Lovage, dittany, and Shrivelfig

And in my pages you must write
The other name for aconite

With that the door will open wide
And you may take of what I hide

So stop to ponder if you will
The Malowsweet won’t make you ill

“Brilliant,” he muttered, “bloody brilliant. It would be herbology first thing.” Reading the poem again he grabbed a small pencil which lay buried in the leaves he spilled earlier. Underlining a word here or there he tried to decipher the poem.

“It looks like I need to find Lovage, dittany, and Shrivelfig from this mess and then name the other one. The rest is just nonsense.” He thought for a moment, his golden head bowed over the book in concentration. “The Shrivelfig should be easy, we use it in potions all the time,” he muttered to himself, jumping up on the bench. Slowly he scanned the garden.

“There,” he muttered, pointing towards one corner, “by the tall spiky one.” Hopping down, he discovered a number of brick paths now wove though the gardens, separating out the different beds. Guessing, he took the first one to the left, only to be discouraged when it ran into a dead end by some honking Daffodils. Retracing his steps, he followed the next one as it edged along some geraniums to double back behind a rabble of Hellebore and finally turning him round and ending in a patch of marjoram. Three feet away he could see the Shrivlefigs, with the waxy leaves waving gently in a gust of wind. Carefully stepping through what appeared to be magenta cabbage, he at last stood beside a plant. Breaking it off, he ran back with a feeling of triumph, to gently lay the Shrivelfig on the bench.

Nothing happened, and he began to feel a bit let down. “Well, I’ll just go and get the other two then shall I?” he asked the silence bitterly. Glancing down he saw the book had changed a bit. A new word now lay at the bottom of the page. “Yes,” he read petulantly, before chucking the book back down.

“Lovage and dittany,” he chanted to himself, “Lovage and dittany.” Wait, Lovage, we used that once. No wait, it was in the book. Or did Professor Snape tell us about it. “I’m so confused,” Draco moaned to no one in particular. “That’s it! Confusion! Lovage is used for confusing and befuddling droughts!” There had been an illustration in the book which he remembered had resembled a carrot. He had been hungry during that lesson since he overslept and missed breakfast again, and everything had looked like food. Perhaps it looked like a carrot because it was related to a carrot. And carrots grow underground, don’t they?

So he just had to look underground. With the mandrakes. Draco gulped. Quickly untying his tie, he pointed his wand at it and whispered, “silencio.” It seemed to have no visible effect on the tie, but he wrapped it around his head none the less, taking care to cover each ear. He couldn’t hear anything, good. Then his brain caught up to his relief and he realized that there was nothing to hear. The garden was as silent as it had been when he entered it.

“Idiot,” he shouted at himself, or thought he did, but no sound seemed to come out. “Hello?” he tried more attentively, but still no sound reached his ears. Good. It was time to find a mandrake. Meandering down the path, he went to the right this time, turning just before the sneezewort began. The path curved gently so he took a left, then a right, then a left again until he was close to the wall of the hedge. It was here that he saw the familiar tufts of mandrake leaves, and what he assumed must be other tuber like plants.

Selecting one at random, he gave a firm pull and found himself holding what resembled a potato with a bad case of the chicken pox. “Definitely not that one,” he muttered, or at least mouthed to himself. The next one turned out to be an immature mandrake, which he stuffed back in as soon as he saw the whites of its eyes glaring back up at him. After that was a pink root that stretched like taffy and some sort of puss oozing tuber. Frustrated, he tried again, moving down the row, at last finding what appeared to be a carrot like form. “At last,” he breathed, then remembered and pulled the tie down from his ears. “At last.”

Running back, he added the Lovage to the bench next to the Shrivelfig. They looked a little sad, sitting there together rather than in the green jungle of the garden, but Draco was beyond caring. Wiping his dirty hands on his robe with a look of disgust, he turned back to the book. “Dittany. All I need is dittany and I can get out of here.” But he was stuck. He was quite sure that he hadn’t used dittany in a potion, and he never paid any attention in herbology.

“What in the name of Salazar is dittany?”

But there was no answer. Flipping desperately through the back of the book, he found only blank page after blank page. Reading the poem again he was no closer. He couldn’t think anymore, that wasn’t useful, he needed a clue.

A clue… Quickly he reread the poem as a thought started burning in the back of his mind. “So stop and ponder if you will, the Malowsweet won’t make you ill… Ponder the Malowsweet… That’s it! Malowsweet can help with divinization. Now where do I find Malowsweet.”

Looking around once more, Draco felt his eyes fall on the row of jars lining the bench. One of the largest had scratches around the rim. Brushing the dirt off he peered at the meaningless lines which soon formed the words Fluxweed, clumsily written on the clay. Now going jar by jar he read the names until Malowsweet became visible. It was a small cracked jar of white clay, and only a handful lay inside. Deciding to err on the side of caution, Draco took half and lay it on the bench in front of him. Now what was it the centaurs did with it? Oh yes, they burned it and watched the flames. Trelawney had thrown a fit about that, the old bat. Wasn’t proper divinization she said. Well it would have to work for him.

Using his wand he soon had a small fire going, with the Malowsweet burning happily at the center of it. Prodding it a bit he waited, watching for any sign or hint. Nothing. The smoke was simply drifting lazily over his shoulder, not a proper picture in sight. Draco waited and waited, his patience wearing thin and his hope running out. Still nothing changed, and he turned his back on it in frustration. Sighing he sank to the ground and sat with his chin in his hands, the picture of abject despair.

In front of his eyes, the smoke drifted to the ground where it curled around a low growing plant, mocking him he thought bitterly. In the back of his mind a niggling little thought was trying to be heard, but he was to busy wallowing in self pity to listen. At last, however, it made some progress, and he jerked up his head in surprise. “No, it couldn’t be that easy,” he said wonderingly, “could it?”

Grabbing a handful of the smoke furled plant he lay it next to the other two. “Dittany,” he said proudly. Skimming the poem again, this time with a lighter heart, he found the last command he had underlined. “Aconite,” he laughed. “Couldn’t you make it harder than that? Our professor told us that one on the first day of class. Of course, some people were too stupid to know it,” he said smugly. And with cool confidence he picked up the pencil and wrote clearly, “aconite, monkshood, and wolfbane are all the same plant.”

Then he set down the book, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. A rumbling noise began, faint at first, then slowly building into a dull roaring which filled the garden. Draco could feel the ground trembling beneath his feet. Lunging forward, towards the bench, the only part of the garden which seemed stable, he felt the ground give beneath his feet and he was falling, falling down into the mouth of the earth.

“Urgh,” the air whooshed out of his lungs as he hit, and for a moment he lay, basking in the feeling of solid ground under him once more. High above, the hole he had fallen through was like a golden window, the light filtering down to gently illuminate the cavern. The walls and floor were hard earth, tightly packed in a rich brown clay. Here and there a root teased through the wall or a nub of stone was exposed. Sitting upright, Draco quickly checked himself for broken bones, amazed when he found none, although he retained a sneaking suspicion that his hind side would be brilliantly black and blue from all of the falling he had been doing lately. Using a gnarled root as a handle, he pulled himself upright, swaying a bit, but recovering use of his legs soon enough.

Looking around he noticed he was in what appeared to be a dead end, while to the other side, the earthen cavern stretched on like a corridor. Only a few steps along, he noticed the light seeping down from the garden dimming, and three more paces after that it was almost gone altogether. Plucking up what little of his courage and dignity which hadn’t been bruised by the fall, Draco lifted his wand. “Lumos,” he said, and then hated himself for the way his voice shook.

The light from the wand created eerie shadows on the walls. As he pressed on, Draco became more and more convinced that the cave was pressing in on him, preparing to swallow him up. Flinging out his arms he felt his fingers just touch the cave walls to each side. They were cold and damp, but reassuringly real and solid. Draco pressed on. Soon he realized that it was not just a feeling, but that the walls were pressing in, his outstretched arms had to bend, soon his elbows would be bumping. The cavern was channeling him in somewhere, and he wasn’t precisely sure that he wanted to go.

It was getting tighter and tighter and Draco was finding it hard not to panic. If it kept up much longer his shoulders would be brushing the sides of walls, and after that he would have to turn sideways. Unfortunately it did. With every step, Draco became certain he was going to become stuck fast in the walls, trapped underground for eternity. He couldn’t control a shudder. Suddenly his free hand was no longer on the wall, the cave must widen ahead. With one last push, he fell thorough, falling to his knees and shaking the black dirt free of his hair where it had settled.

A slight movement caught the corner of his eye and he froze, his heart beating faster than a frightened rabbit’s. There it was again, a black hem gliding towards him. With a sickening feeling starting in the pit of his stomach he slowly looked up, past the bottom of the robe. Up to the deep belled sleeves, the white hand griping the sturdy wooden handle of a very sharp looking scythe, up to the black cowl where the faintest hints of white bone gleamed in the light of Draco’s wand. He gulped, and without a single sound he fainted, only to be wrenched back to consciousness as his chin connected with the hard floor of the cavern.

He slapped a hand to it, hoping to stop the throbbing. The sinister figure was still there, watching him silently, consideringly. It took a step towards him.

The dam broke. “No, you can’t be… I’m not… I don’t want to… No!” Draco babbled horrified, hoping to keep the apparition at bay with his torrent of words.

“THAT WAS A RATHER LONG FALL,” it said at last in a voice that booked no argument, moving a step closer.

“But I was fine, I survived!” Draco’s voice was shrill with fear.

“ODD ISN’T IT? A FALL LIKE THAT WOULD HAVE KILLED MOST PEOPLE.” It took another step while it waited for this idea to sink in.

Slowly Draco's face drained, any faint traces of color giving way to a ghostly white before sinking even further into grey. Every bone in his body seemed to be made of putty, unresponsive and melting into the floor. Prostrate he begged, "No, please, not me, take someone else but not me. I will give you anything. All my gold, all my fortune, but not me. Please, anything you want, but not me."

"ANYTHING?" the figure queried.

"Anything," Draco promised rashly. "Everything."

"ONE LIFE FOR YOUR OWN. I WILL TAKE ONE PERSON’S LIFE IN PLACE OF YOURS."

Draco breathed a sigh of relief. Goyle, he thought, the useless lump deserves it for getting me into this mess in the first place. Or perhaps I can make Potter go. Or that know-it-all mudblood friend of his.

The voice interrupted his thoughts. "NARCISSA MALFOY." The words rung through the chamber like the ominous tolling of a bell. In one second Draco felt his blood freeze cold.

"Mother?" he gasped, looking ill.

"EITHER HER LIFE OR YOUR OWN." The skeletal fingers tightened on the shaft of the scythe in anticipation.

Draco's mind whirled sickeningly. He was seven and his mother was bathing his forehead after he had caught the dragon pox. He was ten and she bought him his first real broomstick. He was fifteen and he got into a flaming row with her about father in Azkaban.

But even further, lurking behind all of those memories was another, the worst memory, it had given him nightmares for years. He was five. His great-grandfather, the head of the Malfoy family had died. Everyone was dressed in mourning, not just ordinary black, but the deepest black they could find, so dark it seemed to suck the light out of the room. All of the children we placed out of the way in a small sitting room on the side of the Manor. Huddled in a corner, they watched the proceedings by peeking out a window, speculating on what was to be done.

"I heard he gets to go to a better place with an even bigger castle and more gold and houselves," Louisa speculated, greed shining from her childish face. "Death sounds like such a lovely place."

"That's not true," Edward refuted. "Death is a big black river which you cross before you get to talk to all the heroes." He was currently reading the wizarding version of the Odyssey, and liked to trap his younger cousins in a corner and read them long passages from it.

"You are both wrong." Orion stood up. He was the oldest and a bully, Draco pressed closer to the wall, trying to escape his notice. Unfortunately the movement seemed to draw his attention. Directing his words to Draco he began, relishing in the fear he could see in his eyes. "Death is a skeleton. Tall, and cowled in a robe spun of night itself. He wields a scythe made of a falling star. It is so sharp that it can cut through anything, even light itself. And when he comes for you, you cannot run away. One look into his eyes and he can freeze you in place. Your heart will be filled with more fear than if a dementor hovered over you to suck out your soul. And then, he brings down the blade and everything goes black. You are gone. Nothing. As though you never even existed."

As he finished the room was silent. Louisa was the first to recover, letting go of the breath she was holding with a whoosh. "I don't believe a bit of it. There is a castle, and you will just have to wait and see."

Slowly the others nodded their assent. "Suit yourself," Orion said casually. "You will discover I'm right eventually. Of course, by then it will be a bit too late."

That night Draco woke screaming from a dream where he was being chased by a cowled figure. He never told his mother what the problem was when she went in to stop his shrieks. But he could still almost feel the air as the blade passed over his head, close enough to ruffle his hair.

The memories clambered around Draco's skull, fear chasing love, in a whirling sea of confusion. Mother had been so concerned, mother had always been there, mother had never understood. But he loved her. Love was a weakness, a Malfoy shouldn't even be capable of love or let it influence his better judgment. But he loved her all the same.

"I can't," he said brokenly. "I can't take me, I can't." Sobbing now with fear, he brushed at his eyes ineffectually.

"DONE."

Draco bowed his head. In the corner of his eye he could see the blade, rising upward, preparing for the fateful blow. He couldn't bear to watch. Slowly his eyes traced the hem of the road, hovering above the floor, the stumps of the ankles... Suddenly his mind rewound. Death had no feet. How ridiculous was that? The blade above him began to fall.

"Wait a moment, you're a boggart!" Draco yelled in shock. Fumbling his trembling fingers grasped his wand. "Ridiculus!"

For a moment the blade continued its downward journey, falling toward his unprotected head. Suddenly it began to dissolve and disappeared, the entire figure vanishing in a smoky cloud. Picking himself up, Draco stumbled forward, eager only to get away from that place, and hurried across the room. A set of earthen stairs began in the recessed wall leading upwards where a single shaft of light glowed.

Torturously pulling himself up the steps, he walked closer and closer to the mysterious glow. Soon he was able to discern that the light was coming from a room which lay behind a pair of gates which barred is path. The gates were tarnished with age and dirt, yet underneath a golden pall showed through. Near the center, a plaque had been polished clean, and lay gently gleaming. Draco peered at it, finding it covered once more in familiar handwriting.

People like me turn lead to gold,
Mystic cures my craft unfold.
I start nowhere and end well,
My name is an easy one to tell.

“Lead to gold,” Draco murmured, “that must be alchemy.” Cautiously pushing the dirty gates open with a grimace, he started to enter when suddenly the light dimmed and with a sound like a rumbling bear that was steadily growing louder, something exploded. Draco leapt behind the scanty shield of the gate while the noise reverberated around the chamber. Billowing clouds of foul smelling smoke rolled past, and accidentally inhaling some, Draco doubled over in dry, hacking coughs.

As the smoke cleared out, Draco could hear the pattering of footsteps and a moment later a little man appeared from the haze, absentmindedly straightening his robe with one hand, and attempting to clear his ringing ears with the other. He was short and somewhat bald on top with a singed white fringe circling his temples. His eyebrows were entirely gone, and his face and hands were marked with the shiny burns of thousands of old scars. The once white robe he was wearing had long ago turned grey, and his fingernails were quite short from a habit of nervous biting. All in all, he gave the appearance of a rather grubby and eccentric man. “Too much sulfur,” he muttered to himself, much too loudly. “Just like last week, or was it yesterday? Too much sulfur, ruins the whole batch.”

Suddenly he stopped his meanderings, noticing Draco for the first time. “Ah! A visitor! Haven’t had one of those for months. Or was it years? Can’t ever seem to remember. Anyway I’m Nicholas Flamel. And you are?”

Draco blinked, the sudden barrage of words catching him off guard. “Draco Malfoy,” he said haughtily, staring down his nose at this presumptuous little man.

“Malfoy, eh? Bad faith is it? Oh well, can’t be helped. I suppose it wasn’t your fault what they named you. Well, you’d best come in then. No sense in standing outside all day.”

At his words, Draco felt as if the earth had shifted under his feet. Who was this untidy little man, this Nicholas Flamel, to tell him that his family name was not worthy of the deepest respect? Why, he wouldn’t stay another minute with him, just cross the room and out the other door. Holding his chin as high as it would go and wishing his robes were a bit less filthy from his excursions he stepped out from behind the gate and began his march to the exit.

But his first step into the room stopped him dead in his tracks. All around the room were bottles of this and jars of that in every color imaginable. Tables lining the edges were heaped with rocks of all sizes and bowls of ground powders. Diagrams and scraps of parchment covered in precise little notes littered the floor. One corner was knee deep in these crumpled sheets, through which Nicholas was currently wading in hopes of finding one old formula. And in the center of the room a large black cauldron stood, gently smoking a fine silver mist.

“What…?”

“Here, hold these.” Nicholas unceremoniously dumped a stack of papers into Draco’s arms. He staggered a bit as the pile shifted before giving up and letting gravity have its fun in pulling the entire thing to the ground. “Now look what you’ve done,” Nicholas chided.

“What…?”

“Do you think the mercury base would be best or should I go with the quicksilver this time? But those did react badly with the hen’s teeth, and they don’t grow on trees you know.” Nicholas pulled a jar off of a shelf and looked at it thoughtfully. Draco could see some sort of airy white fluff suspended in brine. The bottle turned a bit and a label became visible. In spidery letters it read, pickled horse feathers. “Perhaps I should try the saltwater base again.”

Tired of waiting, Draco spoke in a rush to get out his question. “What in the name of Salazar are you trying to make?”

“Oh is that all,” Nicholas said dismissively, “a philosopher’s stone of course.”

“Have you done it yet?” Draco asked hungrily, his voice suddenly alive with greed. “Have you made one?”

At last Nicholas seemed to come alive, a mad light dancing in his eyes. “Not yet. But I am close, I know I am. I will make it, I will find it, and I will go down in history as one of the greatest alchemists alive. They won’t dare laugh at old Nicholas Flamel then!” His frenzy seemed to subside a bit but the madness of passion remained. “Join me boy,” he offered. “Two heads are better than one. Join me and I will share my secrets with you. Stay with me here,” he entreated.

For a moment Draco felt the overwhelming desire to say yes, to have the power of immortality and innumerable wealth. He would be safe forever from death and poverty. The world could be his.

And then the more reasonable voice of caution interrupted his thoughts. “How long have you been searching for this, how long have you been down here?”

Nicholas scratched his head puzzled. “Not long, it will only be sixty-eight years on next, um, Wednesday. No time at all really.”

Draco’s mind was reeling. Sixty-eight years in this dark and dank room. Sixty-eight years away from the sun. Sixty-eight years with no quidditch, no flying, no friends. Sixty-eight years alone with your own madness and desires and still no sign of the stone.

But you might find the secret, you might have wealth and life and power. Nothing was more important than that his father would say.

But you might not. And perhaps his father was wrong.

Pushing back the temptation, trying to cage his greed and his fear, Draco trembled. He was not used to self denial and the strain of his desires felt like too much to bear. “I can’t,” he said with regret. “I can’t,” and he fled through the small back door before he could change his mind.

Suddenly Draco found himself outside, once more breathing fresh air. He reached back to open the door and take one last glance at the alchemist’s lair, but his fingers found only rough wood. Turning, confused, he discovered he was leaning against the back of an old tree, no door in sight. There was no going back. Shrugging he took several steps to his left. And found he was back at the tree. So he changed his tactic and tried to walk straight ahead. The tree was in front of him again.

“Where do I go now?” he yelled angrily into the air. “Stop playing with me. I know you are magic, so you might as well be clearer about it.”

Under his feet the ground rippled a bit and suddenly a dirt path formed, leading off to the right a smidgeon. With a theatrical sigh Draco said acidly, “well it’s about time.” One of the tree branches swung around without warning, thumping him soundly on the back of his head. “Oh, all right,” he grumbled as he staggered forward, one hand gently massaging his abused skull. “Thank you,” he added grudgingly.

The path wove into a steadily growing number of trees, gloom and fog hanging heavily under the branches. Growing increasingly weary, Draco dragged his feet, hardly paying attention to where he was going until suddenly one foot plunged through the ground into a quagmire of mud. Caught unaware, Draco jumped back with a yell, pulling his foot free from the muck with a wrench. It popped out with a squelching noise, but the shoe remained. A marsh lay in front of him, dimly showing in the eerie glow of the evening mist. It was crisscrossed with footprints, starting here and going there, some swallowed up in the murky depths. Draco couldn’t suppress a shudder as he thought of the others who crossed it, and couldn’t help but to wonder how many made it to the other side. He could see the path emerging on the other side, showing faintly as it rose up the crest of a far off hill.

“There must be another way,” he said turning back. Not ten feet behind him was a wall of impassible forest, drawn close and menacing. “No,” he moaned. “Not dirt and filth. Why couldn’t they use a sunny meadow? Why a swamp? No, no, no.”

Sitting down on the bank he stared across, wondering if he would be stuck here forever or if someone would let him out in the morning, if morning ever even came in this place. Out in the misty darkness he absently noticed a faint spot of light. It bobbed and wove and was coming closer. It was a lantern, someone else must be out there; they could get him across.

“Hello!” he cried. “Over here! Help me, please.” The light he hailed stopped its meandering procession and seemed to move closer. It made a beckoning motion and Draco waved back thankfully. “Can you help me across,” he hesitated for a moment then added, “please?”

The light began moving, and without thinking Draco plunged in after it. Two steps later he could feel his other shoe peel off, but he didn’t have time to stop. The light was urging him on, beckoning and weaving across the marsh. The mud was ankle deep now, but he could feel a solid path under his bare feet. Suddenly his next step was like trying to walk in molasses, and he could feel the thick nothingness giving away under his foot. Leaning back he tried to grip the path with his toes but he overbalanced and fell backwards. He was sitting in about three inches of mud but he didn’t care. The path was firmly, if invisibly underneath him and he gripped it with his fingers and toes, imagining the horrible sensation of the mud closing over his head, stopping his mouth then nose and finally his eyes. He shuddered hard, his heart in his mouth.

Cautiously standing up he realized that he couldn’t go back; his footprints were too confused with the rest for him to pick out. And he couldn’t go on, he had lost his guide. A guide whom, he reminded himself, had just tried to drown him in the marsh.

“Hinkypunk,” he exclaimed, remembering Lupin’s obstacle course examination. Draco could have kicked himself for forgetting, for not having paid enough attention. “Don’t follow the light.”

Looking out once more he could see the lantern bobbing as though laughing at him. Picking up a handful of muck he threw it in the general direction of the light, even more disgusted when it fell well short of its intended mark. Watching the marsh he could see even more lights bobbing this way and that, each marking certain death if he was careless again. So I will be cunning, Draco thought.

“Hey!” he called. “Hey you! All of you! I’m lost! Show me the way, why don’t you?”
Eagerly the lights bobbed and danced. The one closest to him beckoned to the left. With great care and feeling the hidden path with his feet to ensure it was still there, Draco moved to the right. The path went with him and he breathed a sigh of relief. Cautious step by cautious step Draco called to the Hinkypunks and went precisely opposite to their beckoning.

At last he made it to the far side and fell down on the solid ground with relief for as long as his dignity would allow him. Pulling himself together he stood and waved cheekily at the confused bobbing of the lights. “Thanks for seeing me through the marsh!” he taunted. “You were wonderful guides.” The lights buzzed angrily but did not come closer.

Draco tried to shake the sticky and rank wet mud from his robe but to no avail. Resigned he found the cleanest portion and used it to wipe the goop from his fingers, rendering them marginally less dirty. Barefoot and ragged he turned to the path and began for the crest of the hill, a new determination fueled by anger urging him onwards.

Shadowed against the top of the hill a dark form looms. As he walks closer he can at last distinguish it as a large stone pedestal. It stands about three feet tall, carved all over with vines and small leering faces. In the center is a book. It too is made of stone, its open pages delicately inscribed in the mysterious handwriting. Squinting in the graying light, Draco peered at the words.

Ahead is the marsh of the Clabbert.
Beware of the labyrinth of nesting Runespoor beyond.
He will guide you safely through.
Do not offend him or you shall surely perish.

“What in the name of Salazar is a Clabbert?” Draco asked into the silent night. In the distance a cricket chirped once then twice, but no other answer was forthcoming. Looking down, Draco could see the mist enshrouded forest below, waiting for him. Walking slowly down the hill he studied it. Two reed screens formed an entrance into the ancient trees dripping with moss. Here and there water pooled, spongy loam and reeds growing at its side. After about ten steps in Draco came to an abrupt halt. The path split, fracturing into at least five more, each winding away into the darkness.

A sudden rustle in the trees attracted his attention. Almost directly overhead the oddest creature Draco had ever seen perched on a large branch. Its long, mottled green arms clasped the limb while two short horns give it an almost demonic appearance. Unblinking, it studied Draco for a moment before flashing him a wide grin of very white, very sharp teeth. It chattered for a moment in an almost froglike croak.

Unnerved, Draco gulped. “I suppose you must be the Clabbert.” It croaked again. Remembering the warning in the book, Draco bit his tongue and put on his Sunday manners. “Would you please show me the safest way through the marsh?” he asked with his most charming air. “I would be ever so grateful.”

The creature frowned at him for a moment, and Draco had the hideous sensation that it had seen straight through his intentions. “Please,” he begged with unaccustomed honesty. “I’ve been through so much already and I just want to go home.” Satisfied, the creature nodded and leapt forward by one jump.

Following, Draco took a step, then another. It sat directly between two paths. Hesitating Draco stepped to the one on the right. The pustule centered between the horns glittered and suddenly began to glow a fierce red. Draco froze confused. Is that good or bad, he wanted to ask angrily but once more bit his tongue so as not to offend. Taking a step back, he noticed the color fading and by the time he was well off the right path it had drained of all color. This time he began down the path to the right, keeping a careful watch on his guide. It chirped in approval and swung further ahead.

The Clabbert moved through the trees with a grace and quickness Draco could only achieve or match on a broomstick. He ran after it, his bare feet slapping the spongy ground, swiping swatches of moss out of the way with his hands as he tried to keep up. Again the path forked and again, and each time Draco proceeded with caution, keeping a wary eye on his guide. After one particularly nasty turn Draco slipped, his foot catching on a protruding root. “Gods all damn it!” he yelled in pain and exasperation. “This stupid, bloody marsh!”

Above him the Clabbert frowned and hissed. With an angry croak and the swish of branches it vanished into the trees. “Blast,” Draco swore, furious at himself for letting his mask slip. “I’m sorry,” he called out. “I didn’t mean to insult your home. Please come back and help me.” Stillness continued to hang above the marsh. At last Draco had to concede that the Clabbert wasn’t coming back. Squaring his shoulders he started off on his own. The gloom was lessening as he continued down the path, and he guessed that he must be nearing the edge of the marsh.

Rounding a bend he came to another fork in the road. Squinting at each path he wavered. Reaching up, he broke off a small twig and threw it in the air. It came down pointing to the left, but somehow he felt unhappy about that and took the right path instead. The trees around him lessened as he walked, more moonlight flooding into the empty spaces. Then, suddenly, ahead of him the trees broke open and he could see the edge of the marsh. It was only a hundred feet ahead.

A soft hiss escaped from the path in front of him, and without knowing why, Draco leapt back. The head of a snake erupted angrily from the leaves of the path and shot towards him, only to be pulled back at the last minute like a dog testing the ends of his leash. A second head emerged hissing angrily, haranguing a third head which dreamily rose from the ground with a leaf still perched like a hat on its skull. The snakes rose up higher and Draco was able to see it was not three snakes at all but one snake with three heads. It’s long and lithe body matched the orange of the fallen leaves and the black tiger stripes blended into the shadows. It lay on the ground like six feet of solid muscle which was currently in a quandary as it had three minds offering it conflicting ideas. The tail seemed to have developed a nervous twitch in retaliation, but the three heads paid it no mind.

“A Runespoor,” Draco breathed amazed. How lovely and how deadly, how like a Slytherin it was. And it was blocking his path. “Well then,” Draco murmured under his breath, “I must outwit a snake.”

Bending down slowly, a few feet from the bickering creature he began to tear of the hem of his robe, still thick with mud from the quagmire. Rolling it up, he tied a longer strip to the around the ball, coating the whole thing with the sticky black sludge. With the utmost care he threw the ball out aiming for the impulsive right head.

It struck like lightning, digging its fangs deep into the heavy mud-coated cloth. Then it paused and looked bewildered, its teeth still stuck in the ball. The left head hissed in disapproval, a few snickers erupting its tirade. With a look of mortal affliction, the right head swung itself at the left head, which ducked and tried to bite, fighting until its teeth too were stuck in the cloth. The head in the middle just lay there, staring blankly at a small ant which was crawling slowly in front of it.

With the other end of the tether, Draco tied the cloth ball to a nearby tree and cautiously walked around the Runespoor. The venom in the left head’s fangs would dissolve the cloth eventually, and he would like to be a good deal further away by then. Breaking into a sprint, he cleared the edge of the mossy trees and jogged into the open air and the night sky.

Panting, Draco stopped, gratefully resting his hands on his knees. The meadow around him was wide and open, the grass shining and bending like a silver sea in the starlight. Straightening, he slipped his hand into his pocket feeling the familiar smooth wood of his wand in his palm. Relieved he had not lost in his flight he smiled, he had made it this far, he wouldn’t fail now.

A fluttering caught the corner of his eye, and snapping out his hand he just grasped the parchment slip which glided down on the breeze. This time the writing only dictated a single caution. “Do not leave the path,” he read aloud, before the wind snatched it once more from his fingers. “Very well then, I will not.” Moving with exaggerated care he swaggered on.

Without warning, a figure appeared in the grass before him. He wore a plain black cloak, the hood pushed up to cover his face. “You have come far,” he said in a familiar voice. “And you are nearing your prize.”

“I am,” Draco acknowledged warily.

Slowly the man began to circle him, his cloak slithering over the grass with the softest of whispers. “You will not reach it,” he said conversationally.

“I will.” Draco stuck his chin out in defiance and tried to take a step forward, but the man was once more in his way.

“Arrogant pup,” the man laughed softly. He pushed back the hood of his cloak, and a shock of white blond hair glimmered like another star in the evening light.

“Father,” Draco gasped.

“I am not,” the man laughed again, a more sinister sound this time. Draco looked again. This stranger was younger than his father. His grey eyes were not hard from hate, but tired, bone weary. A small scar pierced his cheek, a feather of red on the pale, pale skin. And branded on his arm was the Dark Mark, livid in the moonlight.

Turning, without a word, the man began to walk away. Away from the path and away from the maze, away towards a new constellation of green which shot into the sky far on the horizon.

“Wait,” Draco called out, stumbling after. “Wait for me.”

“No!” the man said with despair in his voice. “Go back, don’t come; go!”

“Yes,” he declared stubbornly.

“You don’t want this,” the man said with conviction. “You don’t want this trap.”

“Let me come.”

The man passed a hand in front of his eyes, tiredly. Suddenly, with amazing speed, he had his wand trained on Draco. “Petrificus totalus.” Draco could feel each limb snapping rigidly together, and he was falling onto the cushioning force of the grass. Gently, the man bent over him, brushing an uncomfortable strand of hair out of his eyes. “Think, Draco,” he pleaded with the inert form. “There are more things in this world than Father’s approval. Think about what you want. Think.”

Frozen on the ground, Draco could do no more than listen to the retreating patter of his footsteps and the swish of the dark cloak through the grass. His wand remained clutched tight in his right hand, but try as he might he could not so much as twitch a single finger. Finite, he thought, finite, finite, end, please. Why hadn’t he practiced voiceless spells more often? Finite, finite incantium, finite.

What had he thought he was doing, cursing me like that, Draco wondered. I thought he was on my side.

You did leave the path; a traitorous voice in the back of his head reminded him.

But I didn’t mean to, Draco argued. I was going to follow him to the Dark Lord, finally going to make my father proud.

He didn’t look very happy, the voice pointed out. For all that he looked remarkably like you, he still looked like a part of him had died.

He wasn’t me.

But he could have been. In five or even ten years time that could be you. Do you want it to be? Do you want to serve him? To obey all orders blindly? There is no way out once you get in, you know. You would live the rest of your life as his servant, as his slave.

But I would serve a noble cause, Draco wailed inside his head. I would serve a noble cause.

Is it your cause?

It was meant to be. There could be no doubt that he was raised to it. But do I believe in it with conviction? Do I really believe that I am superior to, say, Granger. I’m wealthier for certain, but, he admitted with reluctance, she is smarter. What does that mean?

It means you failed, the voice insisted. You left the path, you failed.

I thought it was important!

But you left the path.

I left the path. I didn’t mean to but I left the path, he agreed with reluctance.

And what are you going to do about it?

One lone tear dripped from Draco’s eye, rolling down the curve of his cheek as he lay. I’m going to accept responsibility, he thought. I left the path and I failed the task. I left of my own free will, and I failed. Raising a hand to his cheek he brushed away the tear, as gently as a butterfly wing. Suddenly he realized he had moved his arm. Amazed, he sat, unconstrained by the spell.

A throat cleared behind him. Draco jumped up, standing to attention as he faced the tall, silvery figure of Professor Dumbledore.

“Thank you, sir,” he murmured, realizing by what power he had been freed.

“It was your own choices which brought you to this point,” Dumbledore said cryptically. “What do you have to say for yourself, Draco Malfoy?”

“I failed, sir. I left the path. I failed.”

“Yes, you did fail.” Draco bowed his head at these words. “But there is not always shame in failure.”

“But I failed,” Draco said agonized, “how can there not be shame?”

“Because you accepted your failure. You accepted the consequences of your own actions. And so I ask you to accept one thing more.”

“Yes, sir,” Draco said, his voice still weak from his shame.

“You did not complete the maze,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. “However, I believe you deserve this.” Reaching deep into the folds of his robe he pulled out a small leather book and handed it to Draco.

Holding it gently he looked at the smooth cover before opening it and smoothing down the creamy page. Familiar writing, which had haunted him throughout the maze, covered the pages. Carefully he read, “His footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone stairs as he approached the great wooden doors. Before he had always felt them to be welcoming…” Amazed he flipped further into the book. “As the smoke cleared out, Draco could hear the pattering of footsteps and a moment later a little man appeared from the haze, absentmindedly straightening his robe with one hand, and attempting to clear his ringing ears with the other.” Stunned he looked up to Dumbledore for conferment.

“Yes,” he said, “it’s all there. Every thought, every deed, and every word.”

“But why?” Draco at last managed to ask.

“So that in the hard times ahead you can remember everything you learned about yourself in the maze. Remember not to give up in despair, remember that there are others you love outside of yourself, remember when you decided that some things are more important that money. You can read and remember that the clearest path is not the safest, remember the importance of honesty, and remember your failure and your shame.”

Holding the book quite close, Draco looked Dumbledore in the eye. “I will remember. May I ask a favor?”

“Of course,” Dumbledore said affably. “That does not mean that I will grant it.”

“When the time comes, I want to fight on your side. I have seen,” he shuddered slightly, “what I may become if I fight on his side, and I do not want it.” He hesitated, old habits being hard to break in the course of a night. “Help me, please.”

“Look at that,” Dumbledore commented to the sky, “how beautiful. In one moment the boy becomes a man.” He rested a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “You have grown up well, Draco.” Draco felt himself flush with pleasure. He no longer yearned to hear those words from his father. For the first time he felt content with himself.

Dumbledore smiled, and waved a hand at the air. A small wooden door appeared, floating above the meadow. “The clock is just striking ten as we speak, you must go through this door before it finishes. You will find yourself in the Entrance Hall. If you go straight to bed, you shan’t be caught breaking curfew. Goodnight, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dumbledore waved him through the door; he could hear the chimes of the clock through the opening. “Good night.”

Draco found himself in the Entrance Hall as Dumbledore said, but he was not alone. A small figure waited by the main doors, his bleached hair glinting silver in the faint light of the torches. The doors in front of him blew open but he did not go forward. Smiling, Draco suddenly understood. “Sorry about this, but you will thank me later,” he murmured before creeping up behind the boy. Just as the boy began to back up, Draco’s hand caught him between the shoulder blades and shoved once, hard.