The air is still, only the gentle trickle of running water from the fountain whispers in the midnight air. Brief echoes of activity drift into the empty lobby; all but the most dedicated have already left the building, left behind the chaos of the day and returned to quiet comfort of their own homes. For a heartbeat, the Ministry of Magic is at rest.

A sudden crack announces the presence of a young wizard. Young he must be, and inexperienced as well since he lands not beside the fountain, as was evidently his goal, but in it, the cool water lapping at his calves.

Swearing softly, he glances around, fervently glad that no one is present to witness his mishap, before clambering over the low wall and out of the pool. Pulling out his wand, he pauses for a moment, trying to remember the spell to dry his clothes before regretfully putting it away again- he has already announced his presence enough for the time being; the last thing he needs is a large sign reading “here I am, come get me.”

Trudging to the elevator, the momentary squelching of his boots and dull slap of the wet cloth of the hem of his cloak against his ankles drown out the fountain’s steady murmur. The gentle ding of the elevator’s bell seems shrill in the silence followed by another moment of squelching treads, then the doors clang shut with a whirr. And the lobby is plunged again into utter stillness.

Undaunted, the fountain slowly trickles on.

The elevator doors open again, this time upon a long black hallway with a lone black door at the end. Quickly, the young man gets off; making sure his dull grey cloak is still pulled low over his face. As he strides towards the door, it almost appears as if it is drawing him in, that deep black hole which he has no power to resist.

Reaching the door, he pauses abruptly and shakes one arm out from the recesses of the cloak. A quick glance shows an odd looking gold watch with nearly twice as many hands as usual. He shakes his head from under his grey hood. “Too much time lost in that damn fountain,” he mutters. “I hope they planned for extra time when I don’t come out.”

With that, he throws open the door and steps confidently into the room. Immediately the room seems to spin, the circular wall of doorways revolving around and around in an inverted carousel before settling to an abrupt halt.

Yanking off his hood, the man’s pale hair and grey eyes glint in the wavery candle light. The encircling doors glare smugly at the intruder from their new positions, but he pays them no mind. Laying his wand in the palm of his hand, he concentrates for a moment before murmuring, “point me.”

The wand spins once before affixing on the door ahead of him and slightly to the left. Throwing back his head the man laughs in triumph. He, Draco Malfoy, had made it safely into the Department of Mysteries. With an arrogant strut, he throws open the door, and strides deeper inside.

The room is dark, the little light from the entry abruptly cuts off as the door swings shut and is lost, evaporating into the nothingness of the void of the room. Swallowing deeply, Draco pauses; first for one second, then two, hoping that his eyes will slowly adjust to pick the shadows from the gloom. But the darkness is unyielding, and with a stuttering step Draco lurches forward only to find more emptiness and more dark.

Losing his head, he panics, stumbling further and further into the room, hoping to find something, anything to break up the unending darkness. At last he falls, his outstretched arms connecting with the cold, hard floor, sharp shocks running up both wrists. Panting, he kneels, the stem of his wand poking his side harder with every breath, the momentary pain clearing his thoughts from the prison of terror they had been contained within.

He grasps the smooth wooden handle reassuringly, gently drawing it forth. “Lumos,” he whispers, and the weak light blossoms before his eyes, a misty shield momentarily holding back the oppressive gloom.

Suddenly Draco stiffens, his ears pricked as he strains against the silence of the room. The slightest of whispers stirs from the left with a noise like the unfolding of a great pair of wings.

“Who’s there?” Draco demands hoarsely, the tip of his wand swinging instantly toward the sound.

Silence resounds through the shrouded chamber, broken only by the deliberate click of footsteps like great talons or claws upon the floor. Ungracefully, Draco scrambles to his feet, the wand tip still wavering in the direction of the noise. At last the steps stop, as though pausing just outside of the tiny puddle of light which pools around Draco in a dissipating silver mist.

“I said who goes there?” he demands again, far more bravely than he ever felt. “Who are you?”

A light chuckle cuts through the air like the cold hiss of a knife on the whetstone. “Put down that silly stick, boy. It will be of no use to you here.”

Draco flinches at the voice, colder than a northern wind, mocking, and dripping with condescension and unconcealed mirth. “Who are you?” he quavers, the stench of his own fear palpable around him.

“Who am I?” the voice repeats almost pensively, the silvery flash of teeth just evident from the weak light of the wand. “I am the shadow in the dark, the prickling breeze on the back of your neck. I am the watching eyes that never leave, and the things that go bump in the night.”

As it speaks, the shadow seems to grow larger, more menacing than before until it is not just one thing but a host of them standing, waiting, just outside the light. Dark shadowy shapes with their long reaching arms. Small glowing eyes that never seem to blink. Thin ghostly vapors of unnatural silence wrapped tight around mysterious creakings and scratchings.

Draco spins around, his wand searching for a target in the crowd, new faces and voices to every side of him. He spins until he was not spinning any more and it was the room spinning around him, turning him back and back until he was no more than a boy of six again, cowering vainly from the unknown fears that pervade the dark.

“I am the primordial scream, the unknown terror that haunts the night. I am the first and the last, in every story from the beginning, and the end of your own!” Spectral arms reach out and begin to brush away the misty, failing light; hungrily moving forward, clutching and grasping.

“No.” His voice sounds weak in the growing storm of malevolence, yet for a moment everything pauses, waiting for his will to fail, to give in utterly to terror.

“No,” Draco repeats, raising his head defiantly to the shadows. “This is not the end of my story.”

The voice laughs, a cruel pitying noise with all the precision and affectation of the most arrogant king. “Look at your position, boy, and do not think to dictate terms to me. It has been long since I have eaten, and I am hungry now,” it added, its tongue slithering briefly over its lips. “It has been long since I have had such a feast of fear.”

“And it will be longer yet!” Draco exclaims, trying to ignite what little courage he has left in his soul. “Let me tell you a story,” he said, taking a step forward, towards his bogeyman, gaining confidence as they all stepped back, away from him and out of the light of his wand. “Let me tell you a story of a boy who was afraid of the dark. He was terrified of the monsters under the bed, and the branches which scratched his window. He feared the creatures who stalked him in his dreams. Yes,” Draco says softly, shaking his head, “he was a scared little boy.” Suddenly steel enters his eyes, and he seems to grow again, no longer being the six year old boy, but a man now, and a man who has found his courage at last. “And one day he realized he didn’t have to be scared anymore. That those monsters and creatures were in his head and they couldn’t hurt him if he didn’t let them. They couldn’t hurt him.”

Thrusting his wand forward, towards the largest of the shadows Draco shouts, “I’m not afraid of you!”

There is a sudden flash, and the room thrust out of the darkness and into light. It is empty now, empty save for Draco still standing triumphant in the middle of the floor and a door at each end. Panting with victory, he walks to the nearest wall, and touches it, making certain its real. The faded bunnies and bears print of the wallpaper, is solidly reassuring under his quivering fingertips.

“Point me,” he murmurs before pulling open the door, a little shaken at the thought of what he might find next.

No sooner has he taken one step through the door than his world has turned upside down. Immediately he freezes, one hand reaching back to clutch reassuringly at the door frame while the other passes over his eyes in disbelief.

The ceiling, or really the floor, hangs thirty feet above (or below) his head. Arcing lines of stone benches stand to attention before a low dais where several more stone chairs and tables are arranged with unforgiving precision. It is a courtroom that hangs (or sits) so far above (below) and at its far side, thirty feet up (or down) lies the door.

Quickly he checks the odd gold watch on his wrist, swearing softly when he sees how much time he has wasted already. Fumbling in the pocket of his robe, he pulls out a scrap of parchment and places it squarely on the floor by his feet. It sticks, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Peeling it off by one dog-eared corner, he lifts it fully from the smooth surface then places it again. This time it tumbles downward in an instant, and Draco can feel himself wince as it hits the floor.

“I’ll have to be extra careful then,” he whispers to himself sternly, his mind’s eye replaying the parchment’s fall over and over, sometimes substituting his own form for the final splat.

He aims his wand at one of the benches below, his fingers clenching it tightly lest it should fall while his wrist practices a basic swish and flick movement. At last he is satisfied that his current awkward position should not affect his spell casting overmuch and Draco aims again, this time accompanying the motion with, “Wingardium Leviosa.”

Floating the bench to the center of the room, he lets it down gently before picking up another and another. Slowly a pyramid of benches grows in the open space, higher and higher, until he has used every piece of furniture in the room.

Now comes the part he has been dreading. Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes, he shuffles his right foot forward; first and inch, then two more. Pausing he waits, dreading the falling sensation he is sure to come at any moment. Only it doesn’t. Opening his eyes, he sees to his great relief that he is still stuck quite firmly to the ceiling.

Carefully he carries on; shuffling with the utmost deliberation to prevent any part of his foot from ever leaving contact with the ceiling. He’s nearly there now; he can see the top of the benches sitting only six feet below the top of his head. With a deep breath, he whispers a prayer and wrenches away his foot.

“Urgh…” The air whooshes out of his lungs as his body collides with the cold, unforgiving stone. He can feel a lump forming where the back of his head had suffered a nasty crack.

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs, quickly checking for broken bones, cuts, and bruises. Finding a particularly tender spot, he winces again. “Bloody hell.”

As soon as he has reassured himself that his body is still in working order, Draco swings a leg over the edge of the bench, slowly creeping down the large stone steps like an inchworm. The pyramid sways and shudders gently under his weight, but remains firmly upright.

Still, Draco does not breathe a sigh of relief until both his feet are back on solid ground again. Crossing over to the troublesome door, he wrenches it open, battered, but ready for the next trial.

This time he finds himself in a small, white room perfectly square in every way. Puzzled, Draco notices that the far wall is blank as are the two flanking it. Quickly he strides across to search for hidden seams or any indication of the proper way out.

Behind him the door he has just left slowly swings shut. He whirls as he hears the latch click into place, but he is too late in his lunge across the room. The door is gone, melted into the wall as though it had never existed. Furious, Draco beats his fist against the seamless wall where the door once stood.

The wall shudders under the impact, the slightest of grinding and groaning noises beginning to fill the room.

“What the…” Draco begins, staring at his sore hand in amazement. He looks up. “Oh, shit.”

The walls are pressing inwards, a slow shuddering compression from all sides. Panicking, Draco spins before suddenly realizing he has lost all sense of direction.

“Which wall; where was it?” he mutters, turning again and again, seeking any distinguishing features from the steadily moving walls. His nervous hands shake slightly as he fumbles with his wand. “Point me.”

The wand spins, but this time does not stop to point in any one direction. The handle dips down below the palm of his hand, tipping the wand upward until the point is almost directly to the ceiling. Then it drops and skitters across the floor. But it does not have far to go as the walls continue their inward march.

Snatching it off the floor, Draco tilts back his head shouting to the empty room, “I don’t understand. Let me out.”

And suddenly he sees it. The faintest rectangular outline in the ceiling above. A trapdoor, a way out. The walls are only a foot away from its borders now, but he doesn’t dare stop them- not yet.

Taught as a bowstring he waits, judging the distance with his eyes and trying to control his breathing as the walls move ever closer. Now! He thinks when barely two inches surround the trap door’s edges.

“Impedimentia!”

With a shudder the walls stop, leaving Draco in a narrow, chimney like space. “I didn’t expect this place to be a bloody gymnastics course,” he complains as he braces his back against one wall and the soles of his feet against the other. “Next time I tell him he can come and damn well do this himself.”

Slowly, walking his feet and scraping his back, he climbs up the narrow space. The muscles in his legs scream at him from the strain and he can feel a dangerous, slippery sweat glistening on his neck and tricking down to wet his back. But at last the door is within reach and his trembling fingertips pushed up the cover and grasp the exposed edge.

Praying for strength, he lets his legs fall, dangling by his hands from the rectangular hole. Panting he manages to haul himself upwards feeling the sharp lip biting in to the soft skin of his chest then his stomach. Crawling forward an inch or two more he is able to drag his legs up and through the hole banging his left knee sharply in his haste. Rolling over, he collapses on the floor beside the trapdoor, waiting for his body to come once more under his control.

At last he believes he has strength enough to try to stand and pushes himself from the floor. For a moment his tired legs wobble like jelly and he is afraid he will crumple back to the ground at the slightest provocation.

A quick glance at the golden watch assures him he has no time for failure. Groaning softly he staggers a few steps into the new room. Ahead of him, in the center of the room sits a large, squashy armchair and within five wobbling strides he is sitting in its comfortable embrace.

The cushions are downy and plush; he is sinking deeper and deeper into them while a lethargy more comfortable than the chair is worming its way into his thoughts. Nothing seems urgent anymore, nothing imperative but that he stays comfortably seated and rest. Yes rest, and perhaps sleep.

His head suddenly becomes heavy, and he can feel it bowing downward. His chin tilts towards his chest and his eyes lower, all the while sinking deeper and deeper into a calm and quieting haze.

A glimmer of light catches his eye, and he feels himself lazily turning his attention towards it. The glassy surface of the golden watch beams another flash of light into his eyes, and for a moment he finds himself alert. But the moment has passed, and he indifferently watches as all the hands steadily march towards an almost complete convergence near the largest marking at the top.

Idly he finds himself wondering what will happen when they meet. As he shifts his wrist again another blinding stab pierces his eye. This time the pain of it jerks him half out of his seat.

“Shit!” he swears covering the offended eye with his hand. He glares menacingly at the watch with the other, only to tear himself completely out of the chair, his running feet hurtling him across the room.

“No time, no time,” he cries, sure his lungs will burst. Grabbing the handle of the next door he yanks it open only to feel a familiar and most unwelcome pull emanating from behind his navel.

“Not now,” he shouted to the world, clutching helplessly at the doorknob as he was quickly pulled away. “I need more time!”

But it is of no use. With a thump Draco falls inelegantly to the floor of his destination, his nose mere inches from a worn out pair of trainers. A warm hand reaches down to grip his forearm and haul him upright.

“I suppose you didn’t get it then?”

Draco stares furiously into the green eyes. “I needed more time, you idiot!”

“You told us you could manage in an hour,” the boy counters, ruffling a hand through his inky hair.

“So, I’m an arrogant, cocky bastard,” Draco shoots back, watching the ghost of a smile hovering on the other boy’s lips. “Next time I tell you something, just assume that and add half an hour.”

Draco sways slightly and the boy catches his arm. “Tired much?”

Draco grins carelessly. “Oh, it’s nothing, Potter. Tell you what, next time why don’t you have a go.”

Harry laughs and throws his arm around Draco’s shoulders. Together they walk slowly down the hallway, pausing every few moments for Draco to ease a little life back into his aching body.

“Next time,” he mutters to no one in particular, “I'm bringing a ladder and some rope.”