The beginnings of sunlight filtered through the dank, looming windows of the Slytherin common room. After the dream last night, he had been unable to fall back asleep, unable to evade the pounding thoughts and worries that he had tried so hard to compartmentalize. The lack of sleep showed on his face, which was paler than ever and purplish shadows lingered underneath his eyes.
He hooded his eyes, focusing on the elaborately threaded hearthrug, which was green and silver like all the décor in the Slytherin dormitory. A swish of a robe and carpet-muffled footsteps announced the presence of somebody else.
“Malfoy! Just the man I want to see,” a booming voice that could only belong to the hulking figure of Montague, the appointed Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. “Got up early to run a lap round the pitch, you know?” He indicated the Nimbus Two Thousand and One broom clasped in his right fist and grinned, his resemblance to a warthog increasing tenfold. “Anyway, you and me, we have to talk tactics. Can’t have us losing to Gryffindor again, can we?” Montague jerked in an irritable fashion. Clearly, the memory of Gryffindor winning the Quidditch Cup was one that still stung and his grin immediately dissipated to a scornful expression.
“Yeah, I was thinking,” Draco began, wondering whether he’d have the nerve to complete what he was about to say, “I want to resign.”
“Resign?” Montague looked most displeased, his muscles twitching in anger. Despite never having been able to scrabble a victory for his house as Seeker, he was still widely thought to be a very talented Seeker nevertheless. Indeed, Pansy Parkinson practically swooned with every successful capture of the Snitch Draco made during Quidditch practices in years past.
Draco felt uncomfortable now. He had been deliberating over staying or leaving the Quidditch team for some time, and if he wanted to do his best in all his ‘pursuits’, well, he needed all the time he could get.
“Who am I going to use as Seeker then?” Montague thundered, swelling in anger.
Addressing the hearthrug as he spoke, Draco muttered, “You’ll hold try-outs for a new Seeker. It’ll be fine.”
Feeling less fine than ever, he consulted his watch for the time and he dutifully left the comfortable armchair and a seething Montague. At the same time, he wished he could also leave behind his own thoughts as efficiently. Time for breakfast, he thought, striding towards the Great Hall.
The news that Draco Malfoy had resigned from the Slytherin Quidditch team left all in puzzlement and surprise, not to the least of Potter and his friends.
Draco had other things, and other pursuits to occupy him, however. The first day back was uneventful. His schedule allowed him almost a disgusting amount of free time now that he’d given up Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy, History of Magic, and Herbology.
In Potions, Draco could tell in snatches of whispers he overheard that he was being talked about. He also rather thought the eyes of Snape followed him more than it was inherently natural. He avoided eye contact with everyone, hardly speaking with even Crabbe and Goyle, who both shared similar expressions of disillusion at being neglected as a soundboard for jokes. The two of them stared glumly at their cauldrons, clearly at a loss for what to do. How they had managed to pass their OWLS was a mystery to all. Draco disregarded all of this, and concentrated his efforts on successfully concocting a Blissful Invigoration, a tremendously difficult potion to induce carefree bliss.
Gather all required ingredients listed and let them stew for a quarter of an hour. Add five drops of salamander blood and stir it counterclockwise for exactly five minutes and cease stirring immediately after aforementioned five minutes. Chop valerian roots exactly ¼ of a centimeter and if stirred properly, the roots should drop directly to the bottom of the cauldron, serving as the base of the Blissful Invigoration. The ideal halfway stage for the Blissful Invigoration should be a pale blue. Any darker shade of blue or other color indicates an inadequate amount of salamander blood, and the potion-maker must revert to the first step again. Should you succeed in achieving a pale blue mixture, essence of belladonna should be added in the quantity of one teaspoon. Now stir clockwise for exactly thirty seconds, and your potion should now be a rich violet with the Blissful Invigoration’s trademark zigzagging steam arising.
Draco sighed deeply as he tipped five drops of salamander blood and stirred counterclockwise, his heart not into the work. In fact, he was not sure whether his heart was functioning at all, but he supposed it had to be if he was still here stirring a Blissful Invigoration. His eyes skirted over to where Hermione Granger was, a rapt expression of utter concentration on her face. One peek in her cauldron would undoubtedly reveal the “ideal halfway stage” of pale blue.
With his billowing cloak and his hooked nose and dungeon-dark black eyes full of malice, Snape was the least favorite professor of many, but Draco had long grown accustomed to preferential treatment from him. He was stooped over Granger’s cauldron, his mouth readily open should he be justified in some well-chosen criticism, but none came. Passing over Weasley’s cauldron with an awful smirk, his lip curled still more at the royal blue contents in Potter’s cauldron. After Quidditch, one of Draco’s personal favorite entertainments was avidly watching Snape bully Potter. Still stirring his Blissful Invigoration, he left his gaze wander off to Snape and Potter.
“Potter, does that thick skull of your’s realize where you went wrong in your awful attempt at a Blissful Invigoration?”
It looked to Draco like it was taking all of Potter’s self-control not to hurl the contents of his cauldron at Snape. “I didn’t use enough salamander blood,” he said in a low voice barely audible over the hissing and steaming of many cauldrons.
"I know you didn’t Potter, which is why I will have to…” He flicked his wand casually, and the potion vanished.
Returning back to his position behind the desk, he said, “For those who were able to follow the steps required for the successful concoction of a Blissful Invigoration, fill a flagon of your potion for sampling. For homework, twelve inches of parchment on salamander blood’s properties and how the misuse of it can make this potion go wrong.” Casting one last unpleasant smirk at Potter, he added, “Class dismissed. Draco, I would like that you stay behind.”
Draco lifted his head in cold surprise as he packed away his things. Sure, Professor Snape was one of the Dark Lord’s most highly regarded Death Eaters, and knew of “the plan”, but there was no reason to request a private chat with him…was there? He felt a great sense of foreboding as he watched Snape approach him.
“Your mother has asked me to keep regular reports of the plan’s progress, Draco, and it is my duty to make sure the plan succeeds.”
Draco said nothing. He had suspected this, but his sense of foreboding increased still more.
Snape’s eyes flickered towards his, the black depths of them unblinking, undoubtedly trying to break into his mind.
“That won’t work on me,” Draco said moodily, “so you can stop trying to break into my mind.”
Snape’s face revealed nothing, inscrutable as always, but there was an edge to his voice when he spoke. “So Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency?”
Draco shrugged at the mention of his mother’s sister and his aunt. Bellatrix Lestrange might have been his aunt, but he had always associated her so closely with the Dark Lord’s circle that it seemed unreal that she was related to him. Fourteen years spent in Azkaban had left her slightly mad, and she continually referred to herself as the Dark Lord’s most faithful servant. Draco had been able to mull over his solitary summer that his aunt just might be in love with the Dark Lord, twisted as that might be.
“Well, Draco, tell me how you intend on making this plan work,” Snape said, interrupting his thoughts. His eyes swept over his face, unable to break into his mind but still keenly observing him.
“My mother might have made you her emissary, but I’m telling you nothing.” Draco’s grey eyes met Snape’s. “Nothing,” he repeated.
“Draco, I can help you.”
“No, you can’t, and you’re not going to,” Draco maintained stubbornly, unsure of why he was refusing help when he so badly needed it. “Anyways,” he ploughed on valiantly with fleeting bravado, “how could you possibly help me? Have you ever even been with a woman?” He had done it, he was sure, and steeled himself for an explosion like a dragon. But there was no anger on Snape’s face. A strange expression had taken over his face, one that could have been sadness or regret, but Draco could not be sure, and in any case, he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, their little chat was over. He snapped the buckle on his satchel, swung it over his shoulder, and stormed out of the dungeon, all the while being reminded of the one he had been in the night before.