16

* * * November 18, 1997 * * *

The castle took on a whole new atmosphere around three AM.

Draco hadn't slept well since Halloween. His damn teeth and jaw were aching all the time and, truth be told, he was a little worried he might crack a tooth one of these nights. So he prowled the corridors long after the last of the prefects had turned in for the night, even after the professor du jour (du nuit?) made their final patrol. There was no chance of catching anyone, for all were tucked in behind doors and portraits, but it felt good to keep moving.

Filch went to bed around midnight, and took that annoying cat in with him. Draco had free reign of the vast, empty castle, and silence suited him perfectly. Oh, the portraits would, if awake, mutter reprovingly as he passed, and the occasional ghost would jump or squeal as he rounded a corner unexpectedly, but these weren't people, only shades of people, and he didn't mind their presence. They enhanced the eerie strangeness that is unique to public spaces when they are empty, and Draco was in the mood to feel conspicuously alone.

"Fuck her!" he hissed into abandoned staircases when the sting of her comment would leap unbidden into his mind. Yeah, we'd have been on opposite sides. I would've stood alongside Father and you'd have put me in Azkaban, too, or maybe my grave. Bitch! He'd seethe and stomp through the dark, empty halls until the anger dissipated, then he'd massage the muscles of his cheeks and temples until he could loosen his jaw again.

When his mind became muzzy for lack of sleep and his legs were too tired to climb another staircase, he would head for the suite quickly. He hadn't quite perfected the art of timing it just right. If he climbed in bed too early, he'd just stare at the ceiling and grind his teeth. But if he wore himself out too far from the suite, it would take a long time to slog his way back, and once he was too tired to become angry, he would simply become miserable.

How did it get so fucked up, that I can't even see a way to unfuck it? Father was in Azkaban, Mother was shopping, and soon there would be nothing left of the Malfoy name but a mountain of debt. Draco was sick of it, of things, of new clothes and new furniture and all that shite that piled up and cost money and never fucking satisfied anyone. He had a dozen quilted, down blankets at the Manor that he could choose from every night, yet no one ever laid one over him gently as he slept, like Granger had.

No one would face off against a Dark Lord to pull his shattered body back to safety.

"Granger," he whispered in empty classrooms and alcoves, and to the frosty panes of windows overlooking the lake.

She'd built a fire the first night he'd officially taken over patrols again. He came back to the common room at the usual hour. At first he reckoned that Potter had just left, and he stalked straight to his room without a word. But then she lit another the second night, and he realized as he walked in that she was doing this for him, just as he'd built fires to welcome her back to the suite when she was patrolling. Goddamn cunt!

On the third night, Draco stayed out until he was certain that any fire in the hearth had burned out. He went home to darkness and dying embers and found that he could almost get to sleep. Almost. A few more staircases ought to be the trick.

He was sitting on a window ledge of the North Tower, just outside of Trelawney's classroom. The bint kept that suffocating, incense-choked fire burning 24/7, but from outside, it was actually kind of handy. Between the moonlight and the dim red glow, he could make out the topography of the tower stones, and he'd decided two nights ago that he would find a way to the roof. The Astronomy Tower had a flat top and a staircase and was therefore no challenge whatsoever, but this one was a conical turret and would take effort.

He'd climbed through a French window off the uppermost corridor and climbed up to the classroom level using a bas-relief grapevine carved in the bricks for hand- and toe-holds. They stood out fairly far and were perfect to find purchase, though why anyone would bother with such ornate decorations on a virtually invisible wall was beyond him.

Draco made it this far once before, only to discover that the eaves below the roof were both smooth and deep. He needed gear to get any further. After a bit of subtle researching he conceded a tiny bit of magic and anchored a few convenient rocks to the eaves with Sticking Spells. If the crazy bug-eyed professor wasn't sleeping just on the other side of the wall, he reasoned, he would have hammered in spikes.

Traversing an overhang was not necessarily difficult, but it took careful planning. He wedged one foot behind the hunched neck of a gargoyle and placed the other on its nose, arching his back along the undersurface of the eaves to reach the first handgrip. The key was keeping close to the granite and carefully choosing which hand or foot to move. Letting go with both limbs on the left side, for example, would leave him dangling from the eaves by his right limbs like a lopsided bat. Draco was light and strong, but recovering from a "barn door" was unpleasantly taxing, and he had no harness.

He'd anchored the second rock a little further than he preferred, but it would put him in great shape to reach the roof. He released his left foot from behind the gargoyle's head and let it cantilever his body onto the diagonal as he reached with his right hand. The gargoyle's eyes glowed orange and it stretched its neck to push him forward. "Sod off!" Draco spat at the stone creature, and it retracted to its original position with a pout. He'd gone that far without magic; he wasn't about to accept a boost from a bloody sculpture.

He swept his left leg across the granite until he found the third stone and wedged his toes onto it securely. Now was the moment of truth, for once his foot left the nose of the gargoyle, it would probably be harder than hell to climb down. He shoved off and quickly swung that leg up behind the left in a "flagging" technique, keeping his center of gravity in the middle of his body.

By straightening the left leg, he could reach the slate tiles of the roof extending over the edge of the eaves. He slipped his fingers between two tiles and twisted them into a "jam," then took a deep breath. For the first time, he was certain he could make this climb.

Draco brought his feet onto the closest toe-holds and braced himself to reach over the edge of the roof. The tiles obviously slanted downward and their bottom edges were useless for gripping, but there were plenty of cracks between them for finger jams. Once both hands were jammed atop the roof, he hooked his heel over the edge. Pity there aren't any rain gutters, he thought briefly, then banished the notion. He hadn't chosen to climb the roof because it would be easy.

Tensing his thigh, he walked his hands further up the roof until at last he could pull the remaining leg up around the edge of the eaves. Though it was a cold night, he was beginning to sweat from the exertion, but he'd pulled through the overhang and the hardest part was over. There weren't many decent holds for his feet, but his fingers could wedge into cracks aplenty. He scooted up the slanting roof with the smooth confidence of a spider, to wrapped his arms and legs around the top of the cone for a stunning view of the moonlit grounds.

For a few brief moments, Draco felt at peace. Once the adrenaline from the climb wore off and the view no longer dazzled him, however, he began to realize that he was utterly alone on the not-very-comfortable top of "Trelooney's" tower, clinging to cold, unyielding stone for his life. The irony of his circumstances made him scoff, but rather than reflect upon it, Draco instead began to ponder just how the hell he was going to get down.

When he scaled the Manor as a child, he'd generally had Dobby retrieve him from the chimneys or gables, if there was simply no way to get to an attic window. When he climbed on rock faces, he developed the habit of leaving his broomstick at the base of the cliff, to Summon when he was ready to descend. Then he'd learned to Apparate and had used that technique exclusively since then. But I can't Apparate within the grounds, can I?

Shit.

There was nothing for it; the roof was too steep to climb down without ropes, and he'd never get back under the eaves, even if he could sweet-talk that gargoyle into helping him again. He could Conjure some ropes and take his chances that they'd be strong enough to hold him, or he could Summon his broomstick from the suite. It would break the window to get outside, but that was easily repaired. Draco tightened his grip with his left arm and pulled out his wand with the right and wordlessly Summoned his Nimbus.

Nothing happened. Too far to do it wordlessly, he thought unconcernedly. "Accio Broomstick," he intoned quietly.

Still nothing. It felt strange and out of place to break the silence, but better that than his spine. "ACCIO BROOMSTICK," he commanded.

Immediately the crunch of breaking glass sounded from somewhere below, but Draco had anticipated that. He was quite unprepared for the sudden, very nearby slam of a window sash, followed immediately by the voice of Professor Snape.

"Draco Malfoy! Explain yourself!"

He nearly jumped out of his skin, but his legs were thankfully more focused on preserving said skin than on reacting to Snape's shout. His sarcasm, too, obviously remained intact. "Well, about eighteen years ago, my mum and dad loved each other very much, so they--"

"SILENCE!" What in seven hells was I thinking? "I will meet you at the ladder below the Divination classroom. Mr. Malfoy, do not take any detours on your broomstick!" The sash thudded shut just as the broomstick presented itself as ordered.

Apparently Snape couldn't wait to throttle him; he met Draco at the French window down the corridor. Draco noted rather calmly that Snape had turned that peculiar shade of salmon once again, as he climbed back inside the castle. The professor said nothing, and raised a hand sharply to indicate Draco had best do the same. He spun on his heel and did not turn around again until they were both inside his office in the dungeon.

Black eyes met gray, and Draco confirmed Snape's concerns that the young man was suicidal by casually asking, "So, what were you doing up there?"

"That is MY line, Draco," Snape hissed dangerously.

Draco sighed. "It was an easy climb. I just felt like doing it."

"AT FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE BLOODY MORNING?"

He almost pointed out he couldn't hope to get away with it at any other hour, but some part of him recognized that Death By Snape would surely be worse than plummeting from the North Tower. "I can't sleep lately," he mumbled, eyes downcast.

Snape's hands balled up into fists, then reached for his throat, then returned to his own sides in a motion too deliberate to be described as "falling." "SIT!" he barked, and Draco obeyed after a sheepish glance. Snape followed him to the armchairs before the fire and sat across from him, gritting his teeth such that Draco could see the muscles of his jaw bunch and give, bunch and give.

"Miss Granger told me you've been acting strangely," Snape finally said. "I thought you'd come up with a brilliant strategy. Inspiring her to look after you, appealing to her sense of responsibility, her maternal instincts, what not. It was working so beautifully that I thought perhaps you'd snatched the pebble from your father's hand at last, Draco. Am I to interpret, tonight, that this was no cunning scheme on your part, but you have truly lost your mind?"

Draco waited until he was sure the older wizard was waiting for a response, not just pausing dramatically between rants. "I don't think I've gone nutters, Uncle Severus, but I suppose anything's possible," he finally conceded. "I told you, I can't sleep. Patrolling the castle all night helps me... wear out enough to go to bed."

"The roof of Professor Trelawney's bedroom is not on your route."

Sighing, Draco slumped in his chair. "I know, I know. It really was an easy climb. I just felt like it. I didn't think I'd wake her up--I was very quiet!"

Snape scowled. "Her gargoyle came tapping at her window, complaining of a rude man hurting its feelings." Draco nearly groaned, but palmed his forehead instead. "She Flooed me in a state of near-hysterics, reeking of cheap sherry and barely dressed. For that alone, I ought to have you expelled!"

"Why you?" Draco asked, unconcerned by the threat; if Snape meant to expell him, he would already be outside the main gate with a boot-print on his bottom.

"I presume that 'Dumbledore' was too difficult to pronounce in her current state."

"I'm sorry, Uncle Severus," said Draco, and he meant it. "I'll climb the West Tower next time; the owls won't get all worked up."

Snape's shoulders relaxed at last. "What's the matter with you, Draco? I'm beginning to think the suite is cursed--just when Granger seems back to her usual swotty self, you're creeping around the castle all night like a vampire."

"I'll be all right, Uncle Severus. Really. I just... It's not easy with Dad in prison and I'm not really part of Slytherin anymore..." He was referring to the physical House, but as soon as he said it, Draco's breath caught in his throat, for he suddenly understood that this change went beyond the mere location of his bedroom.

Snape eyed him thoughtfully and nodded.