I'm Coming For You, Draco Malfoy!

The Healer and the Stone

I waited, feeling the cold creep slowly, minutely, bit by bit.

Waiting for Harry felt too long.

It was hard not to panic and not to imagine the numbness creeping faster than it was. Waiting for him to return seemed like an eon, like I was floating through a galaxy of frozen stars. I was so cold.

Harry distracted me from that. I suppose he'd always distracted me in one way or another. And I couldn't help my thoughts slipping towards our sixth year, trying to focus on a task I didn't want to complete and Harry always being there, at every step, of him knowing I was up to something. It was hell; knowing he was always there. He plagued my every thought. He was an unwanted shadow I didn't want to be separated from. I wished I'd turned to him. I understood now, he would have helped if I hadn't attacked first. But I was scared and it was fight or flight. And I always fought when it came to Harry.

And now I didn't need to.

Now he was a wanted shadow I needed beside me. I wanted him back here. London was too far away, even for a short time. I could feel the panic growing and felt selfish for it but I wanted him back here to distract me again. His humour and teasing made me forget the hopelessness of my situation.

I wondered why he'd gone to his vault. It seemed the headmistress was all too willing to let him go. She certainly hadn't protested. She'd just left with him.

Poppy had gone too. She wanted to talk to Professor Sprout about Mandrakes, just in case it was the same cure, like those who'd been petrified in the second year.

I half-listened to my mother witter on beside me. She was telling me stories of when I was a child. Daft things I'd do. I didn't want to hear her half-stories tainted by her worship of her only son and her rose-tinted glasses.

'Do you remember when...' she'd start.

I remembered a very different side to the tales she told. Like when she and father first discovered I had a 'natural ability' to fly when I was seven. That Christmas, they'd presented me with a brand new and very expensive training broom with joyful pride in their eyes. I'd been pestering them for months. After Christmas lunch we went out into the grounds and they watched me fly for the first time. Apparently, with utter mastery. According to my mother, they thought I was born in the saddle.

She cried as she recounted the story, reminiscing as if I was on my deathbed. Well, okay, I was. But I didn't need to listen to her sentimental elegies of my life. Especially as what my parents never knew was that at the beginning of the school holidays I was bored and had been rooting around in one of the attic rooms until found all my wrapped Christmas presents. I'd unwrapped and stolen what was clearly the broomstick and taken it out to the orchard and spent a happy afternoon crashing into apple trees and falling out of the sky. I'd snuck back in, battered and bruised and elated with wild hair and glowing rosy cheeks from the cold. I did that every afternoon and on Christmas eve, with the help of Dobby, I carefully wrapped the broomstick back in its paper and pretended to be surprised and delighted the following day when I unwrapped it in front of them. It was hardly surprising they thought I was natural the 'first' time I got on that broomstick. My father was so proud; so determined I was going to be the next Quidditch champion.

'You should have seen him,' he would say to anyone who'd listen. 'Draco got on that broom and flew like he'd been doing it all his life...'

At seven-years-old, I preened, not caring that I'd deceived him. I'd learnt a powerful lesson. If I wanted to make my father proud, I had to be the best. And to be the best, I had to be ahead of the game. And that meant using whatever means possible.

I was a sneaky little shit.

'You mark my words, he'll be the youngest professional Quidditch player ever,' father told his friends.