The Darkwood Wand

Tact

Draco woke on Sunday morning, screaming.

Pomfrey's potions had worn off during the night and Draco dreamt of Dragomir Gorgovitch, of all people—the Chudley Cannons' worst player in a field rife with mediocrity. In Draco's dreams, giant Quaffles chased the Chaser around the hoops until he Vanished. Then all the balls turned into camellia blossoms and exploded, raining petals on the pitch, and Gorgovitch reappeared in a black teddy, holding up his hands and asking, "Do you like my nails?"

Draco's screams brought Madam Pomfrey charging into the ward, wand up. In seconds, she had him tucked back under the covers with an enormous mug of cocoa.

"I blame myself, Mr. Malfoy," she said, smoothing his blankets. "Heavy use of sleep potions can result in some interesting dreams."

Draco breathed in the sweet steam, thinking wistfully of dream Nagini's gaping jaws.

"I'll need to keep you on until dinner," Pomfrey continued.

"What? Surely that's not—"

The matron pursed her lips. "I was going to release you at noon, but somebody applied an extra coat of Murlap salve on your wounds and I must watch for possible side effects."

Draco groaned. No wonder he'd woken up yesterday smelling of wet socks.

"Now lie back, Mr. Malfoy, and I'll bring some breakfast. Oh, look, here's something you can read." Pomfrey rustled off, her starched apron flapping.

Draco looked down at the book she'd given him: "My Quest for the Quaffle" by Dragomir Gorgovitch.

"AAAAEEEEEEE!"

***

Draco had assumed that Pomfrey would be thrilled to fuss over him all day, but to his surprise, school matrons had lives, too. Pomfrey was clearly miffed about canceling a peat bog tour she'd planned with her sister.

"Some of the bog's plants are 10,000 years old," Pomfrey said as she polished the metal cots in Draco's ward. "The Céide Fields bog hides a civilization more than 5,500 years old."

Draco ventured to suggest that the matron allow him to recuperate in his own room so she could visit those fabulous bogs. He felt fine and surely—

"Murlap Essence has qualities that are still poorly understood, Mr. Malfoy." Pomfrey jabbed a polish-smeared rag in his direction. "Only a trained Healer can properly calculate cross-potion interactions." The matron swept out of the ward in a huff.

Draco would not be discouraged; alone once more, he called Tally to bring his clothes, rings and watch. The elf's eyes were red and her voice hoarse and she complained at length about her evening with Hermione and the white kittens. ("SNEEZE!") Draco, however, was glad to hear that Hermione had been so well distracted and had quickly Vanished from the bedroom. He was also grateful to be properly dressed again, even if Tally brought the wrong pin for his black brocade tie.

But both darkwood and elf refused to help break Draco out of the infirmary. ("REST!") So he prowled the empty wards, hoping to find a secret passage. He hated feeling trapped. He'd had enough of that during the war. Draco ran his fingers over the infirmary's stone walls, looking for any magical residue. Not that it mattered, he couldn't flee far—he had to serve the rest of his probation at Hogwarts and then at the manor. Where else could he go?

He could go to France, Draco mused. After eight more months of probation, anyway. Perhaps he could convince his mother to move to their house in Normandy. Mother might enjoy renovating that uncomfortable medieval pile. Anything would be better than sitting around Malfoy Manor, thinking of ...