BANALITY : Draco Malfoy

49

Marty must have been smart. Possibly, she was as smart as they all seem to think Hermione is. At least, this book Draco gave me, one that Marty would've devoured, is perhaps the most confusing piece of literature I have ever read. It is in Latin, and while I understand Latin, I might as well not understand the language. At least, my comprehension would be just as good as if I hadn't learned Latin as it currently is.

The sections that I try my best to understand are about thought and time. It is all theoretical, building upon concepts I haven't quite learned. It provides me with a bit of information on memory charms, which are categorized under thought and not time. I learn that to cast the Cruciatus curse, which is the one invoking torture, you really and truly have to want to cast it. There is then an analysis about wands connecting the witch or wizard to the power innate within them, because really, how does the wand know what you want to do? There isn't much other magic which is determined by will. Memory charms cannot be healed just by thinking about them.

Yesterday, I didn't even bother to think, let alone read, since I was drunk. Eventually, I sequestered myself in the room upstairs, resigning myself to drinking and sleeping off the alcohol. I woke up today hungover but sober.

None of that has helped me to actually learn much.

Once I give up, Harry helps me with more defensive magic. Even though we work for at least two hours, there are minimal improvements from last time. My wand has done better at recovering than I have. While I can't cast a Patronus charm, corporeal or otherwise, Harry isn't surprised. It was not likely to happen anyway, since most wizard adults cannot cast the Patronus Charm. He says mine was incorporeal before then. I suppose my memories were happier before they were taken. Harry is also considering if he should teach me how to apparate. He'll have to talk to Hermione about whether or not they should just teach me how to make a portkey. Both will be terrible for my head. Portkeys take longer to make, but at least they are less dangerous than apparating.

It doesn't seem to matter to me. They intend to send me off to the eastern coast of Canada rather than fix my head.

' After lunch, I use the oil pastels. I'm actually pretty awful, so I suppose Draco' was right. It only lasts an hour before I give up. Then, I try to play the cello. As it so happens, it does not come as easy as magic does. After fifteen minutes of trying and following the instructions of the book for beginners that Draco purchased, the sound is not entirely grating. Harry is in the room and winces every so often.

I grab my wand, close my eyes, and cast the muffling charm that I've seen them do a thousand times. The wand pulls at my hand, moving it in the proper direction. Harry, deep in his files, doesn't look up. I purposefully make the instrument screech, and he continues to look at the paper. Honestly, I hadn't been sure the spell would work. After all, spells, as Harry has explained them, are accompanied not just by a verbalization, but also by a somatic component. I suppose I have the blackthorn wood to thank for my success.

After what must be an hour, I've learned to play two easy songs. Even Happy Birthday is out of my reach. At least this kind of work doesn't hurt my skull. Perhaps it is helping my memory improve. How I hope there is a chance. If I cannot remember, maybe I at least can function properly one day.

Draco's steps bring me out of the song. I put down the bow and take my wand. Then, I realize I've never heard them dismiss the spell. They've always been inside the area.

"I was wondering why you were so quiet," Draco is still standing in the doorway.

Harry looks up from his spot, peering at Draco and at me. When Draco points his wand toward me, Harry's brow furrows.