The Dreamer's Curse

Help Comes When It Chooses

[Chapter 32]

Narcissa Malfoy had the gait of a proud goddess. She held her chin up stiffly, and she stood with her back in a rigid arc. Her sharp gaze, however, was not as cold as it had been before. In it there was desperation. They searched the dim corridors for a different sort of escape—the kind of escape inanimate objects were incapable of giving. 

We passed an array of dark materials in the hall. Serpents of dark onyx hung from their posts; old Malfoy portraits glared and sneered as we passed; the curling railing up the staircase had the texture of snakeskin. Mrs Malfoy’s fingers trailed up the rails as her long robe grazed the steps beneath her. I struggled to keep up with her long stride, her shoes clicking definitively upon the wooden stairs. 

I dared not inquire after our destination, for my feet may finally protest against it. 

As it was, I dragged them behind me with great difficulty. It felt like lead cannon balls had been strapped by a chain to my ankles, keeping me from lifting even my toe from the ground. 

Still, Narcissa Malfoy said nothing. Her lips were pressed into a thin line. I paused at the top of the staircase, cold sweat running down my back. I blinked back the throbbing of my temples, and pressed forward, following the regal woman. 

She stood still before an unimposing, unadorned wooden door. At last, she spoke.

“I’ve always envied my sister,” she said, her eyes fixed on an invisible stain on the wooden door. “Not Bellatrix, Merlin, no. Andromeda. She fell in love with precisely the wrong kind of man, but now—now she’s happy. As for me, well, now I envy Draco just as much.”

She looked at me with misty eyes, and I could see faint lines stemming from them. 

“I love my husband,” she said so softly that I wondered if she’d actually said it, “It took some time, but I’ve learned to love him. He’s done so much for me… but in times like these, I wish he was someone else. I wish he was more brave.”

“Courage,” I said, matching her tone, “comes in many forms.”

Narcissa’s smile did not touch her eyes. 

“In here,” she said. “Draco’s sleeping.”

My heart pumped with renewed vigour after she’d uttered Draco’s name. My chest pounded against the compass which again began to whizz. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. 

I turned the knob under Mrs Malfoy’s watchful gaze, and stepped into the vast dim room. A bluish light cast shadows on the walls. It danced about serenely, and I wondered whether Narcissa Malfoy had lied about this room and had sent me to Bellatrix’s instead. 

I shut the door behind me, and took in the neatness of it all. Well worn books and odd jars crammed the shelves, and a few maps were rolled up in a corner. A single painting hung above a writing desk. 

Draco had fallen asleep on his (insanely) large bed, not bothering to draw the down feather blanket over himself. His dark cotton shirt matched his trousers, and I wondered if the Malfoy family had their sleepwear tailor made.

I watched his figure and fought the urge to drift to sleep. A black lacquered box rested on the foot of his bed. Curious, I picked it up and opened the lid. 

Lying in the velvet lining was a hollow, ivory horn. It glowed with a different kind of magic—a magic you could feel in your bones without any physical evidence. Draco stirred from his sleep, turning from his back to his side. His pale eyelashes fluttered open and his grey eyes rested on my cadaverous face.