Wanderer

Darkness

           

Chapter Three

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He played with the coin. Staring absently at the stone wall across the room, he slipped the galleon between his fingers, relishing in the cold trail it made across his skin. His other arm was sprawled along the top of the bottle green, leather settee, his one leg folded across the other. If it had been any other time, he would have looked like a king lounging atop his throne; the hair on his head, the colour of sterile sunlight, was more telling than any crown with any number of jewels.

Draco frowned.

"You're always moping," a voice said from above him. Draco threw the coin high in the air, eyes following it, and Blaise Zabini caught it.

He was a tall and slim boy, with dark skin and dark eyes and lips that smiled like he perpetually knew something you didn't and he held the information indefinitely against you. There was something warm about him though when he looked at you, black eyes sparkling, and Draco was more grateful than he let on that it was Blaise and not Crabbe and Goyle that kept him company nowadays.

"I don't mope," Draco drawled in protest.

Blaise scoffed, tossing him back his galleon and pushing his arm aside so he could sit down. Draco grudgingly let him. He noticed a small group of Third Years skirt past them, gaze glued to their toes, casting a twitching glance at the pair of them when a moment of foolish bravado washed through their small bodies then looking away just as quickly. Draco turned to Blaise. The other Slytherin was the only person in Hogwarts, the only person in the entire world, not including his mother, that could look him in the eye. Everybody else preferred to pretend that he didn't exist, that he had died with the rest of the students, or been locked up with the rest of the Death Eaters.

It seemed everybody wanted something and nothing from him. His father had wanted him to take the mark, to follow in his footsteps and purge the Wizarding World of the inferior races. His mother wanted him to be safe. His aunt wanted him to kill. His friends wanted him to be strong and his enemies wanted him to be weak. His teachers wanted him to pull up his socks and get back on track.

Blaise just wanted him to stop moping.

"You do," he said smoothly, "and you did before."

Draco shot him a look, which Blaise caught and disregarded instantly.

"If I wanted to be talked at and insulted, I would have gone to Azkaban with my father," he told him, and he heard the way his voice dropped and the shame crept in but ignored it.

Blaise ignored it too.

"There's still time for that, don't worry," he replied, stretching his arms along the back of the sofa. He'd rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and Draco's eyes lingered on the exposed, clean skin there, feeling his own forearm burn. "Maybe you'll get the best of both worlds."

Draco took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment and squeezing the cold coin so all of the sharp edges dug into the palm of his hand. If it had been anyone else who'd said that to him, he'd have hexed them so hard it would have propelled him straight into the cell beside his father's. Luckily, it was Blaise, and unluckily, there was a semblance of truth behind his words.

"How is all of that going, anyway?" asked Blaise, in a lower voice. His jaw was clenched and Draco could see the worry lurking in the frown nestling between his friend's eyebrows. "Have there been any new developments?"

"No."

Draco shifted subconsciously, putting both of his feet flat on the floor, and dragging his ankle against the chair leg. He added, almost as an afterthought, "I have the date of my trial."