Healing

Hidden Things

Harry was not in the kitchens. He was not in the girls' toilet talking to Moaning Myrtle nor in the dorms. He was not at the top of the Astronomy Tower nor anywhere else Draco could think of in the castle. He stood with Hermione looking out of the big library window down to the Quidditch pitch. It was already dark and there was no sign of him out there either. Hagrid's hut was in darkness, so Draco doubted he was there.

'Of course, he could be anywhere under his Disillusionment Charm,' he muttered, frustrated. 'He could be right next to me, smirking at my foolishness.'

'I doubt it, Draco. Harry's moved beyond second-year behaviour.'

'Yes, I know,' he sighed. 'Anyway, this isn't about me, it's about Harry. Where else might he go? How about the lake, or the Forbidden Forest, or even down to Hogsmeade to drown his sorrows with Aberforth?'

'No, haven't you clicked yet that Harry doesn't drink beyond the odd Butterbeer, he never wants to be that out of control. I don't suppose the Forbidden Forest holds much appeal these days, after, you know...' Hermione hesitated. 'Maybe the Black Lake then, perhaps he's throwing pebbles at the Giant Squid or talking to the Merpeople. I don't know Draco. Where do people go when they want to hide?'

'Of course.' Draco exclaimed with sudden clarity. Where the Hidden Things are... 'Thank you, Hermione.' And he rushed out of the library.

He stopped abruptly though, as the terror of that night swept through his thoughts, he could almost feel the heat and the sweat and hear the roar of the Fiendfyre and feel the flames at his ankles. He could see Crabbe falling, falling with outstretched hands and terror on his face, the silent scream formed on his lips.

Surely Harry won't be in that actual room, maybe the Room of Requirements had provided him with another space, but not that, please not that one.

Draco walked slowly; his heart pumping faster than he'd like. Please don't let it be the Room of Hidden Things.

When he reached the seventh-floor corridor he traced his fingers lightly over the wall where the door should appear. He tried to breathe deeply to calm his racing heartbeat. I'm here for Harry, he kept repeating, like a mantra, to try to ignore his own overwhelming fear.

He stepped away from the wall and paced three times, muttering, 'Show me the room where Harry is...'

He knew it wouldn't work.

The wall remained blank.

Draco sighed; he knew what he had to try.

'I need the Room of Hidden Things.'

The door slowly emerged in the wall and Draco pushed it open with trepidation, his jumper a greenish-yellow, reflecting the sickness he felt in his stomach. Herbert had climbed up onto his shoulder and was whispering in his ear with nervousness, his whiskers tickling Draco's neck.

Draco gasped.

The room was untouched, perfect, everything was as it had been. There were the piles of books, the wooden chests, the old furniture, the old brooms, broken desks, discarded portraits, everything piled up as it has been before. Before the fire. How could it be? He knew that if he walked the down corridor in the middle and then turned right, between the books and the rolls of curtain material and old rugs, and past the table with the bust of some old headmaster, he'd find 'the vanishing cabinet'. He shuddered. Guilt filling his bones like quicksand. He didn't want to be here, but he was also compelled to move deeper into the room, to touch things, pick them up, see if it was really true. At the same time, his legs felt heavy, as if his body was refusing to let him either move forward or leave. He felt a rise of panic. He needed to leave but he couldn't. He started to gasp for air. Why had he come here? It was foolish. He wasn't ready to face this yet.