In My Dreams [Draco Malfoy]

chapter eight: the slytherins

INDIGO

Within moments of knowing that I wouldn't faint or begin vomiting profusely when I stood up from my bed, I had thrown a bathrobe over my skimpy pajamas and headed straight to Professor Dumbledore's office.

According to the clock on my bedside table, it was approximately half-past three o'clock in the morning, making the timing of my visit immensely inconvenient and borderline rude. Had I gone to Professor McGonagall first, I would have been told as much when she either sent me back to bed or agreed to take me to the Headmaster's office. I imagined her doing exactly that as I speed-walked through the corridor, ever careful not to spill the memory juice (as I had so-charmingly dubbed it in my sleep-deprived state) swishing around in my teacup. But I had to get the details of my dream to Dumbledore as soon as possible, and Professor McGonagall's feelings on the matter were irrelevant by comparison.

Soon, I was riding the stairs up to his office and hammering down on the door with enough force to wake the whole castle. McGonagall may not have caught me in the corridors but she would surely know I was here now... Maybe thirty seconds had passed by the time Dumbledore appeared, also dressed in his bathrobe.

He looked at me with a minimally-veiled surprise.

"Miss Costa," he said. "Is everything alright, dear girl?"

"He's back, I said, just now realizing that I was out of breath. "But you knew that already, didn't you?"

He stared at me for a few seconds, then understanding dawned over his features. "I see," he said. "Please, come in and have a cup of tea—" he stopped himself short once he saw the teacup in my hand. "Unless I am mistaken and you've brought your own?"

"You're not mistaken," I said, sounding weary now. "I thought you'd want to see it."

He nodded and motioned for me to come in, which I obeyed. He sat me down in a chair, waved his hand and a tea-tray began preparing itself as he crossed the room to the Pensive in the corner. He poured the memory in while I took a large gulp of black tea, sweetened with milk, and a pinch of sugar. I used the moment to take some deep breaths and attempt to calm myself down. I didn't know how effective I was being. My heart felt like a mallet continuously striking my rib cage, and the vibrations of the drumming could be felt all the way down my arms, but I didn't know if that was due to the implications of the dream itself or the fact that Blaise's question had been warranted:

Seers could, in fact, get visions of the past.

How and why, I didn't know; it wasn't like we could—or should—try to change something that has already happened. I had been taught enough to know that messing with time was dangerous business, but that just posed the question: what if seers weren't meant to interfere with their visions at all? What if we could get visions of the past because we were just meant to see it, not meant to do anything about it and the same applied to why we were sent visions of the future?

Thankfully, Dumbledore's speaking pulled me out of my thoughts, as I would have dived head-first into the notion if he hadn't.

"This happened before the Quidditch World Cup?" he asked, sounding surprised.

I nodded.

"I hadn't known seers could get visions of the past," he said.

"Neither had I," I said, then evaded elaborating. "But a man is dead and I'll suspect he's been reported missing."

Dumbledore was quiet as he strolled across the room and sat on the other side of the desk in front of me. "You know, Miss Costa," he began, "it's rather coincidental timing that you should bring this to my attention now. I have been keeping tabs on that house for some time now and I was just told that the home gardener was reported missing before I laid down for bed myself."