The Thestral (Draco Lucius Malfoy)

Prologue

I clutch my hands on the fringe of my coat; basking in the warming spell I had cast upon it prior to my descent into Hogsmeade. The snowy crystals continued to fall, as usual, and the white layer formed a 3-inch hole around my boots as I step. It was damn-near the middle of December, an always critical time in the Highlands. Not to say it felt different when the snow fell - it never truly felt different - but this winter was a colder one. It was brutal and bitter, and held near half of the students inside their common rooms rather than into the village.

It was kind of surprisingly actually, that McGonagall allowed us to hull ourselves into the village this weekend. Of course, after Draco Malfoy and his clique of absolute bafoons were caught rummaging through the forbidden potions scrolls, you could assume the Professor was ready to set the entire school into lockdown. Four bloody fools experimenting with forbidden magic? An absolute tragedy, if you ask me.

I take the alice band out of my pocket as I finally enter The Hog's Head, allowing the firm band to remove the baby hairs from my sight. The warm hut closes me in itself as I finally feel the heat surround me; a warming spell, I assume, makes it feel much more intense than usual.

"Emmeline," Hermione's voice rings. I see her alongside Harry and Ron at a secluded booth in the back. They hold steaming mugs in their hands, all but Harry, who stares hopelessly at the cracked wooden table in front of him. Will he not look up to greet me?

I begin to lug the heavy coat off of my shoulders, relief flooding in my body as I am grateful they arrived before me. My last desired scenario was waiting by myself in the pub; a young witch unarmed and lonesome.

The smile on Ron and Hermione's faces grow as I approach them, as does mine.

"Sorry I'm late," I begin, deciding to take the seat besides a clearly shaken Harry. "I nearly went bonkers trying to perfect the Expecto Patronum spell with Lupin."

Harry's head lifts slightly as I speak, but it is obvious now that something is seriously wrong. I begin to wonder what they've been doing since I last spoke to them just days ago in the Great Hall.

"I still have trouble wif' it myself." Ron says. "Always conjuring up a little pug of sorts."

Hermione and I giggle slightly.

"Well yes, Ron, your patronus is a terrier, after all." She corrects, meeting the steaming cup of green liquid to her lips. Her face pinches slightly as it burns into her throat.

"But why such a weak little thing? Why not a dragon, or a hippogriff?"

I turn my head to Harry, the desire to speak up ever so powerful with every blink he exerts. My first instinct is to touch him, a slight touch, so that he knows I'm aware he is suffering in a sense.

Hermione must notice my intrigue as she sets a hand down on the table in front of Harry.

"Harry hasn't been feeling well," She begins, the motherly tone of her voice peaking out from her lips. "He has been seeing things."

My eyes fall slightly under my eyelashes, and I see that his hands are shaking quite visibly underneath the wooden table.

"It-," Harry stutters. "It's nothing, Hermione."

"It's something. When is it ever nothing?" She questions.

Ron and I glance at each other; I chose my next words carefully.