Justice
Chapter 16: Justice
The following morning was accompanied by rumors of an attack in the Gryffindor dormitories. Supposedly Sirius snuck in and was about to stab Weasley. Pity he didn’t go through with it. Draco laughed the whole thing off as theatrics, however, knowing full-well that Sirius Black had zero interest in the Weasel and, if anything, he’d be in there trying to convince Potter of his innocence.
Throughout the day, everywhere they went they saw signs of tighter security. Professor Flitwick was seen teaching the oversized weathered oak front doors to recognize a large picture of Sirius. Filch was suddenly bustling up and down the corridors, boarding up everything from tiny cracks in the walls to mouse holes. He even heard that the portrait of the Fat Lady was placed back in front of the Gryffindor commonroom entrance with a bunch of surly security trolls to guard her. They paced the corridor in a menacing group, talking in grunts and comparing the size of their clubs.
Theo had caught up with Longbottom after one of their shared classes, and he was in total disgrace. Professor McGonagall was so furious with him she had banned him from all future Hogsmeade visits, given him a detention, and forbidden anyone to give him the password into the tower. Poor Longbottom had written down all the passwords to the tower and it somehow ended up in Sirius’s hands. Draco had a sneaking suspicion that their half-kneazle friend had something to do with it, especially after he’d seen Granger feeding it under the table in The Great Hall.
Speaking of Granger, she still wasn’t speaking to him. When their eyes would occasionally meet, she’d glower at him, and he’d sneer right back. Neither willing to look away first, it often turned into a strange sort of staring contest—a battle of the wills, he supposed. Usually she would break first and huff angrily, occasionally though, he would be pulled from their silent duel by Theo or Blaise nudging him with something about their class work. When he turned back, she was either already gone or back to pretending he didn’t exist.
Two days after Black’s break-in, Longbottom’s gran sent the very worst thing a Hogwarts student could receive over breakfast — a Howler.
The school owls swooped into the Great Hall carrying the mail as usual, and Longbottom choked as a huge barn owl landed in front of him, a scarlet envelope clutched in its beak. Recognizing the Howler, the Slytherins all tuned in to watch, hoping for a repeat of last year’s Howler from Mrs. Weasley.
To their disappointment, he seized the envelope, and holding it before him like a bomb, sprinted out of the hall, while the Slytherin table exploded with laughter at the sight. They heard the Howler go off in the entrance hall — Longbottom’s grandmother’s voice, magically magnified to a hundred times its usual volume, shrieking about how he had brought shame on the whole family.
Aquila had also dropped a letter in front of Draco. It was a short missive from his father, informing him that the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures was holding the trial for the Hippogriff this Friday. A sigh of relief escaped his lips. Finally. Finally that bloody monster is going to get what's coming. He smiled faintly before noticing the death glare Granger was shooting him across the hall, most likely for chuckling at Longbottom’s expense, but he imagined if she knew why he was truly smiling, she’d have hexed him into next week.
The Slytherins returned to the common room that afternoon to find a note tacked to the notice board.
“Hogsmeade, next weekend!” said Vince, craning over the heads of the older students to read the new notice. “We’re going right?!” He bounced eagerly on the balls of his feet.
“Sure, Vince,” they all chuckled at his childish demeanor.
…
The next week dragged on, as if his time turner was stuck in reverse. The days always seemed longer when he had to use the pocket watch to make it to a class or catch up on assignments. His days grew twice as long, and with the end of the term still ages away, there was no end in sight.
When the Hogsmede trip finally arrived, the day was fine and breezy, and none of the Slytherin boys felt like staying indoors so they skipped a stop at the Three Broomsticks and instead breezed through Zonko’s, lining their pockets with Dungbombs, Hiccup Sweets, Frog Spawn Soap, and Theo even bought a Nose-Biting Teacup (the sales clerk insisted it was his most popular item among the students). They left the joke shop with their money bags considerably lighter than they had been on entering, but their pockets bulging.
The Slytherins then broke off into smaller groups, leaving Draco with Vince, Greg, and Theo. Blaise had tagged along with Pansy and Millie to visit Honeydukes. The boys climbed a muddy slope to see the Shrieking Shack, the most haunted dwelling in Britain. It stood a little way above the rest of the village, and even in daylight was slightly creepy, with its boarded windows and dank overgrown garden.
Draco felt the start of a few sweat beads gathering under his jumper, and considered pulling it off when he heard voices. Someone was climbing toward the house from the other side of the hill. Mere moments later, Draco spied Weasley at the top of the hill.
“Did I tell you lot, I received an owl from Father this last week. He had to go to the hearing to tell them about my arm... about how I couldn’t use it for three months...”
Vince and Greg sniggered, catching sight of the Weasel up ahead, understanding their roles immediately. Theo scoffed in annoyance, clearly unamused.
“I really wish I could hear that great hairy moron trying to defend himself... ‘There’s no ‘arm in ‘im, ‘onest —’... That Hippogriff’s as good as dead —”
Draco glanced at the redhead, his pale face splitting into malevolent grin.
“What are you doing, Weasley?”
Draco made a show of looking up at the crumbling house behind the Weasley.
“Suppose you’d love to live here, wouldn’t you, Weasley? Dreaming about having your own bedroom? I heard your family all sleep in one room — is that true?”
The Weasel lurched forward to attack, but was held in place by some unseen force. This only spurred on Vince and Greg’s laughter.
“We were just discussing your friend Hagrid,” Draco said to him. “Just trying to imagine what he’s saying to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. D’you think he’ll cry when they cut off his Hippogriff’s —”
SPLAT!
Draco’s head jerked forward as a smelly glob of mud hit him, his silver blonde hair was suddenly dripping in muck.
“What the —?”
Weasley grabbed onto the fence to keep himself standing, he was laughing so hard. Draco, Greg, and Vince all spun on the spot, staring wildly around, Draco desperately trying to wipe his hair clean.
“What was that? Who did that?”
“Very haunted up here, isn’t it?” said the Gryffindor, with the air of one commenting on the weather.
Vince and Greg, the unhelpful fools, were looking scared. Their brawn was no use against ghosts. Draco, however, was staring madly around at the deserted landscape—watching for anything that might hint at another student’s presence.
SPLATTER!
Vince and Greg were hit this time with a particularly foul-smelling, green sludge. Greg hopped furiously on the spot, trying to rub it out of his small, dark eyes.
“It came from over there!” Draco shouted, wiping his face, and staring at a spot some six feet to the left.
Vince blundered forward, his long arms outstretched like a zombie. Someone, unbeknownst to the Slytherin boys, picked up a stick and lobbed it at Vince’s back. Upon impact, Vince did a kind of pirouette in midair, trying to see who had thrown it. Draco was also looking around wildly, growing hot with frustration and anger. Weasley hadn’t moved a damn muscle so it had to be someone else but who? The only person Vince had found to blame was Weasley, so he started forward toward the ginger, but an invisible force caused him to stumble — and his huge, flat foot caught the hem of something shimmery they hadn’t noticed before.
For a split second, Malfoy stared at him. It was Potter’s stupid face. FLOATING FACE!
“AAARGH!” he yelled, pointing at the detached head. Then he turned tail and ran, at breakneck speed, back down the hill, Vince and Greg following close behind him.
…
Draco sprinted the whole way back to the castle. Greg and Vince slowed and eventually walked once they were out of sight of Hogsmede. Neither of them had near the stamina Draco did, but he didn’t mind. He wanted to take down Potter single-handedly. Even if the Gryffindors knew about the passage under Honeydukes, Draco had a huge head start. He didn’t slow as he approached the castle, but felt a renewed burst of energy and continued his plight to the dungeons, jumping down the last four steps of each flight.
At last, he reached Snape’s office door and composed himself for a brief moment, trying to catch his breath before carefully rapping against the worn wood.
“Mr. Malfoy, to what do I owe this visit?” Snape answered with a tone of sarcasm.
“Potter was just in Hogsmede—I saw him—his head—it was floating! And he hit me in the back of the head with a giant glob of mud—Vince and Greg were there, they saw him too!” Draco recounted animatedly.
“I see, and why was Potter in Hogsmede?” Snape drawled keenly, apparently Draco had his complete attention.
“He must’ve been invisible somehow and we saw Weasley alone, outside the Shrieking Shack, but then mud got thrown at us and—“ Draco rambled breathlessly.
“And Mr. Potter made his presence known,” Snape finished for him with a wry grin
as Draco nodded. “I’ll handle this,” the Potions Master declared with a smirk, “go clean yourself up.” Professor Snape slithered down the dungeons corridor and up the stairs at an alarmingly fast pace.
“You’re in for it now, Potter!” Draco said under his breath, a huge grin splitting his face.
…
Draco took his time in the shower, thoroughly washing all the mud and grime that had been caked into his usually silky hair. Eventually the water ran clear, and he had filled the bathroom with steam. Greg and Vince were just entering the dormitory as he finished dressing in a clean set of clothes.
“Took you two long enough!” He teased and Greg gave him an apologetic half-smile. “Snape’s handling it.”
The two boys murmured gratefully before lumbering off to take showers of their own. Draco leaned over to reach for his nightstand drawer, looking for a fresh pair of socks when he noticed a new letter waiting for him.
Draco,
You will be glad to know that we won the case and that Hippogriff will be executed in a timely manner. I’ll send along any further news when we have set a date.
Sanctimonia Vincet Semper,
Lucius A. Malfoy
The triumphant smile that quickly plastered itself to his face remained there for the rest of the afternoon and long into the evening, only wavering with the violet glow he saw emanating from his trunk. The light peeked through the lid which was held slightly ajar by a stray pair of trousers. They had all been getting ready for dinner when it caught his eye. He knew exactly what she had written and why, but he couldn’t stop staring at it.
“Go on, then, see what Granger wants,” Blaise tried to entice him.
“You already know she’s just yelling at you for getting that Hippogriff executed,” Theo said casually, distracted as he fiddled with the sneak-o-scope.
“I know it’s not, but I feel like I’ve got a Howler,” Draco said timidly.
“What’re you scared of Granger?!” Blaise barked a laugh.
“No!” Draco scowled at his friend before retching the trunk open and yanking the charmed parchment from its depths. It had gotten buried with being unused. He had honestly thought she’d burned hers—how dramatic…he really was spending too much time with Theo.
I just thought you ought to know... Hagrid lost his case. Buckbeak is going to be executed.
I heard.
Draco scribbled back quickly.
Of course you did. I’m sure your father was present at the hearing.
He was, not that it’s any of your business.
Right, well I’ll just assume you’re over the moon right now, but know this is a battle I refuse to concede. Ronald and I are already working on Buckbeak's appeal
She wrote back, her letters a bit sharper, more jagged than usual.
Granger, I mean this with all sincerity—good luck. Weasley on your team is the best way to lose that appeal. Cheers
He folded up the parchment and tucked it back into his trunk before yanking the trousers off the edge and slamming the lid shut.
“That bad?” Blaise questioned.
“She’s mental! Leave it to Granger to only pick the literal worst causes to save and even worse people to do it with! It’s like she enjoys being surrounded by losers!” Draco sneered in typical Malfoy fashion.
“Dunno why you even bother with her, Draco,” Vince said, growing annoyed.
“Let’s just go to dinner, okay?” Greg quickly stepped in, trying to diffuse the inevitable argument. It was no secret Vince still held onto the belief that Muggleborns were, in fact, Mudbloods and beneath them all. Everyone knew it, but Vince rarely spoke out about it, and Draco had simply avoided talking about Granger too much when he was around. The two boys had yet to have a confrontation over it, but everyone knew it would eventually come to a head with Draco’s hot temper and Vince’s lack of propriety.
“Yeah? And what’s that supposed to mean?” Draco snarled, nostrils flaring.
Theo and Blaise swooped in to drag a seething Draco off to the Great Hall, while Greg pulled Vince in the direction of the girls’ dormitories to wait for Millie and Tracey.
…
Draco was in a horrid mood the remainder of the week. Care of Magical Creatures had the potential to release some steam—watch the half-giant squirm under duress. He stamped down the grassy hill to the edge of the Forbidden Forest with posse in tow, Hagrid visible through the morning mist. He seemed numb with shock at the verdict. Draco took a bit of pity on him and instead poked fun at Pothead and Weaselbee behind their backs. Unfortunately, he didn’t get much of a rise out of them as all their attention was sharply focused on Hagrid.
“S’all my fault. Got all tongue-tied. They was all sittin’ there in black robes an’ I kep’ droppin’ me notes and forgettin’ all them dates yeh looked up fer me, Hermione. An’ then Lucius Malfoy stood up an’ said his bit, and the Committee jus’ did exac’ly what he told ‘em...”
“There’s still the appeal!” Weasley was arguing fiercely. “Don’t give up yet, we’re working on it!”
They were walking back up to the castle with the rest of the class.
Draco walked ahead of the trio and the large ‘professor’, talking to Theo and Greg about Vince getting stuck in the trick step earlier. Knowing he was in the perfect position to cause some mischief, the boys kept looking back, laughing derisively.
“S’no good, Ron,” said Hagrid sadly as they reached the castle steps. “That Committee’s in Lucius Malfoy’s pocket. I’m jus’ gonna make sure the rest o’ Beaky’s time is the happiest he’s ever had. I owe him that...”
Hagrid turned around and hurried back toward his cabin, his face buried in his handkerchief. Draco waited for him to get just out of earshot before rounding on Weasley and Potter. “Look at him blubber! Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic?” He said. “And he’s supposed to be our teacher!”
The Dynamic Duo both made furious moves toward him, but Granger took him by complete surprise as she got there first — SMACK!
She had slapped Draco across the face with all the strength she could muster causing him to stagger. The small gang of enemies all stood similarly flabbergasted as the witch raised her hand again, threateningly.
“Don’t you dare call Hagrid pathetic, you foul — you evil —”
“Hermione!” said Weasley weakly, and he tried to grab her hand as she swung it back.
“Get off, Ron!”
Granger struggled out of the red-headed boy's grip, pulling out her wand. Draco cautiously stepped backward. Greg and Theo looked at him for instructions, thoroughly bewildered, but neither wanting to interfere. This was more of a lovers’ quarrel than the two Gryffindor boys would ever know.
Frozen steel met molten bronze; his an icy dagger and her a brilliant blaze of anger. The little witch’s caramel curls were sparking at the ends like they might ignite at any second, and her chest heaved with the adrenaline coursing through her.
“C’mon.” Draco muttered, and in a moment, all three Slytherins had disappeared into the passageway to the dungeons.
…
“She WHAT?!” Pansy screeched, while Blaise comedically pretended to tend to his ruptured eardrums.
“Smacked him clean across the face—hard too! I’d reckon he’s still got a nice bright red handprint there, but good luck getting him to leave the dorms,” Theo chuckled in amusement as he reviewed the mental image on a loop.
“Why the fuck would Granger hit him?! I mean I know I would’ve liked to give him a nice punch in the face a time or two, but he’s never made me so upset I actually did it!” Pansy ranted, her porcelain doll face growing splotchy with concern.
“They had a little spat last night through those enchanted parchment papers he made over the Hippogriff getting executed. Naturally being the little shit that he is—“
“THEO, I CAN STILL HEAR YOU!” Draco shouted from the other side of the door to their room.
“Yes, as I was saying, being the little shit that he is, he decided to poke even more fun at Hagrid—really rub it in, ya know—in front of the Gryffindors,” Theo shrugged as if saying and that was that.
“Moron!” Pansy shouted through the door. “I’m glad she slapped you! You deserved it, you prick! Seriously, do you know anything about women?”
On the other side of the door, Draco slunk to the floor, holding his head in his hands, trying to remember why exactly he hasn’t developed a brain-to-mouth filter yet.
…
Draco used the time turner exactly three times that afternoon. The first was to get to his Charms class, where they were learning Cheering Charms, which he desperately needed at the moment. The second trip through time was to catch up on some sleep. The third time he pulled out his pocket watch, he had intended to get in some extra revising and grab the dinner he had sorely missed.
Stomach grumbling, he twisted the little hourglass three times, with fingers crossed that it would really take him back in time to eat something. He closed his eyes as the ticking began and the blue flash reverberated around the room. The ticking sped up as the room whirled around him, picking up speed. He sighed in resignation. So he wouldn’t be eating after all, it would seem.
The spinning slowed to a halt, and Draco cautiously opened his eyes. He was extremely conscious of the emptiness of his stomach, actually glad he hadn’t eaten or he was sure its contents would be down the front of his uniform robes. With a deep breath in through his nose, he assessed his surroundings, trying to gather as much intel as possible.
He was back in Hogwarts, on the twisting stairs to the Headmaster’s office. He surely hoped he wasn’t about to see a young Dumbledore. He honestly couldn’t picture it and would like to keep it that way. The mischievous kooky old demeanor the man kept nowadays was familiar and expected. A younger version was just a wild card.
When he reached the top of the steps, the door was open. Looking through the gap, he recognized that the office was empty. Draco stepped into the room, immediately noticing the lack of baubles and instruments floating around the walls and covering every square inch of the place. There were also considerably fewer Headmaster portraits lining the walls—the most recent a man he couldn’t recall ever seeing.
Draco inspected the room around him—nice tidy shelves with useful books and equipment. One volume in particular caught his interest, a record of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. So this must be an extremely long jump back in time…like a hundred years back!
To his right, Draco spotted the time turner—his time turner—under a glass dome, on display. It was ornately designed—most of which had buffed out of the years he supposed, but the intricately carved ‘B’ stood regally where he knew it should be. A soft shuffling of feet roused him from his admiration, causing him to rush to find a hiding spot.
Settling for a tapestry that hung to the floor with a large wingback chair in front—in fact it looked just like the one in the Slytherin common room…
“Headmaster,” a boy appeared at the door—not a boy, maybe a recent graduate, but he looked so familiar, Draco just couldn’t place him.
“Phineas, you don’t have to call me that when other students aren’t around,” the Headmaster said as he descended the few steps into the office from where Draco guessed his personal chambers were.
“Father, then,” the young man, Phineas, corrected.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” The Headmaster smiled jovially, sinking into his large, throne-like chair.
“I just wanted you to be the first to know about my new proposal,” Phineas said smugly as he slapped a stack of papers down onto the older man’s desk.
“A proposal?” The Headmaster repeated hesitantly. “What does it contain?” He lifted the corner slightly with a quill, trying to peek at the pages without actually touching them.
“I think you’re well aware of my political interests by now, father,” the young man grew cold and lazily dropped into the chair just in front of Draco.
“Mudbloods!” The Headmaster spat, disgusted. “Filthy, disgusting things, and you want to give them more of our power—our magic?!” He stood, suddenly losing his jolly demeanor at seeing his son, now filled with vile hatred leaking out of every orifice.
Draco could feel the tension of the room building, the air crackling with unused magic waiting to be unleashed by the volatile emotions brewing in each of the wizards. He even felt his own magic boiling inside of him at the slur. Before he gave himself away, young Phineas simply shrugged, “why not?”
That was it. Draco ducked behind the chair, dropping to his hands and knees, covering his head with his hands and casting a Protego. It was weak, but it was enough to take the brunt of any blast. Surely a father wouldn’t be trying to kill his own son in Hogwarts of all places. By the time the second red jet of stunning spells whizzed past him, he was certain the shrewd Headmaster was none other than his lovely great-great-great grandfather Phineas Nigellus Black.
Suddenly, the spells stopped flying and Draco could see both men hunched in exhaustion, sweat heading down both of their pale faces.
“Leave. Don’t ever come back,” the Headmaster commanded, a little winded.
The son straightened himself up, gathering some composure. “Father—“
“I have lost my second son to Death,” the elder wizard declared in a somber tone.
“Goodbye, Father,” Phineas said, turning to leave without looking back. His cloak flying out behind him as he left in haste, lest he be hexed or cursed in the back. Draco couldn’t blame the younger man, after what he’d seen of fathers in the Black family, he wouldn’t have turned his back on him either.
“All I’ve ever done was try to get him to explain to me why he believes those filthy thieves deserve what is rightfully ours! Will he ever have a mature conversation about it? No. He doesn’t want to hear what I have to say—use my knowledge and experience. That’s why I never try to understand them—they hate it! They would much rather be tragically misunderstood, wallow in self-pity, stew in their own—“
The blue flash erupted from Draco’s palm where the future version of the pocket watch had remained. As time started to tick away to the future, Draco saw his ancestor turn sharply to the time turner he kept in his office—he knows something.
Draco landed back in his dormitory, thankfully missing the bed frame by several inches. He wasn’t sure what to make of that little trip through time. It was the first male ancestor’s story he had come across with the time turner, and surprisingly enough, he hadn’t even left school grounds. Phineas Nigellus had suspected something about the time turner—he had kept it on display and went straight to it after disowning his son. Did he know Draco was there watching the whole thing? Could he tell someone was using his time turner? When did the Ministry confiscate it?
Too many questions, and the list only seemed to grow the longer he thought about the tangled web of memories he’d been visiting over the last several months. He needed answers, even if it was only one or two. A portrait hung of his great-great-great grandfather in Grimmauld Place, but he thought it too risky to try to get back there alone, and he’d rather not involve his mother if it wasn’t necessary considering he’d viewed her memories—or past—too.
If Phineas Nigellus Black was a Headmaster, there was a chance his portrait still hung in the Headmaster’s office…but that meant meeting with Dumbledore and he would no doubt eavesdrop even if he gave Draco and his ancestral painting “privacy”. He could think of something, he had too, he was a Slytherin after all—how hard could it be to usurp a Gryffindor even if he is the Headmaster?
…
Draco kept his recent time travel quiet. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like this one was more personal. It had felt so intense, so real. The electricity of the tension, the magic, he felt it in his blood, the very marrow of his bones. If he sat long enough thinking on it, he found himself slowly replacing Phineas and Lucius standing at the Headmaster’s desk.
The revelation rocked him. His father was nothing like the men he’d seen in his travels. Half of the Black family was notorious for their fiery tempers and emotional outbursts of rage and the other half for their extreme emotional control, waiting to strike when you least expect. The Malfoy family had none of that. While his mother fell unequivocally under the latter description, his father had always been even-keeled. He had been punishing perhaps, but never without reason. He had always spoken to Draco as an adult—the future man of the house—and had trained him up to be the ideal Heir to the House of Malfoy…but Draco was slowly spotting the wickedness in his father’s actions. A slap here, a sneer there. Corrections and more corrections, but never for anything his mother would have fretted over.
Narcissa would spend her time correcting his grammar in French, or send a faint stinging jinx when he slouched. She didn’t care which children he played with when they went out to Diagon Alley or to a public event that permitted the attendance of children. She didn’t care if he didn’t want to practice flying that day. She didn’t care if he overheard his parents’ private conversations. She only loved and gently guided him in a new direction when necessary. She let him make his own mistakes and helped pick up the broken pieces.
Lucius did not. It was simple as that. To his father, there were no mistakes. There were no second chances, which was rich coming from someone who got a rather large one from the Ministry of Magic itself. Draco learned the hard way with his father far too often. A swat from his serpent-headed cane was enough to produce the desired results most times, and he had no qualms about using that particular method. But more than his treatment of his son, Draco remembered the way Lucius had looked at Granger’s parents in Diagon Alley that summer. He remembered the way Lucius had spoken of her at the dinner table in disdain for having beaten Draco in nearly all their classes. He remembered the way he wasn’t surprised about the Chamber of Secrets opening, or even how the cursed diary ended up with an innocent First Year—a pureblood at that!
Draco’s heart sank into his chest. He’d never really felt disappointment—not for anything real at least. Sure he hadn’t gotten to play Quidditch during his First Year, nor had he beaten Potter at literally anything since they met, but those weren’t true disappointments. This was deeper. It sunk into the very being of who he was. Who even am I? The son of Lucius Malfoy. The Heir to the House of Malfoy. Sanctimonious Vincet Semper. The son of the favored Death Eater. The son of a strong-handed man. The son of…
The son of Narcissa Black. The son of a loving, kind, clever, and ambitious woman. The future Heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.
Draco gulped in a breath, a single tear welling up in his eye. It burned, but he blinked it away quickly, not letting it fall. His father was no changed man, just a chained man. Lucius had bound himself to a strong and loving woman whom he would never betray. He would choose her over all else, but his mind had not changed since the day he joined the ranks of the Dark Lord’s army. Like Vince, he still believed in the blood prejudices he had whispered in Draco’s ear for years. Of course he did. One Muggleborn witch that his son possibly fancied wouldn’t change that—no matter how brilliant of a witch she was. Lucius was exactly like Phineas Nigellus. All it would take was for the possibility of a betrothal contract and his father would go mental—shooting hexes and curses—maybe even an Avada—Draco couldn’t be sure anymore after what he’d just seen. It may not have been his father in that time turner, but it sure felt like it.
…
Regretfully, Draco had no excuse to skip out on Divination the next day. He met Daphne and Tracey at the top of the tower steps, and together they climbed the ladder into the dim, stifling tower room. Glowing on every little table was a crystal ball full of pearly white mist. Draco and Daphne sat down together at the same rickety table, and Tracey went to gaze into her own personal crystal ball.
“I thought we weren’t starting crystal balls until next term,” Draco muttered, casting a wary eye around for Professor Trelawney, in case she was lurking nearby.
“Don’t complain, this means we’ve finished palmistry,” Daphne muttered back. “I was getting sick of her flinching every time she looked at any of our hands.”
“Good day to you!” said the familiar, misty voice, and Professor Trelawney made her usual dramatic entrance out of the shadows. Tracey and Millie quivered with excitement, their faces lit by the milky glow of their crystal balls.
“I have decided to introduce the crystal ball a little earlier than I had planned,” said Professor Trelawney, sitting with her back to the fire and gazing around. “The fates have informed me that your examination in June will concern the Orb, and I am anxious to give you sufficient practice.”
Draco snorted.
“Well, honestly... ‘the fates have informed her’. Who sets the exam? She does! What an amazing prediction!” He said, not troubling to keep his voice low. The Slytherins in the room choked back laughs.
It was hard to tell whether Professor Trelawney had heard them as her face was hidden in shadow. She continued, however, as though she had not.
“Crystal gazing is a particularly refined art,” she said dreamily. “I do not expect any of you to See when first you peer into the Orb’s infinite depths. We shall start by practicing relaxing the conscious mind and external eyes so as to clear the Inner Eye and the superconscious. Perhaps, if we are lucky, some of you will see before the end of the class.”
And so they began. Draco, at least, felt extremely foolish, staring blankly at the crystal ball, trying to keep his mind empty when thoughts such as “this is stupid” kept drifting across it. It didn’t help that Daphne kept breaking into silent giggles.
“Seen anything yet?” Draco asked Daphne after a quarter of an hour’s quiet crystal gazing.
“Yeah, there’s a burn on this table,” said Daphne, pointing. “I just spilled my candle.” She had picked the wax off the table, keeping her eyes on the sweeping form of Trelawney in case she noticed neither of her star pupils were actually putting in any effort.
“This is such a waste of time,” Draco hissed. “I could be practicing something useful. I could be catching up on Arithmancy—”
Professor Trelawney rustled past.
“Would anyone like me to help them interpret the shadowy portents within their Orb?” she murmured over the clinking of her bangles.
“I don’t need help,” Greg said confidently. “It’s obvious what this means. There’s going to be loads of fog tonight.” His face was full of seriousness and the entire class burst out laughing. Even Trelawney pursed her lips to hide her grin of amusement.
“Well, Mr. Goyle, perhaps you will find your missing sister inside the castle as the fates are telling you there will be too much cloud cover for an outdoor search this evening,” she claimed.
At the mention of his mysteriously non-existent “long lost sister”, the class fell into another fit of riotous giggles and Trelawney dismissed them early, knowing she would never regain control after that disaster of a class period. Draco sent Daphne and Tracey to go ahead, so he could finish packing his things up in peace, and avoid their incessant chattering and gossip.
“Cover the Orb, Dear, best to not let the spirits roam,” Trelawney called as she moved out of the room. Draco looked around for something to cover the crystal ball with, spotting a black crochet scarf. He pulled it from its resting spot, but just as he was about to drape it over the orb, the clouded misty shapes took form. He honestly thought he was seeing things, as he hadn’t put much stock in Divination since the class had started, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from the moving mass before him.
The mist rolled and churned, forming a bird-like shape before rolling in on itself in the form of something like flames and taking a new shape. The cloud parted to reveal a circle—an orb, maybe? Draco was entranced. He had drawn ever closer to the crystal ball, gazing intently for the next image to appear.
“Ah! I see you have found your Sight!” Trelawney placed a knobby hand on his shoulder, jolting him from the trance.
“I—I—I thought I saw a knick in the glass is all—well got to be going—got another class and all,” Draco chuckled nervously before haphazardly tossing the scarf over the crystal ball and scampering down the golden ladder to the stairs below.