Non Time, O Parve Mage

***this chapter may seem confusing, or that it blows by too quickly, but it was alot to put in, so bare with me!!!



The next few weeks came and went. Draco, for the most part, had been avoiding Harry. He’d say, “good morning” if he saw him, but he never meant it. Harry, meanwhile, kept trying to confront him. Draco had his ways of avoiding him, though. He ended up taking, on average, five showers a day to avoid him. Well, he ended up being even more stressed that he had been, and now he was running out of shampoo. He hadn’t cut himself since he’d been at Hogwarts. Harry had taken away his knife.
Before Draco had even realized it was October, Hogwarts began to fill with pumpkins and other autumn fruits to salute the harvest and greet the New Year. While he sat at breakfast, alone, as he preferred; his bowl of cereal was accosted by a large raven. He grimaced, and pulled the offending bird, now dripping in milk, from his bowl and removed the soaking scroll from his foot. It bore, or used to bear, the Malfoy seal before it was shattered in the crash. With a curious eyebrow, he dusted off the remaining wax and unraveled the message. A decent sized amount of money magically appeared in a small velvet, drawstring bag. Intrigued, he continued on to read the letter. It was written in his father’s refined, flawless hand:
Draco,
This Halloween, we will be holding our annual masquerade ball, as I am sure you are well aware. Your presence has been requested. I have arranged for your transportation to our manor on October 30. You will be expected present, and costumed.
Lucius Octavian Patrici Malfoy, esq.
Draco could feel his breath hitch in his lungs. He knew who it was that had so bluntly requested his presence, and he was none too thrilled about it. He sighed; he would go, that wasn’t the question. Could he possibly avoid Voldemort’s avid eyes? It was a masquerade—everyone was meant to be who they weren’t…maybe he’ll be merciful for a change. Draco laughed aloud at the thought. He folded the parchment into eighths, and slipped it into his back pocket. There was a Hogsmeade trip today; he could pick up something to wear then.
He stood in line behind the large oak doors, awaiting his approval by Filch to leave the castle. By now, he was seriously considering butting past everyone, hexing Filch and just leaving. But that would take too much effort, he reasoned, and would draw attention to himself, which he hated.
The line moved at a snail’s pace. When he had finally reached Filch, he was met by a dirty sneer. “What are you up to, Malfoy?” Draco rolled his eyes, “oh, you know—raping and pillaging, same old, same old.” Filch seemed satisfied and nodded for him to leave. Draco hurried away rather quickly, seeing as how Filch had just taken him seriously. Then again, he was known to be unusually fond of medieval torture devices….then again, what Malfoy wasn’t?
He pushed the collar of his cloak up to protect his delicate ears as he was met by a bitter breeze. Frost crunched beneath his feet as he ambled down the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade. He paused at the window of a store that had caught his eye: OPTIMA OPTIMAE. He pushed the door open and was met by the delicate chiming of bells. He was immediately met with an older woman, with long white hair, tied back in a French Braid, clad in long, draping, black robes closed by a silver triskele clasp.
She clapped her hands together excitedly, and began pacing in circles around Draco. “ahhh…” she began (in a voice he imagined Trelawney would have if she were brought up by pureblood nobles) she flicked his hair, and brushed an inhumanly smooth hand across his cheek, “Flawless, silver hair, hawk-like mercury eyes, slender frame---you must be a Malfoy, which means only the best.” She stood back and through her arms back, as though presenting to him her store. “I can assure you, young sir, you have come to the right place!” She strode forward and offered her hand. Draco took it, as he was taught, and bowed courteously. She began in her drawling, London accent—not unlike his mother’s; “I am Andy, and this is my store; I assume you are to be costumed for the famous Malfoy Halloween Masquerade?”
This woman in Trelawney’s evil twin, he thought to himself. He allowed himself to be dragged around the store, having various lengths of fabrics thrown into his arms. Without warning, she stopped suddenly, and Draco nearly ran into her. She threw her hands across her face as though she had an epiphany; “ice hawk.”
“Pardon?”
“Ice hawk! THAT shall be your countenance for the ball. I’m sure everyone would expect to see you as a snake, or dragon—but you…shall be an ice hawk. So un-Malfoy, but so uniquely YOU!” she continued fanatically. Draco coughed, “Am I…related to you…by chance…?” anyone that insane, had to be a third relative, at least.
She held out her hand, once again, “Andromeda Tonks, at your service.” She began to grin madly, “Oh, that was fun…you looked as though you were on the verge of blasting me through a wall, Draco!”
“Andromeda…my mother’s sister?”
“Oh yes!”
“Didn’t you marry a muggle-born?”
She nodded gleefully. It began to make sense to Draco—if his mother, and aunt Bellatrix both had third sight, it was likely she did as well. “I was always hoping you’d drop by, Draco.” She began seriously. “Something horrible is going to happen this Halloween; I would advise you not to go to the ball, but I know that you’ll just go anyway—mind the gap—“Draco tripped and nearly fell as he stepped in a gap in the floor boards.
She pulled the fabrics, one by one from Draco’s arms, and laid them out on a counter. She skimmed over them, and pulled out a thick, silver-grey fabric, that gleamed in the moonlight. She absentmindedly threw it at Draco, and continued, “You know what’s going to happen, I know you do—there’s no point in telling you—you possess the sight as well; you’d use it too, if you’re father wasn’t such an insufferable Nazi—“ she flung a black silk fabric at his face”—but you really can’t expect anything different, what with his parents being insufferable Nazis as well…” she paused in thought…”perhaps Nazi isn’t the right term…” she bowed her head and shook it furiously, “no, no—Nazi works.” She pulled out a last grey satin, which too gleamed silver in the moonlight, and headed to work.
A tape measurer appeared out of know where, and began taking every possible measurement of Draco as Andromeda began flicking at the fabrics with her wand. Draco watched in amazement as the fabrics molded to his exact form. He had always had custom made clothes, but never had he seen such skill. When she was done, she presented him with a gleaming silver tunic, magically entwined with the black silk, such that in the sun it appeared black, but silver in the moonlight—just like an actual ice hawk. It felt light, but durable in his hands. She then presented him with the satin pants, which fit tightly and loosely in all the right places.
While Draco was gawking at his aunt’s craftsmanship, she continued; “now for your mask.” She strode into a back storage room, and several minutes later returned with what looked like genuine ice hawk feathers. “Go get a butterbeer, Draco” she muttered as she held the delicate feathers in front of her face pensively, “this could take a while. I’ll send it to your dorm when I’m finished.”


He sat alone in the back corner of the Three Broomsticks, a mug of warm butterbeer clasped possessively in his cold hands. His aunt…he knew he was forbidden to see her—he was forbidden to see her daughter as well, but they always had there ways of…coincidentally meeting. Draco’s eyes widened in horror; was he becoming one of them…the pureblood rogues? Would his name and portrait be blasted out of every noble pureblood house? Would his family speak of him with hushed breath, with looks of disgust, trying to fathom where it was he went wrong?
Draco took an apprehensive sip from his butterbeer.
Would he hate it if he was?
As though to answer his question, Harry Potter walked into the tiny inn, his ears red from cold. Damn it. When his eyes fell on Draco, he waved to his roommate and sat down across from him. Harry began excitedly, “what’s up, Draco?”
Draco merely took a sip of his butterbeer and looked up. “Umm….looks like…the ceiling, a few lamps—and a butterbeer stain—wonder how that got there…why do you ask?”
Harry stared at him in disbelief. “You’re serious.”
“Yes, someone really managed to get their butterbeer on the—“
“It’s an expression, Malfoy.” Draco contorted his face in confusion, “for what?”
Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s a way of saying, ‘how are you?’” he sighed exasperatedly. Draco sat back in his chair and began fiddling with his mug, “why don’t you just say that then?”
“Because it…oh, never mind. You really are impossible, Malfoy.” Draco smiled, “I know what it means—I just love seeing that look on your face.” Harry blushed, his eyes suddenly grave. “Draco…I need to talk to you—about that day when we were—“
“No.” Harry looked taken aback. “No? What—does it have something to do with that other thing you won’t tell me about?”
“God, you’re thick. You hate me, make my life miserable for the better part of six years, then one autumn you come back to Hogwarts and are all buddy-buddy with me? And you expect me to open my heart and soul to you—spilling the contents of my very entrails on this very table? No, Potter, No.”
“But I thought we…”
“What you thought was wrong.” He stood up abruptly from the table. “I have to go and pick up my mask.
The color washed from Harry’s face, “you’re going to that ball thing that everyone’s buzzing about, aren’t you?” Draco rolled his eyes, “yes, I am.” Harry began circling the brim of his mug nervously, “Voldemort’s meant to be there, you know.” Draco winced slightly, but remained adamant. “So I’ve heard.” Harry looked up at him with concerned eyes, “You aren’t really going….are you?”
“Of course I am, Potter, that’s a stupid question.”
Harry stood to face Draco, his eyes glimmering in the hope of seeing something—anything in Draco’s steely eyes. “I know he hurt you, Draco—“
“You know NOTHING!” he spat at him. “I’m going to this party, because, as a Malfoy, I am expected to be there. I will eat, drink, be merry, and I don’t want to hear another word out of you!” he growled in frustration, “why do you even care, anyways!” it wasn’t a question, but Harry answered it. “I don’t know.”
Draco rolled his eyes, and left the store, leaving a sullen Harry behind him—a single tear running down his chapped cheek.
He ran to his dorm as quickly as he could. When he reached the door, he had to support himself of the frame. When he caught his breath, he entered to find a small parcel on his bed. “That was quick,” he said to himself. he sat down beside the golden box, and tugged gently at the scarlet ribbon. The box unfolded itself, to reveal a beautiful silver mask—inlaid with gleaming feathers. He lifted it up, delicately, as though it were made of ice and lifted it to his eyes. It magically contorted itself to fit onto his face, and was held magically to his face until he dismissed it. He smiled, and placed the mask lovingly back into its box. Immediately, the box began folding itself to, once again, protect the treasure within. He placed it beneath his nightstand.
He reached into his shopping bag, and pulled out his tunic—enchanted to stay pressed and properly folded, until he was wearing it. He laid it lovingly on top of his trunk, trying to forget the fact that it would just end up being ripped apart by ravishing hands anyway.




Draco met his father midnight, October 30, outside the gates of the castle. His father said no greeting, but pulled out a large silver key. He handed it unceremoniously to Draco. Draco took it apprehensively—he hated port keys.



Exactly twelve hours later, Draco found himself in his bedroom, standing before his mirror, clad in black and silver. The gleaming silver brought out his mercury eyes, and made his skin shine like moonlight. He sighed, and closed his eyes. He pulled on his mask and muttered to himself, his voice on the brink of shattering, “here starts the masquerade.”

~*~
Snape sat in his office, grading tests. He had been using so much red ink that it looked as though a murder took place. His reading glasses slid on his nose, and he impatiently pushed them up with and annoyed hand. He sighed in frustration when he heard a knock at his door—it was past midnight
“Come in,” he drawled unconcernedly. He removed his glasses, and looked up to see Harry Potter standing before him, wringing his hands nervously. Snape raised his eyebrows expectantly, “you’d better have a good reason for being here, Potter.”
Harry bit his lip. He was obviously in distress. Snape found he was actually worried—he had never seen the boy in this much turmoil. He mentally slapped himself. “Well?” he hissed.
“It’s Draco,” he began nervously. Snape’s eyes flashed and he looked up at Harry with rapt attention. “He—he’s at the masquerade ball…and Voldemort’s meant to be there…and…”
Snape rolled his eyes. “if it were you attending this soirée, Potter, the fact that Voldemort is attending as well would be a matter of great concern—however, Draco is not threatened by Voldemort, seeing as how—“ he was cut off by Harry, who slammed his fist on the table, “I saw him, Snape! I saw Voldemort when I touched Draco—it’s not safe for him!” he yelled furiously. He closed his eyes and calmed himself, when he opened them again; tears were brimming on his eyes, “I saw him touch him, professor.”
Snape’s eyes widened in horror; “go get Dumbledore—tell him I am at Malfoy Manor.” Without a second glance at Harry, Snape grabbed his cloak, and ran out the door.

~*~
Draco stood next to a large stone gargoyle, sipping champagne. He was going to need it. He saw his mother dancing with his father out of the corner of his eye. In his mind, he saw a tear run down her porcelain cheek. His eyes widened and he scanned the floor for his mother—he did not see her.
He put down his glass, and began to head toward the stairs to his room, when he felt a cold hand on his shoulder. “My little dragon…” came a cruel whisper in his ear, “wherever are you flying off to, I wonder…” Draco felt a single tear stream down his face, but it was concealed by silver. With a determined sigh, he turned to face the bane of his existence. As expected, Voldemort was clad in a long green and black tunic, with a serpent mask. He smiled wickedly at him, and shoved him up the stairs.
Draco sighed in defeat, and headed up the marble stair case, to the drawing room—it was Voldemort’s favorite. He loved the contrast of Draco’s silver, porcelain flesh against the black furnishings of the room. Not until he reached the door, did he hear Voldemort’s ominous footsteps, making his way up the stair case. When he saw the man round the corner, he turned away, and pushed the door open reluctantly.
He walked toward the opposite side of the room, toward the window. He leaned against the onyx curtains, and stared at the stars—praying without hope. He stopped breathing when he felt long fingers, trailing his back, and he realized that he had almost jumped from the window in his desperation.
Strong hands whirled him around, and forced him against the stone wall. He had already removed his mask, and scarlet eyes were glaring hungrily at him. “It has been too long, my dragon prince…” he gently removed his mask and flung it onto the floor. He smiled wickedly, and pressed his face into his hair, breathing him in. Draco shuddered at the contact, and closed his eyes as tightly as he could muster—silently hoping that it was just a dream—a horrible nightmare that he could awake from if he only tried hard enough.
He felt his eager fingers tugging impatiently at the fastens of his tunic, and his chest shuttered as it was invaded by hands, laden with heat from lust, frozen with lack of emotion. He moved his hands to begin trailing the scar that he had left. As he moved his fingers down, he hissed in pain, and ripped away from him. He held his hand to his head where there was a faint line of a lightning-shaped scar, not unlike Harry’s, that trailed from his left eyebrow, down to his jaw.
He pulled his hand away from his face, and glared furiously at Draco, his tunic ripped open, leaning for support against the wall opposite—his eyes widened in terror. Voldemort straightened himself, and began walking toward Draco. “He touched you…” Draco frowned in confusion. “Harry Potter!” he screamed, “Harry Potter touched you!” Draco winced at his words. “You are not to return to that…school” he spat. “You will be tutored by your parents.” He grinned maniacally, “You are mine, Draco, mine and no one else’s…and I will claim you.”
~*~
Snape burst through the doors of Malfoy Manor, met by dozens of masked people. He panted as he tried to catch his breath. There was no time. Lucius Malfoy strode forward, and pulled of his mask in greeting, “Severus! A pleasure to see you tonight—I thought you couldn’t make—“before he could finish, Snape ripped out his wand, pointed it at his heart and screamed, “FINITE INCANTUM!” Lucius was hurled back several yards, and remained unmoving on the floor. The party guests, unarmed, parted acquiescently to allow him passage to the marble stair case.
~*~
Draco cried out in pain as he was thrown forcedly to the floor by Voldemort. “You slut,” he spat at him. Draco looked up at him, tears now flowing freely from hi eyes, “no—please, I swear I never—“Voldemort kicked him in the ribs, and he doubled up in pain. Voldemort stood above him, a leg on each side of Draco’s pitiful form. He shook his head as he pulled out his wand. “This was your doing, Draco,” he sighed. He pointed his wand at the limp boy beneath him, and said, “CRUC—“
BAM!
He was thrown into the wall with a sickening crunch. Draco lifted his head as far as he could to see Snape framed in the doorway, his wand never leaving Voldemort. “Get behind me, Draco!” he yelled urgently. Draco tried to push himself up, but was too injured and too weak. Snape hurriedly ran toward him, waved his wand at him, and healed his outstanding injuries. Draco looked up at him with teary eyes, and determinedly pushed himself up. He limped toward Snape, until he was thrown down to the floor, once again by a powerful burst of magic.
Voldemort straightened himself, his wand pointed at his once loyal follower, his eyes on fire. Snape began to mutter a disarming spell, but was effortlessly thrown against the wall with a wave of the hand of the more powerful wizard. Voldemort walked slowly over to him, ticking his tongue in mock disappointment. “Oh, Severus…how I will miss your greasy little head, after I disintegrate it into millions of little pieces….” Snape looked up resolutely, blood trickling from his nose, over his lips; “Fuck…you…” he gasped. Voldemort smiled, and knelt down next to him. He put a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Thanks, really, Sev…but I’d much rather fuck your godson—“ Voldemort’s head was blown sideways as it was hit by a powerful hex. He locked his jaw and turned to the doorway to see Lucius Malfoy standing in front of him, his wand drawn—like Draco, black fire was emanating from his body like a furious aura. “Get the hell away from my son, you bastard!” he brandished his wand again, and threw Voldemort across the floor to the other side of the room.
“Fa—father…” Draco croaked. Lucius shouted to his son without looking at him, his eyes fixed on his master; “Draco! Get yourself and Snape out of here!”
”But I—“
”NOW!” he shouted. He glanced over at his son quickly, and mouthed, “I’m so sorry” before he was hit by the crucatius curse by Voldemort. Draco wanted to run over to his father as he screamed in agony—to tell him that he forgave him and that it was all going to be alright, but Snape had already thrown his arm around him, and apparated him to the gates of Hogwarts where Albus Dumbledore stood waiting for them, his arms arm clasped protectively on Harry Potter’s shoulder.



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