The Broombox Spire

Chapter 2: Cloak and Dagger

"Lumos!"

Just as the creaky, wooden door clicked shut, a bulb of brilliant white light emerged from the tip of Tenebrus' wand, illuminating the broom closet. He found the walls barely wider than his own shoulders. The shelves of towels, brooms, wastebins, and various other cleaning supplies blocked Tenebrus' ability to take advantage of the closet's length. Instead, Tenebrus' shoulders gently brushed against the closet door as he pressed himself as small as possible against the wall.

The air was heavy and thick, as though there was an overabundance of air, and a rind of dampness penetrated each breath Tenebrus drew. Every room within the dungeon-level of Hogwarts carried this feeling — to Tenebrus' relief. He was certain that if the temperature was even a few degrees higher, a feeling of closeted-claustrophobia would be settling over him

As the minutes lingered, Tenebrus rolled his tongue between his teeth, Draco, if you bail on me while waiting here, of all places—

The sun had set hours ago, and Tenebrus sojourned in his thickly layered nighttime clothes: gray joggers and royal blue hoodie. He presumed that each set of footsteps he heard outside belonged to a prefect, teacher, or stray house elf. As he concentrated on keeping his breathing calm and rhythmic while ogling the dazzling spectacle of the light at the end of his wand, Tenebrus reveled at his own forethought to enchant the closet door before entering, so that it would conceal light at the seems.

Just as Tenebrus' patience began to wane and he readied the nox spell, a gentle rapping echoed from the door.

"Psst— Crayor?"

Instantly, Draco's familiar, soft whisper eased the tension building in Tenebrus' shoulders.

"It's me," Tenebrus answered, tapping back on the door. "I'm here."

The door squeaked open and Draco appeared. The dim light of the corridor's torches engulfed Draco in a soft haze, and his appearance was distorted. Tenebrus caught his breath and gnawed at his cheek as he wrestled a grin growing on his face. Even in blurriness, Draco's form was striking and—

—enticing, Tenebrus reputed.

Since that afternoon, Draco had shed both his cloak and vest, leaving him his white collared button up, with the right sleeve rolled to the elbow. When he stepped into the closet and closed the door behind him, Tenebrus raised an eyebrow.

That was odd, Tenebrus thought, studying Draco up and down. Something's wrong.

Draco had hardly stepped into the closet — it was more apt to describe the entrance as a flounder. Draco shuffled into the small space, slamming the door behind him and thumping his back against the opposing wall.

Now that Draco was inside, Tenebrus' lumos light gave him clearer details. Draco's usual meticulously styled hair was disheveled: long strands drooping over his face and ears. Draco's emerald tie, instead of being impeccably shaped and pressed around his neck, was stuffed into his shirt's chest pocket— drooping low on his toros as the first two buttons of his shirt were unfastened. Draco carried an expression of— Tenebrus couldn't describe it.

What is happening? A pit formed in Tenebrus' stomach.

"Draco, what's wrong?"

Even though the two were flat against opposite walls, they were close enough that bent knees grazed one another's.

Draco clenched his jaw so tightly, his temples pulsed. Within the mere hours that Tenebrus had last seen him, Draco's eyes had, beyond reason, developed thin dark circles underneath. The ridges of his sharp cheekbones were glossy and sweaty, pulling his skin so tightly across his face, he looked starved. His eyes were swollen, and the bottom eyelids were lined with a layer of tears.