requirement | dramione

0.12

october 30, 1996

Draco chose not to revisit the words of his mother's letter until the next afternoon as he ran his finger against a row of dusted books which had been abandoned by their owners and left to the Room of Hidden Things. He pinched the dust he had collected between his fingers before blowing the fine powder into the air and plucking a particularly large book from its resting place.  

He palmed the large book, lumbering towards the tall wooden Cabinet that stuck out amongst the towers of hidden things. He stared at the nonfunctioning Cabinet spitefully, then pressed his back into its wooden door and slid until he was seated on the floor. He pulled his knees towards his chest and rested his head against the wood behind him. 

Draco had come to a halt in his mending of the Cabinet. He was, supposedly, following the instruction of Mr Borgin. Borgin was a pure-blood supremacist, doubtlessly, and had done a great deal of business with Malfoy wizards. Draco had intimidated Borgin into unquestioned cooperation, all the while Borgin could barely hide his resentment, and even less his fear. When it came to the Cabinet, it seemed that any instruction or suggestion Borgin offered left both Draco and the Vanishing Cabinet in worse shape than before. He had made almost no progress and was on a deadline that he could not miss. 

The blonde haired boy anxiously tapped his fingers against the book he picked up, finally deciding to look at the dusty cover. 

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection. 

Draco laughed through his nose, letting the thick hard covered book clatter to the ground. It was almost comical, but the irony of the dusty book made his blood boil. He drew his hands to his face, pressing his palms against the headache that was emanating from his eyes. 

Draco Malfoy had always been an ill tempered boy, he took after his father in that way, but he had never felt such trepidation as now. It was as if the Dark Lord has given him an impossible task and wanted to watch him fail. It was an impossible task, to kill Albus Dumbledore, every Death Eater in the Dark Lord's most inner circle had already told Draco so. 

It was Yaxley, a greasy man that had never liked the Malfoy's, who suggested that Draco could not carry out the task on his own. Corban Yaxley was a brute of a wizard; he was clever with his wand but still chose to use his fists when the opportunity arose. Draco shivered at the thought of Yaxley's hands grabbing him by his collar, whipping him into a wall as the dark wizard interrogated him. 

The teenage boy wondered if it was men like Yaxley who kept Draco from returning to his home this year. He worried about his mother, caught in the midst of all those Death Eaters. He imagined her cold face as she sat in the chair that was meant for his father. His imprisoned father. His mother was haughty enough to match his father, but Draco knew that her coldness was only on the exterior. 

Narcissa Malfoy adored her son. He had been the treasure of her collection since his birth and spoiled him with parcels of sweets and unbelievable expenses on the holidays. Draco frowned as he remembered the time he would spend in the Manor's library upon his mother's lap, on all of the nights that his father wouldn't read to him. 

That was it. He jumped to his feet. 

The library was well lit when Draco arrived. Late afternoon sun was shinning into the window, casting long golden shadows over the wooded floor. The library was quiet, only filled by the sound of Draco's dress shoes against the wood and studying students turning the pages of their textbooks. Draco scanned the tall book shelves as he sped past them, trying to appear as if he knew where he was going. There were tens of thousands of books, thousands of shelves, and hundreds of narrow rows. And, truthfully, he was not sure of exactly what he was searching for.