September crept sluggishly into October, and Harry was happy to note that the weather was finally cooling down enough to truly be considered autumn. Not that he was paying much attention to the weather, with his mind busy elsewhere and his body far from the outside world. He was hardly going to complain though. The Library of Secrets was rather chilling in its own sort of way, and he had grown awfully fond of its dilapidated charm.
Harry strolled through stacks of ancient books, all surprisingly well preserved behind runes carved lovingly into the shelves they inhabited. He had been so worried the day before about whether the preservation charms on the books had been degrading over the years, but he should have had more faith in the founders. The runic preservations would likely last long after Hogwarts had collapsed into stones and dust. Harry doubted that anyone would ever outlive them, besides perhaps the gods themselves.
He had come down to the library several times over the past few weeks — mostly to get a better idea of its layout, admittedly. What he had managed to find —beyond the dust and grime that had built up over centuries of not being run over by anything save for a snake's tail on occasion—was that the library was built in a circular shape, with the shelves of books branching out and around in a sort of maze-like way. It almost felt like he was back in the hedge maze in his fourth year, though considerably more enjoyable all around.
It had taken hours of wandering through the stacks of ancient bookcases, but eventually, Harry had gotten to the centre of the maze of books; what he had found there was a large circular table carved from dark granite, which was decorated with nothing but dust and identical (and equally ancient) chairs circled around it in a loop. Harry thought that it might have been used for meetings between the founders and other esteemed scholars over the years, or perhaps just as a table for study. Regardless, the thoughts of those chairs having been used by the founders themselves sent a shock of delight racing through him.
He had spent far longer than he likely should have at the circular table, lounging in one of the massive chairs and pretending that he was in some other time —a time when things like headmasters or classmates or creature inheritances didn't matter nearly as much as academics did. A time where he was free to just... learn.
He didn't idle an embarrassingly long time though, feeling a tad bit uneasy and in need of movement. It wasn't all that long before he was off to explore the shelves again, heavy with the knowledge of how many eyes would be on him in the castle above and wary of how attached he was growing to the peace and quiet of the forgotten library.
He wandered, perhaps for a bit longer than he should have, through those massive shelves of books. He was still in awe by the sheer size of them. They spanned so high up in the air, so far up that Harry couldn't ever hope to see over the tops of them. He wondered how he was expected to get at the books at the very top, and then wondered if that was the point. Perhaps the more widespread knowledge was situated very nicely at the bottom, and you had to go searching precariously several metres up in the air to find the truly precious knowledge. If that was the case, he would have to find a way up that high, and fast.
He hummed, neck craned upwards at the high ceiling, completely unknowing of anything but the tops of the bookshelves before he suddenly slammed against something hard.
"Ompf-!"
Toppling down to the ground, Harry felt his head smack against the hard ground with a thunk, white exploding across his vision as he lay there in a heap. He blinked for a moment, trying with very little luck to wash the stars from his eyes, before giving up and, with a hissed groan, closed them instead. He laid there for several seconds, willing his head to stop pounding as a ringing in his ears nearly drowned out the concerned questioning from Tom inside his mind.
"~Are you troubled, little friend?~"
He cracked his eyes open again, blinking the stars away a little more successfully this time. As he did, a large shadow fell over him, obscuring the low light of torches from his view and replacing it with familiar deep scales of turquoise green.
"~Jörmungandr?~" He murmured, sitting up slowly as the ache in the back of his head gave way to a stinging pain. He reached back, hissing as his finger coasted past warm blood. "~Shite. I'm bleeding.~"
He wiped the blood from his fingers onto his trousers before yanking the elder wand from its sheath, muttering a simple healing charm as he did. Immediately he felt the results of it, with the pain in the back of his head disappearing as if washed away with cool water. He sighed with relief, steadily standing back up onto two feet now that his head wasn't threatening to burst open and spill his brains across the floor.
Brushing himself off, Harry quickly started to look around to see what had stopped him, finding with mild confusion that there wasn't anything besides bookcases that he could have run head-first into, and he was too far out of the way of any of them to have done so.
"~My little friend, how thoroughly you intrigue me. It seems that the strange stone shelf has taken an interest in you.~"
"~Pardon?~"
The snake hissed a laugh, eyes pinned to the floor beneath Harry. "~I was not aware that the symbol was for anything but dramatics, but I suppose that the old man had some truth to his words after all.~"
Harry glanced down to his feet at Jörmungandr's words, freezing in place at the symbol carved into the stone below him. It was horribly, painfully familiar. So familiar that it knocked the air from his lungs and sent him scrambling back against some invisible barrier keeping him trapped inside the circle.
He was standing in the deathly hallows symbol, the circle and line representing the wand and cloak shining brightly through the aged stone. The triangle representing the stone was noticeably missing.
He tried to shove harder against the invisible barrier, realising distantly that it was all too likely that it was the thing that he had smacked that had sent him to the ground in the first place. He couldn't remove himself from it, finding with rising panic that he was most certainly stuck inside the circle, and it was all too likely to be Death's fault.
"That little bastard!"
Before he could call out for the god, however, Jörmungandr came slithering back up into his view again and disrupted his thoughts, going on about some 'shelf' as if this was all some silly little game and Harry wasn't stuck within the symbol that stood for his mastery of Death.
How utterly symbolic this is, Harry.
Would you shut up for one bloody minute, Riddle?!
"~This shelf has always fascinated those who come here,~" began Jörmungandr, sounding as though he had been waiting for centuries to speak about the topic. "~ But none have ever been able to open one of the books. Tell me, my little friend, are you a descendant of the mighty necromancers?~"
Harry stared blankly at the snake, his mind doing somersaults between claustrophobic panic and rising curiosity. The intrigue won out over the panic soon enough, though, and Harry was quick to turn wide eyes towards where the basilisk's golden gaze was pinned to.
"What in god's name...?"
The bookshelf stood out from the other shelves starkly, like white paint on a black canvas; so aggressive and sharp that Harry wondered how he hadn't noticed it before. It was smaller than the rest —almost stocky, if an inanimate object could be described as such a thing—and was made entirely of a pale, bone-like stone, which seemed to have been carved to appear as a shelf. It held roughly 50 books, he estimated, all appearing impossibly old and absolutely reeking of necromantic magic. He could smell it, all the way from inside the deathly hallows symbol, that distinctly sweet nectar of decay. He couldn't forget that magic if he tried, the smell and feel of it so incessantly tantalising that it nearly robbed his sense from his mind.
He was reminded, very suddenly, of a hot summer day on the edge of the road, picking a little fawn up in his hands and watching its skull piece back together as if life itself was nothing but a puppet for him to dance around on strings of golden-green light.
He felt the barrier separating him from the rest of the library fall away, and he practically stumbled to the shelf, his hands brushing faintly across the books as if they would disappear if he was too rough with them. Ancient. They were positively ancient. They reminded him so much of the books Death had gifted him when he was three. It almost hurt how familiar they were. It was like coming back to an old family friend you haven't seen since you were just a child. Harry swallowed thickly, resisting the urge to rip the books off the shelf and take off with them, Jörmungandr's rules against taking books from the library be damned.
"W-who...?" He stuttered out, trying to get his head around the new discovery in front of him while reminding himself to speak the language of snakes. "~Jörmungandr, who donated these to the library? Please, I need to know.~"
Jörmungandr nodded his large head gently, leaning closer to the old stone bookshelf. "~They were added roughly two hundred years after the school was founded. An aged man by the name of Peverell had come into the chamber with another man who spoke the serpent tongue. Through the translator, he explained that his brothers had been plagued by death through the books' use, and he wished to cleanse himself and his family of it before he passed on.~"
"~Ignotus Peverell?~" Harry asked, faintly. The knowledge that the first holder of the invisibility cloak had brought these necromancy books into the library made him shiver. Everything felt too perfect, too much of a coincidence. It felt like he was meant to be here, doing this.
Fate was probably doing a little dance, giddy that things had fallen into place. Harry got the distinct impression that Death was joining her.
"~Yes! Do you know of him?~" Jörmungandr sounded pleased, his excitement edging into his serpentine accent and making his s's drag longer than usual.
Harry sucked in a breath. This was just too perfect.
"~I'm familiar.~"
He brushed his fingertips along the book spines, feeling for the first time in his two lives that he was coming home. It was such an odd feeling. Was he feeling it because of the necromancy, or because he had always felt a sort of kinship with the Peverell brothers from the old nursery rhyme? Perhaps it was because Ignotus was the first holder of the invisibility cloak —the one thing that had defined so much of his childhood in his first life — but Harry couldn't help but feel close to the man's memory as well. Perhaps he was just feeling sentimental, but now that he was Master of Death, he truly felt like he owed it to the Peverells to read their books, in the very least. He had, after all, completed their tragic stories on a happy... well, on a less tragic note, he supposed.
Carefully reading the titles, trying to make sense of the Old English, Harry was quick to skim through several of the shelves, intrigued by the titles that he could understand and infinitely curious about the ones that he didn't. His skimming stopped short, however, when he came quite suddenly upon a book with an upside-down tree illustrated across the spine. No title, just a tree ripped up from the earth and hung upside down, its roots reaching up towards the heavens in some sort of vague depiction that Harry was certain had a meaning that he was missing. Intrigued, he gingerly pulled it out, finding the same illustration pressed deep into the worn leather of the front cover.
Oh my. Tom's voice was so incredibly quiet, Harry barely even realised he had said something.
What is it?
That's a family tree.
Harry's breath caught. Books about specific genealogy were held tightly to the chest, of that much he was aware. It was unheard of to even show a family tree to people outside of the family unless absolutely necessary, and to see it among these books in a library of all things...
He gently opened it to the front cover without a second thought.
Reading over the Peverell brothers' oldest known ancestors, the ones who were long dead but remembered by those who had created the book in the first place, was an interesting experience. Tom had told him many years prior that for a long time, tomes meant to document family trees were charmed to be self-updating, and that any family could make one if they were of the skill and social class to need and desire it. The creators of the book had their memories drawn upon, and all those who came before them that were still remembered by the book's creators would be written down in the first few pages, with just their names and lines connecting them to their descendants. That way, people reading it in the future could tell when they reached those who created the book, just by when they found the first people with a face put to the name, as the book started to document a person's facial features and name from conception to the age of 25, which was typically when the book was passed onto the next generation. Harry found rather quickly that the three brothers were only a few generations after the original creators of the book, but they were hardly the last.
Harry hummed, lowering himself to the ground to get comfortable as he slowly read through the family tree of long-dead generations. Ignotus had a son to whom he had given the cloak, of which Harry was aware, but the tall tale had not said much after that.
"Ah, here it is." He muttered, long finger poised over a familiar name. "Jonas Peverell. Looks like he had only one child, a daughter named-"
He stopped, staring uncomprehendingly at the name Iolanthe Potter nee. Peverell.
Potter.
Well... shit.
Harry started flipping through the book at a fast pace, no longer caring about the old pages as he followed the invisibility cloak's path as it was passed down the line of Potters for generations until...there.
He stared, disbelieving, at his own name and face. The portrait was him, without a doubt, the large lightning bolt scar too obvious to ignore. He was at the very end of the tree, sitting proudly at the end of the line that Ignotus Peverell's family had created. Flipping back through the prior few pages, he found with a distanced surprise that his grandparents on his father's side were named Charles and Euphemia Potter, and that he had no particularly close relatives. His family had only had one child per couple for a good seven generations, so he was the last of them.
Harry... you're descended from the Peverells.
Harry rubbed a long hand down his face, flipping the page back over again to look at his own portrait. There it was, undeniable and impossible to ignore. He was the last descendant of the Peverell family, and he didn't have the slightest clue what to do about it.
What should I do?
This was his family. It was his family that he had never truly gotten to name. It was his family that he shared something with, something that he thought was his and his alone to bear. Necromancers. He was descended from the Peverell brothers —from necromancers. Being Master of Death wasn't just his, being a necromancer wasn't just his, it was a legacy that had stayed in his family, had been hidden from the line but still passed down—down and down the line until he fulfilled all the requirements and became it. He had done it.
He was the end of a story that his ancestors had birthed out of blood and bone. It was his story to tell. It was his family's story to own.
It was his.
Harry felt like he had just completed something that was centuries in the making. He felt like he had done something for those long-dead ancestors that he had never gotten to meet.
Necromancers. His family had the blood of necromancers screaming through their veins.
For a short, barely-perceivable moment, Harry was perfectly content with the fact that he had been sent back in time, if only because he had been given the chance to know—to learn what had come of the Peverell line. What had come of his family.
Harry breathed deeply, listening quietly to the pleased hissing of Jörmungandr over his shoulder as he gazed up at the old stone bookcase. He was sitting in front of ancient necromantic texts that were, in any way that mattered, his birthright.
Springing forwards, he grabbed a few off the shelf, forgoing all sense as he scrambled up and started to travel back towards the circular stone table at the middle of the maze of books. He didn't gaze around at the other books this time. No, for the first time since he stepped foot in the library, he couldn't care less about what secrets could be held in those ancient shelves. For once, all he wanted to do was sit down and breathe in the history that he had never even brushed fingers against —history that had been lost to his family for so long that the only thing left of it outside of the library was a nursery rhyme that only crazy old men and power-hungry dark lords believed in.
Tom, I've decided something.
Yes?
Harry swallowed thickly, his excitement edging dangerously close to hysteria. This was all he needed from the library. He was curious, of course, about all the rest, but not nearly enough to care. He could learn any of it another day, but for now, this was crucial.
I don't care about the rest of the library. Let's just... let's just copy down that shelf, yeah? Only that one. The journal hasn't even been started yet, so it's not like we would be halting any of our progress.
... All right, Harry, if that's what you want.
"It is."
He stopped at the table, breathing deeply as excitement raced through his heart —through his blood.
"It's what I need right now Tom. I need this."
The frightened, lonely young child screaming out for his family went silent, shocked into stillness as Harry creaked open one of the aged, ancient books and turned to the first page.
Theo felt the heat of eyes on the back of his neck, pinning him in place as he poured over blurred pages of a tome older than his grandfather, three more sitting a little ways away, patiently waiting to be grabbed and dissected. He hadn't left from the seat he was in for hours, back hunched and aching as his eyes pieced apart the knowledge sitting in front of him as the seconds ticked down towards an impossible crescendo. It felt like if he stopped writing he would implode, his every muscle taut as a wire and his mind spiralling into overdrive. His hand was cramping, his wrist aching as he scribbled vigorously onto a piece of parchment that was one wrong quill placement away from ripping.
He was so, so close to relief.
He had woken up early that morning, feeling just as dead as always and already cramping in the wrist, but had still slipped into the great hall for a slice of toast and a cuppa before his friends were awake and able to convince him to go and do something besides read. He knew that they wanted him to do something other than sit there, pouring over dusty old tomes in the Hogwarts library, but he just couldn't. Harry seemed like the only one who really understood or, at the very least, respected his needs, and had kept well enough away from the entire nonsense of 'having fun' that Draco and Blaise were so incredibly keen to force onto him. He couldn't. He just couldn't.
He didn't have the time to do anything else, his hunches —his every nerve— was screaming at him that he needed to know everything he possibly could about the worship of Norse gods, and he couldn't fully concentrate on anything else till he had enough knowledge to stave off the thirst. He knew —he just knew that something horrible would happen if he didn't do this, if he didn't find the piece of information he needed to make the bad thing stop —it didn't matter what Draco or Blaise said about eating and sleeping and living . It didn't matter if he couldn't even manage to think beyond study study study study study study stud-
Putting the current tome aside with a rough shove, he pulled one off the stack next to him and threw it aggressively in front of him. Flipping furiously to the table of contents, he hissed out a pained groan to find that there wasn't one. There was a spike —like a shock of electricity—right through his spine, and for a moment Theo contemplated throwing the book across the library and then himself out the window. The feeling was growing shockingly quickly. He could barely even concentrate on the book, too focused on the stiffness in his muscles and joints and Merlin he was going to explode.
He breathed in deeply, forcing thoughts of panic and anger out of his mind as he let the physical pain wash over him. It was there for a reason —he knew it was—but it wasn't going to leave a lasting effect. It was just going to stick to him, painfully tight and spitting with fury until he finally found what the fates wanted him to find.
Breathing slightly easier, he flipped to the back and found the index, sighing with relief as the words peered up at him kindly as if they housed the forgiving light of Merlin himself. Gleaming as much as he could from the tiny print, he then flipped to the general area of a potential lead and began to read. He read several pages, eyes darting furiously from line to line, before picking up his quill again and picking back up where he left off, writing with the fury of ten scholars on a deadline.
It is theorised that each god specified wildly different things from their worshipers, which has made finding concrete evidence so difficult, as there are such wildly differing reports. Many have thought that each god had its own methods of worship, and even specific preferences towards sacrifices, which is what many historians believe has caused the differing opinions of many historical texts on the issue.
He paused, quickly reading over the passage a second time before flipping quickly back to the index. Reading through the source materials, he leapt to his feet and shot off to the religion section. He recognized one of the titles. He had never read it, but he knew that book. It had to be the answer his hunch was looking for.
Practically sprinting through the stacks, he came upon the book quickly and, muttering hurriedly to himself, ripped it from the shelf and sprinted back the way he came. Scrambling into the chair, he threw open the book and flipped furiously through the pages, trying to find one particular passage he knew had to be there. Coming upon it suddenly, Theo jolted as a sharp stab of electricity shot through him —a sign that he was on the right track—and so he leaned in close and eagerly drank up the words.
Gods of Norse mythos were known for being fairly precise when it came to their desired ritualistic practices. Many gods of old were known to have strong followings of massive groups of people, and ceremonies were general and vaguely similar. Conversely, and in a similar fashion of the tribes native to the Americas, the northern Germanic tribes of the 9th century AD that have been credited as the first worshipers of the Asgardian pantheon, were spread out and differed in opinion on how exactly one was to worship. Their gods emulated this fact.
It had been said that each of the Norse gods had a prophet write out a set of sacred documents that outlined each god's personal specifications for worship. These supposed documents would have then been used to bind a follower to a specific god, and would then allow the god and follower to have a close bond that many historians refer to as 'symbiotic'. However, these supposed documents have not been proven to have ever existed, and have been widely assumed by the vast majority of historians to be nothing but rumours. Many even believe that many of the documents that have been found had more nefarious purposes, as many of the rituals detailed inside of them have some sort of theme around demonic entities. It is widely believed that these falsified documents were created after the influence of Christianity in the Germanic region, though it is difficult to say for certain.
It didn't have specifics, but it was more than enough for him. Falling back into his chair with a sigh, Theo felt the ich recede, and his mind settled. For a moment, all he did was sit there and breathe, savouring the peace in his mind and body as the discomfort and ache in his muscles fell away. It was an indescribable feeling of relief after nearly a month of trying to figure out Blaise's idiotic disfunction.
Theo sighed, rubbing a hand down his face as the fatigue started to set in.
He could only assume that Blaise had to have come upon one of these supposed sacred documents, and was unknowingly or — Merlin forbid, knowingly — about to pledge himself to a random god. There wasn't anything life-threatening about that, per se, as it seemed reasonable to Theo to say that gods typically take good care of their followers, but it wasn't very good form, at least from what he had learned. There was also always the possibility of him doing it incorrectly as well, and Theo could only theorise what sort of creature Blaise could be letting into his body if that were to happen.
He opened his eyes, exhausted. The last time he had had one of these hunches was when he was trying to figure out what was up between Harry and Draco. He had eventually come upon soul bonds, and had sent a book to Harry about it for his birthday, which was all well and good, but the research had lasted most of the summer and had very nearly killed him. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, sucking in a sharp breath. Those two especially seemed to be trying very hard to kill him with all their mysteries. He had been searching the library for weeks after last Hallowe'en had happened — when he had gotten the overwhelming feeling that something had started. He had finally come upon creature inheritances and their effects, but the gruelling effort that had taken him to that realisation had not been worth it.
Honestly, he didn't know why his hunches always insisted on him researching these things concerning his friends, but he felt like he would eventually figure it out. It just felt like something that would be coming a bit later though, rather than right now.
Maybe it would be his next hunch.
Sighing, Theo opened his eyes and, with a pained grimace at the mess, began sorting through all of his notes.
No, perhaps it would come soon though. Theo was awfully certain that his next bout of agony would be in regards to Draco. He could already feel it growing ... itching at the back of his mind; an annoying sensation that begged him to push things just a little farther than he wanted. The fates already had their next task for him, and Theo wasn't about to spend another month wading through piles of books in order to find it.
Draco weaved in and out of the goalposts, dipping low then soaring high in the vague formation of loops in the air. He let himself fly fluidly —languidly, almost, and in the process ignoring every flying instructor he'd ever had screaming in his ear to grasp the broom more firmly. He smiled at the thought of them all throwing down their hats in astonishment at seeing him fly so lazily. Madam Merryweather, the old bat that she was, would probably have a stroke if she caught wind of it. He didn't really care about his form though, not now at least, too caught up in a mix of aching muscles, a wandering mind, and a high-strung emotion he refused to believe was concern.
The aching muscles were Flint's fault — no doubt about that. The bastard had been forcing the Slytherin quidditch team up and out of bed impossibly early each weekend to practice, and had then been keeping them all out at the pitch till lunch. If they were lucky they were allowed a short reprieve to go back inside to eat, before having to go back out and stay out, running drill after drill after drill till dinner. It was utterly gruelling, and Draco was starting to wonder if he would ever get his weekends back to enjoy how he pleased.
"Not that it matters." He muttered, grumbling angrily under his breath as he neared the goalposts. Even if he did somehow get the weekends off again, he would still have to contend with the silence that was sure to greet him in his dorms.
Weaving out of the goalposts and into the open air, he swerved upside down and hung like that for a moment, arms waving along with the breeze and mind contemplative. Harry had been impossible to keep track of over the last few weeks, and Draco had gotten incredibly sick of running after him in an effort to figure out exactly where he was going and what he was trying to do. It never worked regardless . Harry, Draco had unwittingly come to realise, was very good at disappearing when he wanted to. Draco had struggled to get even a moment alone with the other boy outside of meals —just barely long enough to question him about his disappearing act — and even once he had managed it, all the answers he'd gotten had been either frighteningly vague or infuriatingly convoluted. He never seemed capable of keeping the conversation onto the topic he wanted either, which seemed to be another thing Harry was surprisingly good at —changing the subject, that is.
It would be incredibly infuriating if Draco wasn't so impressed by it.
Perhaps he could be both at the same time.
Draco grumbled, turning right side up again as he neared the other side of the pitch. It wasn't that he was incredibly concerned for Harry—he knew that his friend could manage himself well enough on his own—it was just that Harry was never around anymore, and it was starting to get painfully annoying. It was only made worse by the fact that Theo was off on another research bender and Blaise couldn't be found far from that muggleborn firstie, so he couldn't go and bother either of them. It wasn't like either of them seemed all that interested in what Draco wanted to do regardless, but now he wasn't even being allowed the option of being ignored in lieu of other things.
Draco didn't really want to admit that he was a tad irked by all the secret-keeping and knowledge-plundering going on around him.
Picking up speed, Draco did a somersault and dove, reaching out for an imaginary snitch as the biting wind stung at his eyes. He neared the ground fast, wind in his ears and adrenaline pumping through his veins and focus driving every millisecond. Closer... closer... now! Pulling up half a foot away from the turf, he rocketed the other direction, crisscrossing around in complex patterns at breakneck speed. The wind on his face —biting and pleasant at the same time—made him whoop with glee as he whizzed across the pitch, so close to the turf that he could reach out a hand and brush his fingers across the grass if he wanted.
And it was fine, really, that Blaise and Theo also had their own little side projects that were carrying them away during the weekend. Theo was always holed up in the library regardless of if he was furiously researching or not anyway, and likely wouldn't want to do anything with Draco even if he had nothing of his own to do. And Blaise... well, Draco's interests didn't really align with Blaise's idea of fun.
He hardly liked being pushed to the side, but it was better than helping Blaise ruin another perfectly sane mind with his antics.
Draco flew a corkscrew pattern in the air, yanking up towards the sky and picking up speed and letting the thrill of flying drown out all his worries. At least he didn't have anything strange going on like his friends. At least he wasn't keeping secrets like Harry.
The tender skin on his back ached unpleasantly as it rubbed against his skin, and he winced at the feeling.
"That's different." He muttered to the sky. The grey expanse did not reply, but Draco got the distinct impression that it didn't believe him. That was fine. He didn't either. Not really.
Grey...? But it was sunny just a moment ago?
He stopped short, his attention yanked away from the thought as a searingly hot pain ripped across his back. It felt like the wind had gotten knocked from his lungs, and Draco nearly let go of the broom as he gasped and hunched over, taking in deep breaths of air in some sort of desperate grab to keep steady.
The wind was screaming at him, he realised, loud and thunderous. It sounded like it might rain any second. Draco had no idea how he hadn't noticed.
He blinked, swallowing thickly as he slowly, steadily, pointed his broom downwards and started to descend, his hair standing up on end as thunder boomed a ways off in the distance. He clambered to his feet on the turf, stumbling off the broom as the wind and the beginnings of rain thundered down on his back, searingly cold and shockingly painful. It wasn't like the gentle showerhead in the baths, he realised distantly, as he started running through the sudden downpour towards the stands. It was more like the thundering rapids of a waterfall; unpleasant and angry as it forced itself over him.
He made it under the stands just as the thunder boomed again, lightning lighting up the sky with an angry bolt of blue light. He jumped at the noise, feeling jumbled and confused as he crowded under the stands to take refuge from the sudden storm.
Sitting down on the rickety stairs, he stared dully out into the rain, breathing shallowly as the pain in his back crawled down from his shoulder blades towards the vague centre of his spine. Something felt wrong, like that wasn't supposed to have happened. Draco shivered, hugging his arms closer to his body as the rain dropped heavily onto the muddy earth outside the stands.
"Merlin." He whispered, gazing out into the downpour with wide eyes, water dripping down onto his face from the cracks in the floor above him. Draco was suddenly acutely aware of how cold it was outside, with his robes soaked through and clinging to him like a second skin. He shivered, hugging closer to himself as the onslaught only increased in intensity. He couldn't see the other side of the circular stands through the haze of falling water. Would he even be able to get back to the school through the low visibility? For some reason, Draco got the distinct impression he was being told by the elements to stay where he was till the rain let up.
...
He was freezing.
Standing with a start, he scrambled for his wand, pulling it out with shivering fingers that were already starting to numb from the mix of water and wind. Teeth clattering, he waved it over himself, murmuring the strongest warming charm he could remember as he fumbled for his broom with his other hand. He sighed slightly with relief as the warmth rushed through him —not enough to dry his clothes, but enough to make the freezing temperature of the water clinging to him considerably more bearable.
"Right then. Yes. Just stick to the path." He murmured to himself, clutching his broom close as he rounded to the other side of the stands, squinting slightly in an effort to make out the now muddy path back to the castle. He couldn't see much but a metre out in front of him, but as long as he could tell if there was a path beneath him or not, he should be able to manage.
Steeling himself for what was sure to be a rather unpleasant run through the rain, he lit a lumos on his wand and, with one last vague curse to the gods, took off running down the path.