Final exams came and went with no sign of the missing boy. The small wooden box with the life-death dial was mounted on the wall outside of the Charms classroom, with Potter’s shoes encased in a glass box beneath. The needle stayed resolutely fixed between the two indicators, but no one was sure what it meant.
News had gotten out to the press, and the Daily Prophet was all abuzz with headlines about his disappearance. It was no secret to the Wizarding world how instrumental Potter had been in the defeat of the Dark Lord Voldemort, and when a war hero of that calibre goes missing, it’s front page news. The part of Draco that still craved attention and approval noted bitterly that his own role in Voldemort’s defeat would never be known, and if he were to ever disappear it would hardly be a footnote.
The last supper service before winter break was boisterous in spite of the recent events. There was the usual relief from the stress of exams, the excitement over the season's first big snowfall, and of course the joy of Christmas ahead of them. The Great Hall was clamorous and energetic beneath a charmed ceiling that was filled with enormous dangling ornaments. The ghosts whizzed around cheerfully, or as cheerfully as they were able. The Bloody Baron loomed over the Slytherin table with an expression that was almost a smile of approval.
"Malfoy, think fast!" Goyle lobbed a candy apple at Draco's head. Draco ducked and the Apple hurtled past him.
"If only you moved that fast on the Quiddich pitch," Blaize scoffed. Everyone laughed.
"If only Potter had disappeared at the beginning of the term, we might have beaten Griffindor," Goyle addedwith a hyena cackle.
"Very funny," Draco sneered. The hall was too loud and his head was killing him. He hadn't had much appetite all week and the spread of decadently rich food before him did nothing to tempt his stomach.
He could hear the Ravenclaw table quizzing each other merrily over the recently completed exam material. The Hufflepuffs were joking and singing. The Griffindors were having a more subdued, but determined good time, as though committed to enjoying themselves in spite of their loss.
It was all too much, too loud, overcompensating for the lingering awareness that something terrible had happened.
"Can anybody hear me?"
Draco looked up and checked down the table. "Beg pardon?" He asked Pansy.
"I didn't say anything," she looked up in surprise.
"Anybody, please, if anybody can hear me please say something!"
Draco looked behind him but couldn't be sure where the request was coming from. Well it wasn't at the Slytherin table, that was for sure. He listened but the question didn't repeat. He wondered if he had imagined it.
At the end of the feast the students returned to their houses to finish packing for winter break. Most of the students would be heading home for the holiday, with just a few electing to remain behind. Draco jostled with the rest of his housemates as they neared the door of the Great Hall, half an ear occupied by Blaize's insipid prattling about the expensive presents he anticipated from his mother this year.
"Can anyone hear me?"
Draco turned and eyed the fourth-year student who was trying to squeeze past his elbow. The boy only came up to his bicep, but the voice had been right next to his ear. He checked behind him but saw only second-year girls. He frowned. Was he hearing things? Maybe he was just tense and projecting sounds where there were none. He cocked his head and listened but it didn't happen again.
He excused himself and ducked down a side corridor in search of the loo. He needed a break from the clamor, from the voices pounding at his ears. He stepped into the boys washroom, relieved himself, and checked his reflection. As he exited he spotted Weasley and Granger coming slowly up the hallway. He ducked his head and paused for a drink at the fountain as they passed.
"How can we leave for holiday without him?" Said Granger tearfully.
"What else can we do?" Weasley said gently. "We'll go by the Charms room one more time so you can see that the needle hasn't moved, but then we have to go.
Draco stood and watched them as they walked away. Weasley was bracing Granger as though she were fragile. The pain of their loss radiated from them, nearly tangible in its intensity. Suddenly he heard a morose sigh behind him and he spun around, embarrassed that he'd been caught watching the Griffindor duo.
The corridor behind him was empty, dim and shadowed. He poked his finger into his ear and wiggled it, wondering if he was hearing things due to a wax buildup. Feeling a bit disconcerted he turned on his heel and headed for Slytherin house.
As he descended the steps to the dungeon he caught a flit of Gray and white out of the corner of his eye. The bloody Baron was patrolling the hall, his expression haughty and displeased as he rattled his chains. Draco bowed respectfully and the Baron bowed in return.
"Pardon me, Baron," Draco had learned long ago to address Slytherin's ghost with care, "but would you know anything about the disappearance of Harry Potter?"
"All of the ghosts know about the disappearance of Harry Potter," the Baron replied with a snooty tone.
"You do?" Draco's heart leapt hopefully. "Have you seen him?"
"Of course not," the Baron replied. "Everyone knows he has disappeared."
"Oh," Draco realized now what he had meant. "Of course." He chides himself for getting his hopes up, and more so for feeling any emotion about it at all. He turned to enter Slytherin house. "Have you heard any voices?" Draco Asked suddenly.
"Such as?" The Baron rattled his chains impatiently. Draco knew he was due for his nightly moaning session in the Astronomy tower.
"I don't know, never mind," Draco shook his head and bid the ghost goodnight.
He entered the Slytherin common room and dropped onto the sofa in front of the fireplace. Miles Bletchley flopped down next to him and heaved a laborious sigh.
"Ready for Christmas, Malfoy?" He asked.
"I suppose," Draco stared into the flickering firelight and thought about what Christmas would be like this year.
"Your folks are both in Azkaban, right?" Miles asked. "Who are you spending the holiday with?"
"No one," Draco rubbed his temple and tried to look bored.
"That's no fun," Miles frowned. "Are you as least going to Zabini's mum's Christmas Eve party this year?"
"I don't know," Draco said honestly. "I'm not sure I feel like doing much of anything."
"I understand," Miles nodded. "It's been a tough year, hasn't it? I suppose you're probably just happy to be celebrating anything at all, rather than dead or in Azkaban yourself."
"Good point," Draco sighed.
"If it helps, most of us are envious," Miles said. "You fought the good fight for purebloods everywhere, then got off scot-free. Your a king among Slytherin's."
"Thank you, Miles," Darco muttered.
Miles finally got the hint and left him to brood. Draco glared at the fireplace and tried not to dwell on his words. In his younger years he would have relished Miles' praise, and would have basked in the warm glow of his housemates' adoration. He would have been proud of his accomplishments if he'd done as Miles had said. It was something of an irony that he hadn't actually done any of that, would no longer find pride in it if he had, but was unable to deny it and tell what had really happened.
He touched his forearm, thinking of the mark hidden beneath the sleeve of his black blazer. He remembered Severus Snape and the unbreakable vow.
In the morning the school emptied out with a subdued resignation. The previous night's supper had been appropriately cheerful, if a bit forced. But underneath it all the student body was tense, concerned that Harry potter hadn't been located yet. The most common farewell among the departing students was, "See you in January when Harry is back!" But Draco was pessimistic. It seemed as though he would have been found already, if he were able to be found. In his experience, resolution either came quickly or not at all. Every day that passed without a clue to Potter's whereabouts made him less and less likely to be found.
Draco lounged in the Slytherin common room and waved a casual goodbye to his departing housemates as they filed out. He had decided overnight to stay on at Hogwarts rather than head home for the holiday. Malfoy Manor was in ruins, his parents were in Azkaban, and the luxury flat he'd purchased in London was too new to feel like home. And who knew? Maybe he would stumble across a clue to Potter's whereabouts. Not that he cared that much, he thought.
After lunch he stopped by Professor McGonagall's office in the hopes of catching her before she left. She had only recently moved her effects up to Dumbledore's old Headmater suite, preferring to remain in the Deputy Headmaster office instead. But now that his many artifacts were being searched for usefulness in the Potter-search, she'd finally made the transition. He knocked gingerly on the door and peered into the cluttered space, wondering if she was in.
"Minerva?" He called.
"Over here!" Professor McGonagall's head popped up from between two very large crates. "Draco, come help me move this."
Draco crossed the room and crouched to lift the edge of a large wooden slab. It was carved in heavy relief with what looked like pictograms all over it. "What is this?" He grunted as they slowly moved it into the middle of the room. They set it down and Professor McGonagall knelt beside it with interest.
"It's relic of Atlantis," she said thoughtfully as she ran he fingers across the surface. "They had advanced knowledge of long-distance transportation. I thought it might give us a clue to Mister Potter's whereabouts."
"Still searching?" Draco asked the obvious.
"Still searching," she stood and braced her back stiffly. "Did you need something, my boy?"
"I just wanted to see how it was coming," Draco tried to look only casually interested.
"Nothing yet," she sighed and straightened her peacked hat. "I feel guilty leaving for the holidays, but Sybill and I thought it would be helpful to visit some of our colleagues who could lend their expertise to the problem."
"Minerva," he hesitated. She wagged he finger at him tolerantly. "Sorry, Professor McGonagall. I heard Professor Trelawney say she felt dark magic at work. My father had an extensive collection of dark magic writings. I could donate them to the cause if you think they would help."
McGonagall smiled. "But a donation like that may not go unnoticed." Her brow furrowed, "If you're still concerned about the remaining uncaptured Death Eaters, you might consider whether it would be wise to move them directly."
"I can make the transfer secretly," he said. "It doesn't need to be a public announcement. It's the least I can do."
"Then I appreciate the offer," Professor McGonagall's eyes moistened. "And if he were here I'm sure Harry would thank you, too."
"I'm not offering for his sake," Draco scowled. "It's academic, purely. It's the sort of help Severus would have offered. I'm doing it for him, not for Potter."
"Severus would be proud," she smiled gently.
"I'll make arrangements to transport my father's collection over winter break. I'll bring them in quietly and if anyone asks you can say they were found in Professor Snape's collection." He grimaced, "It won't be the first time he's covered for me."
"Happy Christmas, Draco," Professor McGonagall squeezed his shoulder.
"Happy Christmas, Minerva."
Draco returned to the dungeon and started working out a plan to carefully move his father's collection of Dark Arts books to the school without drawing attention to himself. To McGonagall's point, he was in a delicate place with regards to his reputation. As far as the remaining members of Voldermort's followers were concerned, he was the son of one of the most infamous Death Eaters, whose youth and inexperience had kept him out of harm's way and won him an acquittal during the war trials. And as long as there were wanted Death Eaters at large, he would have to protect that reputation. He would have difficulty explaining how his father's belongings had ended up in the hands of Hogwarts officials if the public story was to be believed. Not even his own servants knew the truth. Severus had drilled the notion of secrecy into him before he took his own secrets to the grave.
He penned a careful note to his housekeeper, asking for his father's books to be crated and shipped in his name to Borgin and Burkes for holding. He then wrote a quick note to Borgin and Burkes explaining what he would like them to do when the crate arrived. He sat back and reread the two notes, making sure they sounded sufficiently sneaky to cover up the altruistic nature of his activity. He wondered again at the irony of the life he now led.
He headed upstairs to send the notes off and found himself cutting through the corridor that passed by the Charms classroom. He wasn't sure why he was going this way, it wasn't exactly a shortcut. But in spite of himself he stopped before the case that contained the life-death meter and Potter's shoes. The shoes were nothing special, inexpensive trainers with black fabric tops and rubber soles. But the sight of them, empty and abandoned, struck Draco with a sorrow he couldn't explain.
He lifted the hinged glass front and reached a finger through the gap so he could touch the sole. Why were his shoes left behind when the rest of him disappeared? And did that mean he was shoeless in whatever place he'd been sent to? He checked up and down the deserted corridor to make sure he was alone, then lifted the glass panel all the way up and took one of the shoes out completely.
He held it gently in his hands and looked at the weathered insole. He could see the worn indentation where Potter had stepped down repeatedly over weeks and months of wear. The cushioning was permanently compressed where he bore the most weight. Draco could see that he had high arches and that he stood mostly on the ball of his foot. It dawned on him that whether Potter was ever found or not, the wear pattern on the inside of this shoe was a unique signature that he left to this world. The footprints in these shoes were definitive proof of his physical existence. The weight of his body had pressed down and signatured these shoes.
A drop of water fell onto his thumbnail and he glanced up to see if the ceiling wad leaking. Belatedly he realized it had come from him. Startled, he swiped his sleeve across his cheek. What and absurd thing to do, he thought. Crying over shoes. He looked up at the life-death meter and grimaced. It was still hovering resolutely halfway between the two marks.
Suddenly a warm sensation crept over his hands as they clutched the shoe. He looked down in surprise, then looked around to determine what could be the source of the heat. It wasn't just a little bit warm, it was distinctly warmer. Just his hands, and just this moment. He thought maybe the warmth was coming from the shoe itself, but it was the outside of his hands that were heated, not the trainer between his palms.
He looked up again and his breath caught in his throat. Did he imagine it or did the needle just wobble? He couldn't be sure, but he could have sworn it had moved, just slightly, and most importantly towards the Alive side of the scale.
The warmth receded from his hands as quickly as it had come, and the needle bobbed back to the centre. No matter how hard he stared it didn't wiggle again. He moved the shoe around, towards ther meter, further away, but it sat as it did before, halfway between life and death. Nothing he did made it budge. He pursed his lips in frustration and jammed the shoe back into the case. He stared for a moment longer but nothing changed. He finally shrugged and turned to leave.
*sigh*
Draco stopped in his tracks. He knew that sound. That was the same breath he had heard when Weasley and Granger had passed by. The hair stood up on the back of his neck as he peeked over his shoulder. The hallway was empty. He suddenly became aware of just how deserted Hogwarts was and goosebumps pickled up his arms. He turned and ran for the stairs.