Severus hadn’t been the only one who wanted to take a peek at his arm, as Draco later found out. He’d been about to turn in for the night when Pansy Parkinson sauntered into his dorm—her ivory nightgown loose over her shoulders and riding up her thighs in a way that could only be described as improper. She looked like a vestal virgin, cultivator of the sacred fire. Well, he thought, her heated gaze certainly lit a fire when it settled on him.

Letting the lid of his trunk slide free of his hand, Draco moved back to his bed, scooted to the middle, and arranged himself amongst the fluffy pillows. The caramel-skinned witch was all hungry eyes and low inhibitions as she swayed her hips left and right to get closer to his four-poster.

When Pansy reached the edge of the plush mattress, she lifted a knee to place it atop the soft surface, revealing the absence of knickers. It was soon joined by her second knee, and then she slithered her way upward until she straddled his relaxed hips. Though this vestal had not taken a thirty-year vow of chastity, Pansy sure knew how to carry out the sacrosanct rites. She looked all but ready to collect her due from the sacred spring. Draco felt himself harden beneath her.

“Did you have a nice Christmas?” she asked, her tone as suggestive as her lewd attitude.

Draco shrugged. “It was all right.”

“Hmm,” she purred, moving her hips back and forth over his crotch. “Did you miss me?”

Frankly, he hadn’t. He had not given Pansy a single thought; they didn’t have that kind of relationship. Friends with benefits would be one way to label what they had—except they weren’t exactly friends. She was only a a bit of fun on the side. It was a crude way to put it, yes. But they were Slytherins, and Slytherins didn’t do affaires de coeur. They entered into arranged marriages to further their families’ lineages and formed strategic alliances to earn beneficial positions. And Death Eaters marriages were even worse; they involved so much adultery that no one even blinked anymore.

Pansy was only a means to an end. She was a way for him to satiate his carnal needs and escape the realities of life—if only for a short while. He wasn’t sure what he was to the caramel-skinned witch—if she felt the same way or was only trying to gain his favour to secure her place in the race to the Malfoy name. Either way, he didn’t care.

When Pansy bent down to kiss him, Draco let her, parting his lips obligingly. When her rolling hips became more insistent, he moaned into her mouth. The instant she let go of his lips, he reached for his wand and spelled the curtains closed around his bed. She had him naked and eager less than a minute later.

And it would have been a fun night, too—if Pansy hadn’t stared at his Dark Mark too long once it was unveiled. Her stare contained so much awe and admiration that it made Draco’s stomach churn when he caught her intense gaze. He had half a mind to flip her over on his bed and take her roughly from behind in response. But just then, the thought struck him that it would have been exactly the kind of thing people like him—Death Eaters—were expected to do. They took without asking, with no regard to the welfare of others, seeking only to fulfil their own needs. Draco may have been branded a Death Eater. But at heart, he wasn’t one.

He violently pushed Pansy off, snarling at her to, “Get out of here.”

“Draco?” she asked, blinking stupidly at him.

“Get. Out. Now.” He made the words sound like separate sentences, and they cut her with their sharp intensity. “And don’t bother coming back again.”

***

Classes were the same monotonous drag they’d been the year before, and Draco’s week sunk to an all-time low when he entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom for a double period with Gryffindor. Those shared double servings—Potions and Defence—were the bane of his existence. Why the headmaster insisted on that grotesque combination, he had no idea. Slytherins would work so much better with the brainier Ravenclaws, or hell, even the anaemic ’Puffs if they had to—anything but the goody-two-shoes lions they were always paired with.

Hermione Granger, for one—insufferable, snotty, know-it-all that she was—was a constant annoyance. How she had any room for a brain beneath all that hair was a mystery to him. Yet Granger had always been able to best his grades, no matter how hard he worked. Inept, cowering, pathetic Neville Longbottom was equally annoying for entirely different reasons—but at least Draco needn’t suffer his ineptitudes in Potions anymore. And then, of course, there was Harry bloody Potter—Boy Who Lived and wizard extraordinaire, the hero of the Wizarding World, the teenager on whose shoulders the fate of humanity rested. What a joke! Scarred forehead, unfashionable glasses that consumed half his face, some kind of exotic bird’s nest for hair—if that was the best the Light could do, they had reasons to be worried. At least Potter didn’t look like he wore hand-me-down clothes anymore. But there was still plenty to criticise about the opposite side’s champion.

As always, Weasley the weasel sat next to him, his ginger hair an affront to everything tasteful. Some golden trio they were. Between the Brainiac Muggleborn and the Pureblood urchin, sixth-year Gryffindor was the embodiment of everything wrong with today’s wizarding society.

“Really? Can no one think of a way to circumvent that?” Professor Nine asked, catching Draco’s attention, for her tone had risen above her usual soft speech. And he surmised this wasn’t the first time she’d had to ask her question—though which question it was, he had no idea.

He couldn’t help but glance at where Granger sat. Her right hand was resting on her table, her fist clenched. Well, well, well—looks like Ms Know-It-All has no idea, he thought mirthfully.

Their tall, raven-haired professor’s chestnut eyes scanned the class, waiting for an adventurous attempt at an answer. He felt her gaze sweep past him, but it didn’t linger. Instead, it came to rest on—Harry Potter, of all people.

“Wandless magic?” the Gryffindor replied tentatively. “House-elves do it all the time for any number of things.”

It must have been the correct answer, for a pleased smile bloomed on their teacher’s glossy lips. A long, pale finger rose to push back the glasses on her nose—a frequent nervous gesture—and she moved back to the centre of the class to launch into a monologue. “Yes, wandless magic, indeed,” she replied. “And that will be the subject of today’s lesson. It will keep us occupied for the next two months or so. Can anyone…”

Draco let their professor’s French-accented voice trail off into the background as he fought to keep his annoyance at bay. Wandless was so passé, and Harry blasted Potter was their new Defence Against the Dark Art’s teacher’s pet. Though she tried not to be too obvious about it, it was undoubtable that Leen Nine favoured him. It wasn’t like Remus Lupin, their third-year teacher, who’d been cheering on the brat due to a shared past with the boy’s father. No, it was something much simpler—Professor Nine liked Potter because he was an excellent student.

And loathe as Draco was to admit it, it was the truth. Somewhere between last year and September 1st, Potter had become skilled at many things. Where he used to barely scrape As in Charms and Transfiguration, he now got frequent Es. Even their exacting Potions’ Professor had been forced to refrain from giving him Ts and had gone as far as to give him an A a month’s back. But Defence was the class where the dark-haired menace most excelled. At times, he knew the answers to questions that left even Granger stumped, which was quite a rarity—as if Boy Wonder needed the ego boost. It almost made Draco regret the days of Dolores Umbridge. Dumb as she had been, at least she’d had it in for Potter and his prim entourage from day one.

The only teacher Draco could still count on to be consistent in his discontent for the scar-faced teen was their dreaded Potions professor. Severus Snape was the only one these days who didn’t toady to Wizarding Britain’s scrawny hero and his lacklustre entourage.

Such a shame their new Defence teacher was so biased. If Nine had favoured Slytherin House a little more, he’d have considered her more than decent and adequate. She did know what she was talking about, and her syllabus was well-structured and tried to cover substantial ground quickly. Professor Nine had never shared her academic background with her students—and Draco hadn’t been bothered to try and find out—but it was obvious she’d had a lot of hands-on experience. It showed in the very stance she sometimes took in class. Her posture slipped into that of a witch ready to duel so quickly and effortlessly that you’d think it was second nature. And the rigorous seriousness with which she led her classes was second to none but Professor Snape.

Yes, under different circumstances, Draco would have enjoyed Leen Nine’s classes very much. But as it was, he wondered why he bothered showing up. What was the point, after all? By the end of the year, it would all be over—or if he should fail, he would be over.

At times like these, he wished his side would lose the damned war. Let Dumbledore and his army of goody-two-shoes win. Let Boy Wonder gallantly sweep in to save the day. Draco couldn’t see himself living in the world of darkness that Voldemort’s rise to power was sure to bring. He was caught between a rock and a hard place, with no third option in sight. It was either fail at the suicide mission he’d been tasked with or succeed, only to earn himself a life of grovelling at a sick bastard’s feet.

He’d never envied Potter as much as he did at that moment. That annoying brat really had it all: the loyal friends, the dedicated teachers standing in his corner, and a headmaster who looked at him like he was the best thing to have passed Hogwarts’ doors in decades. Merlin’s beard, but that sure as hell beat the hand that Fate had dealt him.

***

Draco’s annoying day culminated in an irritating evening spent alone in the Room of Lost Things. He’d spent most of his free time last year in that god-awful mess of a room, amidst knickknacks and clutter, but even that hadn’t been enough. Or so he’d been told when he’d been forced to admit that he hadn’t succeeded in his mission—yet.

Punishment for his failure had been swift and fierce. A slap across the face from his father which resulted in a split lip when his signet ring connected with his tender flesh. And his first experience with the Dark Lord’s favourite brand of punishment—the Cruciatus Curse—later that same night. Something had to be wrong with him that he couldn’t tell which one had hurt more.

Both of the puppeteers that pulled his strings had gone to great lengths to explain to him that he better complete his task—and fast. Seeing as he couldn’t plot a good old-fashioned murder on his own—and boy, had those words hurt when they came out of his mother’s mouth—breaking through Hogwarts’ defences, like the Greeks had done in Troy centuries ago, was the only viable option.

Draco had missed the reference when Narcissa had brought up that famous story. Where his Pureblood mother had learned it from, he had no clue. An opera, maybe? But he had looked it up afterwards. He’d easily found Homer’s book and thumbed his way through the Odyssey until he reached the right chapter detailing that tipping point of the Trojan War. And what an interesting read that had been. Hiding an elite force inside a giant wooden horse and fooling the Trojans into wheeling the horse into the city as a trophy—that was a stroke of genius. Surely the man behind it, Odysseus, had been a wizard.

During the holidays, Draco had proceeded to read the entire book from beginning to end. And when the time came to return to Hogwarts, he’d packed its prequel, the Iliad, at the bottom of his trunk.

He sometimes dreamed that he was Telemachus and working with Athena to find his missing father, Odysseus. The missing war hero had left for Troy when his son was still an infant, and in his absence, his house had been occupied by hordes of suitors seeking the hand of his wife, Penelope.

Even if parts of the story hit too close to home for comfort, those dreams were still much better than the ones that the Dark Lord inspired. But Draco was no Telemachus; he didn’t have a faithful Peisistratus by his side or a benevolent Athena to accompany him on his quest. And his father wasn’t worth finding.

Draco was alone with his herculean task. And should he fail, there would be no one standing between him and a well-aimed Avada Kedavra that would throw him straight over the Styx.