Chapter 1: The Stone

For the first time in many years, Draco was not concerned with Harry Potter.

He rubbed the blade of grass between his fingers, and watched the soft, green leaf give way as he tore it in two.

There was a time when Potter had been in the forefront of his mind. Every mention of him in the papers, good or bad; every time he passed Potter and friends in the hallway; every thought of that elusive Quidditch victory that now would never be his.

But now, it didn't matter. He didn't matter. Harry fucking Potter, Boy Who Lived, the fucking Chosen One, didn't matter. Not to Draco.

He had so much more to think about, now. More important things than Potter.

Draco smirked, and dropped the blade of grass, now broken into two. Everything had changed now.

He lay back on the grass, and wondered absently whether his robe was getting dirty. It had rained the night before, and the grounds were somewhat muddy. But that didn't matter, either. So his robes were darkened.

Once upon a time it would have mattered. Like Potter.

He breathed in, smelling soil and wet, early autumn air. Above him, the sky was clear blue, empty of clouds. The crisp sun held just a trace of warmth. It was late in the afternoon.

He hadn't had much time to himself since the school year began. At first, the high of it all had buoyed him. He'd basked in the attention, the certainty of it. He had a role to play. He could feel the knowledge of his task, his importance, exuding from every pore, and he watched as others responded to it. Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle, they knew something was different, that he was different. They were prepared to follow, and he was their natural leader. Pansy was prepared for... other things, too. He hadn't taken her up on it yet. Like everything else, that didn't quite seem to matter either, or at least not as much as it had before.

Even Snape saw the difference. Draco was sure of it. He saw something in Snape's eyes that hadn't been there before. Respect or... maybe it was jealousy. Snape had taken that vow, but that was because he wanted the glory for himself…

But Snape wouldn't get what he so wanted. This was Draco's role to play. Draco's task. The Dark Lord had chosen him.

This wasn't how he'd imagined it would be, though. He had imagined a different path for his future, a slow but sure path to power like his father's. A path that would have had time for a win against Gryffindor and Potter. At the thought, Draco sat up suddenly, sneering. Such pitiful concerns. How could he have cared so much about something so unimportant?

He grabbed a stone that lay next to his ankle. A flat, dark stone, not quite the size of his palm. Slightly uneven on the bottom, and moist with dirt.

Draco stared at the stone for only a moment, and then pressed it into the grass, tearing a few blades from the soil. He ground the stone into a patch of grass in circles, wanting to see the green bleed, to see the life force escape.

But grass didn't really bleed. It did release a sweet, earthy scent. Draco shrugged slightly. That would have to be enough.

This wasn't the path that he'd imagined, but it was the one he would take. Snape wouldn't steal his glory. And his father would expect him to do it.

And it was infinitely better than thinking about Potter.

He felt a gaze burning the back of his head as he listened to Slughorn. And then Draco knew Potter's eyes were on him, as he cut away at the root. Draco was determined to win that potion, but perhaps not as much as he would have been in the past. The potion could help him with his task, but some of his drive was gone, the drive to do any challenge that was thrown his way. He wanted to win, to beat Potter. He could still taste the desire in the back of his throat, but... it just wasn't the same.

And so, of course, Potter won it. Potter, whom Snape had always derided in Potions. But perhaps this was Snape's oversight. Draco was more than Snape's equal now, in the Dark Lord's eyes. He realized that Snape could make mistakes. Underestimating Potter was undoubtedly one such mistake.

But Potter wasn't Draco's concern anymore. Yes, the Felix Felicis might have helped him, but Draco would find his own way.

As they walked away from Potions, Draco felt Potter's gaze on him again. He wanted to turn and push Potter away, hard. To tell him: stop following me, stop staring, this rivalry doesn't matter anymore. I have more important things on my mind than you.

But then he'd be making the same mistake as Snape. No, Draco wouldn't underestimate Potter, but nor would he be goaded on and distracted from his task.

In the Great Hall that evening, Potter wasn't watching him anymore. He was too intent on reading some book. From where Draco sat, surrounded by Slytherins, he couldn't make out what book it was that so held Potter's attention.

Voices drifted around Draco, inconsequential. Crabbe and Goyle, engaging in what could not truly be called banter, at least not by a discerning mind. Pansy appeared fascinated by the feel of the cloth of Draco's new robes. It was high quality, he couldn't fault her taste. She was stroking it, admiringly, perhaps possessively, while regaling Draco with the story of her day. He nodded at most of the right times. If she knew he wasn't really listening, she didn't show it.

He was thinking. Had he gone about this in the right way? At first it had seemed like a brilliant idea, but now, faced with the task looming ahead of him, he couldn't help but wonder. But he didn't have room for doubt. He'd succeed, and open a path to Hogwarts right beneath everyone's increasingly watchful eyes. This had to have been the right choice.

And then a thought rose unbidden in his mind. What would Potter and friends do? That Mudblood would undoubtedly have some clever plan, which Potter would simply follow and come out on top.

Draco shook the thought away. His situation was the opposite, as always, from Potter's. He had followers, not friends. This was Draco's strength. Crabbe and Goyle would do what he bid them to. But Draco would have to rely on his own mind. Crabbe and Goyle certainly didn't have anything to offer in that arena.

Besides, Potter would never kill anyone. He wouldn't have the nerve. Not to take a life, not to extinguish the existence of another being. Potter was too soft, too inconsequential, Chosen One bullshit aside. In fact, Draco highly doubted that Potter would ever have the nerve to fulfill that prophecy, whatever the details, even if he could ever get to the Dark Lord.

Draco, on the other hand, would prove that he did have what it takes. Draco wasn't stupid, he knew the Dark Lord might not intend for him to succeed. But he would prove them all wrong.

He turned his focus to Pansy, whose attentions to his robe had become more and more intimate. He flashed her a smile, and she met his gaze with a flare in her eye. Perhaps a little distraction wouldn't hurt, after all.

All day in that room with that fucking cabinet. All day in a place that didn't exist, and sometimes when he stared at the thing, it just looked like a cabinet.

Lessons were slipping by him. Quidditch was slipping by him. He was missing out on everything. He almost didn't remember what it was to just sit with the others, laughing silently--or out loud--at Crabbe and Goyle. To be annoyed by Pansy's constant touching. To talk about Quidditch. To complain about Potter.

Now it was just him and the cabinet. This cabinet that would ensure that he could play his role. If only he could just fix the fucking thing.

He kicked the cabinet, hard, and couldn't help but laugh as his foot throbbed. Typical.

This wasn't going to work. Fuck.

Maybe he needed a back up plan, something... something else.

How could a room that was created just for his needs feel so claustrophobic? It was spacious, the ideal work room for his task, and yet it felt as if there was no air. No windows, just cream colored walls that watched, impassively, as he tried again and again to fix the cabinet. To make it a pathway. To turn it from a broken down piece of furniture into the key to everything.

If he didn't succeed... but he wasn't even going to think about that.

Draco sank to the ground and leaned his head against the cabinet. It smelled of old wood and must. It reminded him of the unused rooms in Malfoy Manor in which he used to hide when he was young. He used to wait in those rooms for someone to find him. He would lie on the large, high bed or sit on the floor next to some Malfoy family artifact, exhilarated by how cut off he was from everything, half hoping he'd be found, half hoping he wouldn't.

Now he was in a room that didn't even exist. If he stayed here, no one could find him. What would they all say? Draco Malfoy has disappeared. Just vanished. Draco smirked at the thought of the ruckus Slytherin would be sent into. The whole school, no doubt. It would be a great mystery. It would even make the papers. All the first year girls would swoon, telling tales of the missing Draco Malfoy, how handsome and mysterious he was. Not that they didn't already.

Potter and friends would undoubtedly be pleased, though. Potter would rule the school. It was disgusting how much he did so already. Draco hadn't had time to compete this year, hadn't had time to make Potter doubt himself, not since that satisfying encounter in the train. But he still wanted to wipe that Chosen One smug grin off Potter's face. Potter's superiority complex had gotten even worse this year. Draco couldn't miss it, every time he looked over and saw Potter with the Mudblood and Weasel, all caught up in their lives, going forward while his had just stopped. God, he hated them.

But Draco didn't have the time or energy to do anything about it. This room and this cabinet was becoming his all. Maybe he was being too single minded. He needed to come up with another approach. Maybe something more direct. Something that didn't require backup.

Draco stood in one fluid move. Looking at the cabinet in disdain, he gave it one more swift kick for good measure before leaving.