Chapter 42: The Message on the Wall
Draco Malfoy was in a cold fury. Yesterday, in broad daylight, a giant, magically scrawled message had appeared on a wall near the Charms corridor:
DRACO MALFOY IS A DEATH EATER.
By the time he'd arrived, a gawping crowd had already gathered. The words had been hastily Vanished by a passing professor, but the damage was done. The very term was a poison-tipped dagger in the current climate—especially with Dumbledore and Potter shouting about the Dark Lord's return from the rooftops. It was a public slap, a dangerous provocation.
Very few people would dare, and even fewer had the knowledge to make the accusation stick. The list of suspects was short. And this morning, Goyle had provided a crucial piece of the puzzle: a Hufflepuff claimed they'd seen that Gryffindor oddity, Elian Thorne, loitering near the same wall the day before, studying it as if planning a masterpiece.
Thorne. The name was like a lit fuse. Of course it was him.
That's why Draco now stormed across the grounds, Crabbe and Goyle in his wake, his rage a white-hot brand. He found the object of his hatred by the Black Lake, chatting with that spacey Lovegood girl as if he hadn't a care in the world.
"You!" Malfoy spat, skidding to a halt on the gravel. He didn't bother with preamble. "It was you, wasn't it? The writing on the wall!"
Elian looked up, his expression one of mild, infuriating bemusement. Perfect, he thought. The fish was rising to the bait. Now he just had to play the line.
"What are you on about now, Malfoy?" Elian's tone was light, almost bored.
"Don't play dumb! Someone saw you skulking around there yesterday!"
"Did they?" Elian's smile was a knife. "Is Malfoy Manor's heir so sensitive? Or is it because the words hit a little too close to home?" He leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice to a taunting whisper. "After all, with the Dark Lord back, where do you think your dear father, Lucius, is? And your mother? Still polishing the family silver, or polishing their Dark Marks?"
Malfoy's face paled, then flushed with a blotchy, furious red. How did he know? How could he possibly—? The shock was a physical blow. He couldn't admit anything. Not here. The Dark Lord's return was still a secret to the masses, and admitting any connection would be a death sentence, even for a Malfoy.
"You have no proof!" Malfoy snarled, clinging to the last shred of deniability.
"And you have no proof it was me," Elian shot back, his smirk widening. He was walking a razor's edge, pouring all his effort into projecting arrogant disdain, hoping the sheer audacity of his lies would sell the act.
Proof? He'd been careful. He'd left the 'evidence' for a Slytherin to find, a trail of breadcrumbs leading right back to him, but nothing concrete. It was all misdirection, a stage play to get Malfoy's full, venomous attention.
Malfoy's chest heaved. He couldn't produce evidence even if he had it. Getting Thorne expelled or punished would ruin his father's chance to capture him. It was a maddening bind.
Goyle, sensing his master's hesitation and buzzing with simple, violent logic, cracked his knuckles. "Enough talk! Let's just curse him, Draco! Make him talk!"
Crabbe grunted in agreement, his wand coming up.
But Malfoy's arm shot out, barring their way. His eyes, locked on Elian's, burned with a promise more chilling than any hex. "No. Remember this, Thorne. Your arrogance has an expiration date. And it's coming soon."
He turned on his heel, robes snapping. "Move!"
Goyle and Crabbe, confused but obedient, lumbered after him.
Luna, who had been studying a peculiar knot in a nearby tree root, looked up as they left. "The Wrackspurts around him are practically screaming," she remarked. "And you've just poked a very angry Diricawl, Elian. They have a tendency to vanish and reappear somewhere… unpleasant."
Elian didn't answer, watching Malfoy's retreating back. The first part was done.
The trio stalked back towards the dungeons in simmering silence. Halfway there, Goyle, his brow furrowed with the effort of a complex thought, spoke up.
"That paint," he grunted. "The stuff on the wall. Fred 'n George were talkin' about it. Special stuff. Only sold in that joke shop in Hogsmeade. Zonko's."
Malfoy stopped dead.
Goyle plowed on, oblivious to the significance. "How'd a first-year get Hogsmeade stuff? He's not allowed."
Malfoy turned slowly, the pieces of an ugly, beautiful puzzle clicking into place in his mind. The insult. The knowledge. The impossible paint.
Hogsmeade.
A slow, vicious smile spread across Draco Malfoy's face. It wasn't proof of the graffiti. It was something better. It was a clue to the future. A location. A vulnerability.
"Hogsmeade," he repeated, the word sweet on his tongue. He had a message to send.
(End of Chapter)
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