Only Ash Remains

Chapter 7: Draco POV

Draco paced around his room, irritated as he always was these days  and feeling helpless to do anything about it. What was Potter up to?  He'd gotten their wands back. He hadn't had to do it — he'd gone out of  his way with no expectation of reward. What was he playing at?

He  frowned, kicking aside a stray article of clothing. And why was Mother  cozying up to him? Why was she helping him win over the stupid old  house? More importantly, why was Draco so jealous? It wasn't like he  wanted to be in there with them, dirtying his hands and cleaning the  Muggle way. Was it?

It was no matter. It wasn't like Potter would want him there if he tried to join them.

At  least Kreacher had brought him a potions kit. He didn't seem to be  limited in the things he could bring Draco, unlike the useless Ministry  house-elves. Perhaps he should go down and work with it now. It was  probably late enough that Potter would have already gone to bed. Staying  in his room wasn't going to ease his agitation.

Yes. That would  be best. He would go down the stairs and... He peeked down the hallway. It  was dark. He started toward the stairs, then stopped. There was no way  he was going to make it on his own; his leg was already protesting. He  scowled down at his left foot, which had been dragging along the hall  floor.

He tried to lift the front of his foot off the floor. It  was no good. No matter how he strained his muscles, it remained  stubbornly flat on the ground.

There was nothing for it. He'd have to get his cane.

He grimaced. He hated the cane. Using it made him feel  like he was less than he'd been, and he hated that. His father could  pull it off, make it look distinguished. In Draco's hand, the cane  looked like a stupid prop. Something he needed to walk. Which was true, but he didn't want people to know that.

He  fetched the cane, avoiding the mirror on his wall because he didn't  need a reminder of how he looked with it. How it advertised his  weakness. He peered over the railing, trying to make sure that the floor  below was empty. There was no light spilling out from under Potter's  door, so he was probably safe.

He took a deep breath and started  his slow, ponderous way down the stairs. There were four flights of  stairs between his room and the basement. Each had 23 steps and a  landing. 92 steps. 4 landings.

It took quite a while for him to  navigate them all. That was why he chose to work in the potions lab at  night. There had been an empty room in the basement that had once been  used as a potions lab. Kreacher had shown it to him, helped him set it  up and test the fume hoods. He didn't want anyone else to know about it.  Not yet. It was his secret. The reason he felt like he still had any  life at all.

When he finally made it to the lab, puffing with the  effort of navigating stairs with his cane, he surveyed it with a smile.  He'd practiced (and perfected) all of the the first-, second-, and  third-year potions already. He pulled the fourth-year potions text from  the shelf and turned to the first page. He was methodical, working his  way through the textbooks from front to back, chopping and measuring and  stirring with precise movements.

It soothed him, and the longer  he worked, the more immersed and calm he became. He let go of his anger  and frustration and lost himself in the work.

He wasn't ready to  share this part of himself yet. But he was determined to prove that he  was still worth something. That even though he had trouble walking, even  though his magic was restricted, he could still accomplish something.