INTRO: the Malfoy Brat eats sand
Before Draco knew the blinding sun, before he knew the taste of sand in his mouth and grating against his cheek, before he even knew he had fallen, he realized that the pressure on his arm had gone. His eyes shot opened then shut, quickly and desperately, against the bright daylight. Daylight? A moment ago, it had been night. And cold. Much colder than it was now.
A frown further twisting his face, Draco pushed himself off the ground and, squinting, wiped mechanically at his cheek with the back of his hand. He looked down with surprise at first his hand, then on what he was sitting: a beach. A beach with sand. In the daylight. The very warm sunlight.
In the words of a not very great wizard, what the hell? Confused but still wary, his mind barked with the reminder of all that had just happened, the danger, and so Draco rather comically scrambled to his feet and whirled around twice in quick succession, his pale eyes darting, narrowing at… nothing. Was this an illusion? Had he died? Had his brain split in two in apparition? Was he dreaming? Draco quickly pinched himself to no avail, and looked around once more. Oh, God. Oh, God, god, god.
“P..Professor?” He called, weakly, speaking around a dry, heavy tongue, and into indifferent air.
Nothing. Draco pushed his hands over his hair, smoothing down the disheveled, windblown mess, shook his robes, and cursed beneath his breath. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He had just killed Dumbledor--No, no, SNAPE had, Snape had, just before he could've gotten free, he had to be wanted by aurors, or the Ministry, or even the Dark Lord for hesitating, oh, bugger, his family, his mother, and --
He had absolutely no idea where he was. It was all well and good to tell oneself to keep a clear head in emergencies, but much harder to follow the advice in the actual event of one. Draco tried very hard not to scream and settled instead for kicking at the sand, futilely, getting quite a bit of it in his shoe.
A frown further twisting his face, Draco pushed himself off the ground and, squinting, wiped mechanically at his cheek with the back of his hand. He looked down with surprise at first his hand, then on what he was sitting: a beach. A beach with sand. In the daylight. The very warm sunlight.
In the words of a not very great wizard, what the hell? Confused but still wary, his mind barked with the reminder of all that had just happened, the danger, and so Draco rather comically scrambled to his feet and whirled around twice in quick succession, his pale eyes darting, narrowing at… nothing. Was this an illusion? Had he died? Had his brain split in two in apparition? Was he dreaming? Draco quickly pinched himself to no avail, and looked around once more. Oh, God. Oh, God, god, god.
“P..Professor?” He called, weakly, speaking around a dry, heavy tongue, and into indifferent air.
Nothing. Draco pushed his hands over his hair, smoothing down the disheveled, windblown mess, shook his robes, and cursed beneath his breath. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He had just killed Dumbledor--No, no, SNAPE had, Snape had, just before he could've gotten free, he had to be wanted by aurors, or the Ministry, or even the Dark Lord for hesitating, oh, bugger, his family, his mother, and --
He had absolutely no idea where he was. It was all well and good to tell oneself to keep a clear head in emergencies, but much harder to follow the advice in the actual event of one. Draco tried very hard not to scream and settled instead for kicking at the sand, futilely, getting quite a bit of it in his shoe.