LuckyRatTail of Gryffindor House, for the Spring Challenge prompt 'What You Wish For'.
Malfoy glared at the back of Potter's head, a sneer twitching on his cold, white face. The scarlet smoke from a collection of amateur potions hung low in the classroom air, stinging his blinking grey eyes, but he kept up the stare. The sniggering idiots on either side of him seemed to be scrabbling at his patience, and he needed something on which to focus his frustration. His loathing of Potter was perfect.
That bald, Mudblood-loving, walrus of a teacher was booming something through the smoke, but Malfoy was barely listening. It sickened him how the former head of Slytherin could slather praise over Potter like he was his little lapdog. Saint Potter. His thoughts were a violent hiss. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn't be in this mess. If it weren’t for you, I'd have the Felix and it would be finished. I wouldn't be sitting here, wasting my time with this great useless slug.
"…yes, sorry, sorry about the smoke!" Slughorn was spluttering through the hazy spirals. "Some first year potions got a little out of hand… Well, not to worry! On with the show." He strode down the aisle between the desks, stopping just inches from Malfoy's table, but turning back to face Potter. "The Optatus* Potion!" he announced to the class at large. "Very, very sophisticated stuff! Virtually impossible to get right at your age - thank goodness! - but with miraculous results, if brewed successfully. Now, can anyone here tell me what it does?"
A hand was in the air before he had even finished the question, and a split second later, the bushy-haired head of Hermione was bobbing along to her answer. "It grants wishes!" she cried, and for once, Malfoy did not smirk at her enthusiasm. He straightened himself slightly in his seat.
Slughorn's face was stretched into a nauseating beam. "Absolutely correct!" he exclaimed. "Ten points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger. That's the idea - in theory, of course. The Optatus Potion should grant the wish of the drinker, exactly as they wish it. However -" and here he attempted a wry grin, "- it is a very difficult potion to brew, as I previously mentioned, and it is also difficult to judge whether it has been brewed correctly. The exact distinction between 'bright yellow' and 'lemon' is not always easy to determine." He gave the class a worldly nod, his eyes focusing on Potter.
Malfoy felt something tug at the corner of his mouth. He was sneering again. However, this latest fuel for his own brewing hatred of Potter was not enough to dissuade his interest - the Optatus Potion could be very useful to him indeed.
"Of course," the Potions master continued, "if brewed incorrectly, the results can be rather unexpected, and, often, disastrous. As they say - 'what one wishes is not necessarily what one gets'." He tweaked his walrus moustache with two fat fingers. "And we all make wishes offhandedly every minute of the day, of course - 'I wish you hadn't said that', 'I wish I had time to finish my homework', etc. The emotion and act of wishing is very difficult to control -"
He was still talking, but Malfoy heard nothing but futile babble. Tell us how to make it, you useless fool! The others on either side of him were paying no attention to Malfoy or Slughorn, but still sniggering amongst themselves. Malfoy scowled, then threw open his book, rifling through the pages until his pale fingers stroked the one headed 'The Optatus Potion'.
Grey eyes scanned the list of ingredients, each one extended by complicated measurements and preparations. His vision began to blur as he moved down to the brewing instructions; they stretched as a block of tiny, black writing over two pages, the sight of which sparking a pain in Malfoy's head. He gritted his teeth and raked in a deep breath.
"…page 673, then, ladies and gentlemen," Slughorn was still drawling. "You have an hour to make a start - I, of course, do not expect any of you to complete this potion, but it provides excellent practise in timing and measurements." His gaze lighted on Harry once more, and Slughorn's crinkled right eye gave a sickening wink. "I shall be very interested to see how you all get on." He beamed, retreating to his desk before he cried, "Start!"
An excitable buzz ascended into the classroom air as students bustled from their tables to various cabinets around the room, selecting ingredients and returning hurriedly back to their places. Scales clanked and pages ruffled and amid it all, Malfoy was still seated at his table, poring over the immensely complicated instructions with a look of absolute concentration contorting his pointed face.
Eventually he stood up, the first few potion components running through his head. He reached the store cupboard and plucked at a few of the boxes, grabbing the whole jar of caraway seeds and speeding away with them before the disappointed cries of other students could reach his ears. A cloud of thick black smoke was already billowing from one of the front tables, where an early addition to the cauldron had proved a disastrous mistake. One of the blubbering Hufflepuffs had to be escorted out of the room by Slughorn; in order to avoid them, Malfoy had to go round the other side of the classroom to get back to his desk.
He paused for just a second, watching the dungeon door clang shut, and suddenly realised where he was standing. Potter's desk sat only inches to his left, completely devoid of Scarhead himself or any of his pathetic friends. Malfoy's eyes darted around the classroom, spotting the four of them dawdling by the store cupboard - probably looking for the seeds now clutched under Malfoy's arm. Hesitating for only a second, he slipped a step closer to Potter's desk and glanced over the contents of their table, looking for something else he could do to upset Potter's day. Seeing nothing else worth taking, his eyes alighted on the open copy of Advanced Potion Making.
Momentarily forgetting his own potion, Malfoy found himself leaning forward and straining his eyes to stare at Potter's book. There were cramped, black scribbles all over the page - ingredients had been crossed out and measurements altered, huge chunks of the intimidating narrative had been changed for Potter's own alternative instructions. His gaze flicked round the classroom again – no one was watching, they were all too engrossed in their own work, and the four from Potter's table were still at the store cupboard. A horrible smirk crossed Malfoy's face as he tapped the textbook page, muttering "Diffindo," before slipping the removed piece of paper into his cloak pocket.
Let's see why you've got that perfect Potions reputation, then, Potter… he sneered as he spread the crumpled sheet out on his own desk. He stared at the first line of ingredients, frowning to see that 'four and a half ounces of caraway seeds' had been crossed out, a scribble above it reading 'three and a quarter - diminishes induced reckless nature'. Malfoy shook his head. All right, Scarhead, he unscrewed the jar of caraway seeds, pulling his scales towards him, you better be right…
Half an hour later, Malfoy's pale face was no longer prickling with a frown - it was bubbling with the force of restrained excitement. While every other potion in the room was stewing and spitting, emitting bursts of flame or clouds of coloured smoke, Malfoy's was brewing gently in his cauldron, its colour slowly slipping from the 'burnt umber' described in line twenty-five, to the 'ripe tangerine' three lines down. An iridescent film was forming on he surface, reflecting his gleeful face, as he disobeyed the book's instruction once more and measured the 'alternative' amount of wishbone marrow instead.
Ha! This can't be Potter's work - that pathetic little suck-up could never have done all this… but who cares? Those free wishes are as good as mine!
He threw the bone marrow into his cauldron and watched it fizz, the surface colour turning paler by the second. He couldn't hide a grin.
"Time!" called Slughorn twenty minutes later. "Well, well!" He surveyed the students struggling to add last-minute ingredients, all of them coughing through the fumes and splattered potions newly-adorning the dungeon walls. "It would seem some of you struggled quite severely with this potion - understandable, I suppose, as I said - it is very difficult…"
His bulbous, waist-coated belly preceded him as he strolled between the desks, peering with raised eyebrows into every cauldron. "Yes, yes… well, almost… erm, not really…" He suddenly erupted into a fit of coughs, waving smoke away from his face as he reached Harry's table. "Goodness me, Harry!" he exclaimed, and Malfoy openly smirked. It seemed Potter had not done quite so well without his usual helping hand. "Well, well, I can't blame you, I suppose! Very difficult potion, that one, very difficult indeed." His face worked its way back into a smile, the smoke clearing. "Every potion maker stumbles occasionally, of course - never mind, my boy, never mind." He moved on to the next table, his frown growing ever deeper, until, finally, he was standing in front of Malfoy.
His voice was barely a whisper, "Goodness me, boy. What have you done here?" The frown had not left his face, but had become more an expression of awed bewilderment than concern. "Not perfect of course, no - still needs that last piece of dandelion root…" he was speaking so quietly no one but Malfoy could hear, he seemed to be muttering to himself. "And it'll need a good hour's brew before the colour will completely change…"
He blinked several times, drawing himself out of his reverie, and looked at Malfoy with an expression half of nervous delight, half of resolute confusion. "Well, well, Draco. I can't say you've performed poorly in my previous classes, but you've never shown -" Slughorn sighed, running a hand over his bald head. "I suppose a good potion maker is bound to find his feet some time! Twenty-five points to Slytherin, then, and well deserved…" He flashed a quick, anxious smile, and turned back to the rest of the class.
Malfoy said nothing. He feared if he even opened his mouth, he might shout with joy. He had successfully brewed the potion - it was as Slughorn said, he just needed to add one more slice of dandelion root and it would be finished. He stared into its shining, yellow surface, ignoring the sounds of rustling and talking as the class around him packed away. I'll just ask him to stay a bit longer, say I want to see what it looks like when it's finished. He won't care.
But Malfoy did not have to tell Slughorn anything. Seconds after the class had been dismissed, the bald-headed walrus had rushed out, leaving the stragglers to pack up on their own. Malfoy was still seated at his desk, taking special care over measuring the final ingredient, when the last few students left the class. He smiled.
One hour later, his smile had transformed into an expression of triumphant glee. The potion was finished - finished and perfect. It glowed a magnificent lemon yellow, the dim light shimmering and dancing on its surface, reflecting a radiant sheen onto Malfoy's face. He did not feel hungry, tired, or drained from a solid two hours' concentration - he was simply relieved, and overflowing with elation.
He poured a large quantity of the potion into a phial, corked it, and tucked the tiny bottle with the utmost care into his robes. Malfoy then poured the dregs away, vanished his ingredients with a flippant spell, and headed for the seventh floor.
He couldn't wait to try it. The vessel seemed to be burning a hole in his robes; he could see its vibrant, dancing light flashing before his eyes as he raced up the stairs. 'Just one spoonful,' read the crumpled sheet of paper in his pocket, 'and the first wish you utter will come true.'
Just one spoonful, he thought as he turned towards the tapestry of trolls, and all my problems will be over…
Opening the door was just delaying him even more - he wanted to wish it now, straight away, while the potion was still fresh. He could see it bubbling slightly inside its glass holder as he gripped it in his hand. In one swift movement, he ripped out the cork, tipped the phial to his lips, and let a drop of the sweetest, fizziest concoction in the world hit his tongue. Then -
"Accio potion!" cried a voice not three feet behind him. He let out a scream of curses as the phial flew out of his fingers, spinning round to watch Potter grab the flying potion in his outstretched hand.
"How dare you!?" Malfoy spat, his wand sliding out of his robes in a flash. "Give it back!"
"No." Potter at Malfoy with a stony look. "Besides everything else that I suspect of you, Malfoy, you know school rules. What do you think Slughorn would say if I told him you'd been drinking something you made in class?"
Malfoy let out a nasty laugh. "School rules, Potter?" He kept repeating the summoning spell inside his head, but Potter was holding up some kind of shield. "Since when should I care about school rules? Give it back!" He tried a disarming charm. He tried a dozen other curses - the first to spring to mind. Not one had any effect.
"Give it back!"
The other just stared at him.
"Give it back!
"Fine."
He had not expected this. The summoning spell had been spoken with such force inside his head that, before he could do anything to stop it, the potion was flying towards him, past his fumbling hands and into the wall behind. There was a horrible smashing sound, followed instantly by silence.
Malfoy's face was twisted with rage. "Now look what you've done -!"
"What's going on here?" a sharp voice echoed through the corridor. "Potter? Malfoy? Hardly a likely pairing." Professor McGonagall strode to a halt beside the two of them, her face crossed with an angry frown. "I hope that was not some form of duel, I just witnessed, Potter?"
"Er, no, Professor…" the dark-haired boy murmured in reply. The woman stared at him with a frightening intensity.
"I should hope not," she snapped. "Now - move along, both of you. The corridor is not a place to dawdle."
She began to walk away, looking round expectantly for the other to follow. Potter hesitated for a moment, and then took one step in her direction.
Malfoy watched him move away through fuming eyes. "Got out of that one by the skin of your teeth," he hissed, just loud enough for Harry to hear. The other did not turn around, but paused mid-stride. Malfoy sneered. "Do you know what, Potter?" he continued, the force of his fury fuelling his words. "One day, I wish it could just be you against me. No holds barred. No teachers, no rules, no Mudblood friends. No Dumbledore to save your skin. Then we'd see what you're really made of -"
"Potter!" Potter had spun around at Malfoy's last words, but Professor McGonagall's bark brought him rapidly back to reality. "Come on! And you, Mr. Malfoy - back to your common room."
No words escaped Malfoy's lips, but his expression said enough on its own. He glared after the two of them, shoving his wand back inside his robes, lest his frustration spurt out a thousand hexes upon no one but himself. He turned away, and saw the glittering splatter of yellow on the wall behind him. Something tingled on his tongue, and suddenly Malfoy went cold. He heard more footsteps approaching from the other end of the corridor, distracting him from the shiver now spreading down his spine. No time, no time now… I’ve got to finish it. He began pacing up and down before the stretch of wall, trying to concentrate on the task - but the image of himself blasting Potter into oblivion flared ceaselessly inside his head.
Malfoy slammed his hand down onto the workbench. Heaving in gulps of air, he threw himself violently against the wall. He stood there, his forehead pressed onto the cold, smooth stone, feeling the mounds of junk and unwanted objects all around towering over him. They seemed to be leaning closer, closing in on him, mocking his every attempt.
He raked in a shuddering breath, bit his lip, and gulped back a torrent of frustrated tears.
The thin wooden wand shook in his right fist, where he was gripping it so tightly it might snap any second. He pummelled his other fist into the stone wall and found that that was far more painful than hitting the bench. He didn't care. The pain was at least something he could cause, something he could control - unlike this impossible task.
All I needed was that potion! That potion would have solved everything! But Potter - Potter had to interfere, had to screw it all up, had to ruin my chances of ever - ever - finishing this! He let out a strangled cry of rage and smacked his hand so hard against the wall his skin tore.
Slowly, he pulled away his shaking hand and stared at the smudge of scarlet left on the wall. He stared, and stared, until his vision began to blur and the image seemed to have been seared onto his brain. He closed his eyes. Instead of inky darkness, however, it was a glaring flash of red light that he saw behind lowered lids. The light was followed by a terrible gasp of pain, a writhing, consuming agony, and a high, cold voice whispering: "You have failed me, Draco."
His eyes snapped open. No, he said inside his head. "No!" he cried aloud. "No, I won't! I can't! I won't fail you! I'll get it finished - I promise!" He had spun round and was now staring at the workbench with a feverish intensity. "I'll get it finished… I will."
For three more hours, he remained inside the Room of Requirement, working frantically, hacking away at the cabinet with physical force and then trying spell after spell with his wand. It was no use. When he finally slumped into the wooden chair by the bench, ashen-faced, his white-blonde hair sodden with sweat, he had barely made any progress at all. The vanishing cabinet remained as resolutely broken as ever, and he was running out of time.
Bloodshot eyes forced themselves to stay open, staring at the cabinet as though he might fix it through sheer desperation. There was a thumping at the back of his head, as though something was trying to break through, break out of the sickening pressure building in his mind. He could hear that high, cold voice once more, and felt his limbs begin to shake.
After a few moments, he heaved himself up out of the chair, tearing his eyes away from the cabinet. Tomorrow… No time now - they'll get suspicious… Do I even care anymore?
The world outside was black and quiet, an occasional shaft of moonlight filtering into the empty corridors, not a sound from the vast hall below. His eyes clouded with the thoughts of his mind, Malfoy barely looked where he was going as he left the Room of Requirement, turned down the seventh floor, and walked straight into a tall, dark figure.
He shuffled backwards, too tired to be properly surprised. "Hey, watch where you're…" He trailed off, his blurred vision finally focusing on a sallow face embedded with two impenetrable, coal black eyes. "I - um, sorry, Professor."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "And what," he whispered coldly, "are you doing out so late, Draco?" The tone of his voice was neither angry nor accusatory: he merely sounded curious. His dark eyes bored into Malfoy's as the boy, despite his exhaustion, managed a scowl.
"Nothing, sir," he said through gritted teeth, his words etched with disdain. "I was - I was in the library -"
"The library closed hours ago, Draco," Snape told him lazily. He still did not seem angry, but there was now a note of impatience in his request. "Tell me what you were doing, and I will wave any punishment."
"Punishment!" Malfoy almost laughed with disbelief. "You know what I was doing - like you'd punish me just for trying to finish his instructions!"
Snape seemed entirely unperturbed by this outburst, as though he had been expecting it. Nevertheless, although his expression remained unchanged, there was an iciness in his tone which was entirely unmistakable as displeasure. "I will punish you as I see fit," he hissed. "If you continue to behave as an insolent schoolboy - by breaking rules and disobeying orders - I will continue to reprimand you for doing so."
His voice sank even lower, a dangerous level of menace in his black, fathomless stare. "I cannot keep letting you slip out of line, Draco," he said fiercely. "People, namely Dumbledore, are beginning to notice. You are threatening my position as much as your own - oh yes." There was a nasty smile playing about his lips as he noticed the boy's reaction to his words; Malfoy was glaring at him with a supreme fury in his bloodshot eyes. "Didn't you know that Potter has reported suspicions about you to the headmaster? There are others watching you, aside from him."
Malfoy sneered. "What does it matter?" he spat. "What does it matter who's watching me? I'm nearly finished - and I don't need your help, either! I would have got it finished today if Potter hadn't -" He stopped himself, Snape eyeing him with a faintly amused expression.
"If Potter hadn't… what?" Snape enquired softly, and the boy shut his mouth tight. "It doesn't matter," the professor told him. "I know already. And I know about the Optatus Potion - you need to be careful, Draco, showing such enthusiasm for a potion like that!"
"What do you mean - enthusiasm?" Malfoy glowered at him. "It's a wishing potion - everyone in the class wanted to finish it!"
"But not one of them managed to," Snape hissed. "You are drawing attention to yourself. If, in your stubborn immaturity, you will not accept any help from me, then at least conceal what you are doing with greater care!" He snarled. "Do not become as much of a fool as the Dark Lord believes you to be."
There was a frosty pause, as the two of them glared at each other in the darkness. Snape was the first to make a move.
"Get back to bed," he snapped, striding away down the corridor with swift, silent steps.
Malfoy didn't even turn round to watch him leave. He stared at the wall opposite, feeling the anger and frustration from all his hours in the Room of Requirement bubbling and boiling in his blood. "Could have saved me that one, too, Potter," he seethed, whispering to nothing but the darkness around him. "Now he'll go crying to him, telling him I'm useless and then I'll be -" He stopped, his jaws clamped shut, breath seeping through gritted teeth. The image of the potion soaring, smashing into the wall, blazed before his eyes. He almost felt the drop of that golden liquid hit his tongue once more.
"I'll get you for that, Potter. You mark my words."
He stumbled through the corridors, the memory of the night before a blurred headache, disrupting his vision with every step. Working late into the night had rendered him exhausted, irritable, and with a sickened feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something throbbed in the side of his head, growing ever more intense every time he recalled his argument with Snape, whilst the memory of the smashed potion seemed to pump acid through his veins. It was a bizarre feeling – a drive of motivation, impelling him to do something, though what that was he did not know. But with every thought of the tiny vessel in shards, of Potter's triumphant smirk, he felt something prickle over every stretch of skin on his body - something willing him to turn his anger into action.
He had not absorbed a word of his friends' conversation throughout the entire day, and, in fact, had alienated them so greatly with his petulant behaviour, that they had deserted him. In the moments following his last class, he found himself leaning against a wall in an empty corridor, surveying the floor beneath him and seeing nothing but the splatter of yellow liquid over its scuffed stone.
I could always make some more… he thought, but the idea vanished as fleetingly as it came. Not with Snape watching my every move. Besides - what hope is there for me now? He'll already know, and I'm betting that potion isn't strong enough to counter his wrath…
He bit back a cry of frustration, swung round, and kicked angrily at the wall. Salty water was stinging his eyes as he felt every ounce of desperation within him intensify. Not out here, not where anyone - where Potter or Snape - can see. He dashed round the corner, flinging open the door to the disused toilet and slamming it behind him with equal rapidity. He slumped against the creaking wood, and let the tears flow.
There was a rushing sound as that lamenting ghost soared over him, and suddenly Malfoy realised he didn't even want her to see him weeping. He staggered forward and leant over the sink, stretching his long fingers over its sides, gripping so tightly his knuckles were white. He shuddered, and blinked through bloodshot eyes to see his own tears spilling into the basin.
"Don't."** Moaning Myrtle was droning overhead. "Tell me what's wrong… I can help you…" She hovered lamely above Malfoy, and then dived into one of the cubicles, peering at his hunched form from behind the half-open door.
There were now streaks of salt water running down Malfoy's face, the skin around his eyes scarlet and swollen. He felt as though, with every tear that fell, another gobbet of frustration was seeping to the surface, hardening the sickness in his stomach - turning it to anger.
"No one can help me… I can't do it." He smacked his hand against the side of the basin, his entire body shivering with the injustice of it. "I can't… it won't work… and unless I do it soon… he says he'll kill me."**
He heaved in a great gulp of air, and stared up into the mirror before him.
Potter.
Potter was stood in the doorway. Potter was watching him. Laughing at him. Mocking his pain and his anguish and everything that he had worked for. Just like he had smirked that disgusting, self-satisfied smirk as he had watched the Optatus potion go smashing into the stone wall.
And suddenly the words came back to him - the words he had hissed at his enemy while the drop of potion was still lingering on his tongue. Do you know what, Potter? One day, I wish it could just be you against me. No holds barred. No teachers, no rules, no Mudblood friends. No Dumbledore to save your skin. Then we'd see what you're really made of.
He glared at Potter's face in the mirror, the seconds becoming hours, the hours becoming decades as the thoughts raced through his mind. There was no one else in the bathroom. There were no students in the corridors. And the urge, the drive, the force pulsing through his veins was now thundering applause in his ears.
He jerked his wand from his robes. Aimed. And fired.
A glaring white light was forcing open his eyelids, fighting its way into the cool, silent darkness of his mind. Blank emptiness consumed him, restraining every thought so that, for at least a moment, he could think of nothing, remember nothing - not even his own name.
He tried to sit up, and pain flared across his front. Why..? He sank backwards, his limbs creaking with the effort, and realised he was lying on a bed of rumpled sheets and that the glaring light was that of the Hospital Wing.
Frowning, he gazed around at the silent ward, noticing that no other beds were occupied, and felt the jolt of pain once more. He stared down at himself, and, with a feeling of sickening dread, saw that his torso was devoid of robes - instead, it was wrapped in thick, bloodstained bandages.
His breath caught in his throat. Blood, water, the floor of the bathroom… Potter pointing his wand at me - shouting something… the shredding, searing pain...
The memory came flooding back, like the blood-soaked water that had strewn the bathroom floor. He had seen Potter in the mirror - had swung round and fired a curse at him - missed. Potter had fired one back - missed. He had fired again - missed. Potter had -
Potter had shouted something he had never heard before: Sectumsempra. From there on, the memory dissolved into uncomfortable darkness. He had sank to the floor, crimson pouring from his wounds, and watched, unable to move, as Potter was confronted by -
The doors to the hospital wing flew open, and someone in long, black, billowing robes marched towards his bed. Closing his eyes shut, Malfoy slammed his head back against the pillow. But he was too late.
"Open your eyes, Draco." Snape was standing over him, his words a soft, but venomous hiss. Seeing his face, Malfoy could tell within seconds that he was furious.
He said nothing, but blinked up at the professor with trepidation in his stare.
"You are right to be wary of me, now," Snape hissed. "It would appear that you took in nothing of our little conversation last night. Not only have you flouted school rules by stealing a potion from your class, but you then proceeded to duel with another student in broad daylight." His black eyes flashed. "How dare you? You put a ridiculous schoolboy feud before your task - and your life!"
"It was Potter!" Despite his immense exhaustion, Malfoy still found the injustice of Snape's words enough to inspire a retort. "He shot that - curse - at me. I didn't -"
"Silence!" The professor's face was growing steadily whiter with rage. "Isn't it enough that you seem to be determined to expose yourself, and me, to every member of this school? You are being watched, Draco - when will you realise that?"
He shook his greasy head, blazing eyes boring into Malfoy’s outraged expression. "You are nothing but a coward, Draco," he whispered icily, a mocking glare on his face. "You always were and you always will be. Your ignorance and childish pride has led you to refuse my help even when it could have saved you from this - this mess." His eyes flickered over the blood-soaked bandages, a cold snarl curling his upper lip. "You are a fool. You have tried to prove yourself to him, and yet all you have managed to prove is that you are utterly useless."
The boy shuddered, his pale, fever-stricken face stunned. "It - it wasn't my fault," he mumbled, but Snape was no longer listening. The professor had spun round and was already heading for the doors, disappearing through them in a swirl of robes.
"It was a mistake!" Malfoy called after him, but his voice was not strong enough to carry past the end of his bed. "It was the potion - I made a mistake…" he trailed off, glaring at nothing.
A small, and very unwelcome, voice was jeering from the back of his head. He's right, the horrible voice said, you let your emotions get in the way. You used your wish to attack Potter because you care more about getting back at him than you do about finishing the task. That's why it's taking you so long to complete.
"Shut up." Tears were spilling into his lower lids as he bit down on his lip in frustration.
You don't have it in you. It's like Snape said - you're too immature, too much of an ignorant Mummy's boy to ever kill anyone. That's why you didn't win the fight with Potter - why you'll never finish the task. Why you'll fail, fail him, and -
"SHUT UP!"
"Malfoy?" Madam Pomfrey was standing in the doorway to the hospital wing, frowning. She had one hand on the door handle; the other was clutching a bottle of purple liquid. "Bad dreams? Well, I can't say I'm surprised…" she resorted to muttering to herself, and then closed the door to the ward, leaving Malfoy in silent loneliness once more.
He glared up at the ceiling, wincing as another jolt of pain shot through his healing wounds. All that was rushing through his mind at that moment were the words "I'll get Potter for this - I'll make him pay for what he did to me," over and over again, growing louder with every repeat.
No, you won't.
"No, I…Why not?"
The nasty little voice was back. Weren't you listening to a word Snape said? To a word I said? Haven't you learned anything from what happened to you, you stupid boy?
"I, well…"
You will focus your anger, your frustration, on the task set you. You will not squander precious luck, time - even wishes - on Potter, or anyone else, anymore.
"But - I can't just - I'll get him for what he did to me!"
He tried, feebly, to clench his fists. The thought of Potter still filled his mind with fury, and anger bubbled in his veins, but he was too weak to fight anymore. He knew, even before the answer came, that he had no choice.
No, you won't.
"No… I won't."
*optatus is the Latin word for a wish.
**Dialogue taken directly from Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince by J. K. Rowling, p. 488 (UK hardback edition)