Or would have been, if he?d had the breath and energy to be impressed with anything.
They raced around a corner and Draco darted sideways and towards a long staircase the color of polished bone. Then he felt Rons hand grab at his sleeve. 'Do you know where you?re going?' the other boy panted.
'Sure I do,' said Draco, and ran for the stairs. Ron followed. From the cold that billowed behind them, Draco could tell that the dementors were not far behind them. They clattered up the stairs, around a corner, another flight of stairs, and ran smack into a closed door.
Ron swore, with despairing resignation, and snarled, 'I thought you said you knew where we were going!'
'Shut up a minute.' Draco stared at the door, which was not quite like any door he?d seen before. It seemed to be made of dark ivory, and was bolted and barred on his side. He yanked at the bolts, but they were locked fast. It didn?t help that his fingers were sweating and his hair was getting in his eyes. There was a freezing wind blowing through the corridor and he had a feeling he knew why.
'Use your sword, dimwit,' said Ron, flopping back against the wall and glaring at him.
'What?'
'Use your sword! It can cut through anything. Think!'
Draco pulled the sword from the sheath hanging over his back. He looked at it, then at the very solid-looking door, then shrugged, and swung the blade at it hard.
As it had cut through Harrys adamantine chains, the blade drove through the door, slicing off great chunks as if it were cutting through butter. He drew it back, and swiped at the bolts with it. The sword sliced through them and they clattered at his feet. Ron grabbed for the door handle and wrenched at it; the door swung wide, and they dashed through it. Draco tried to slam it behind them, but it was too destroyed to hang properly and just dangled from its hinges.
'Leave it,' barked Ron, and Draco turned to see where they had ended up.
They were standing on a wide stone balcony that seemed to run in a circle around a tall bone-colored tower. The balcony was walled, although the walls reached no more than chest-high, and were topped with crenellated battlements. Draco raced to the edge of the balcony and looked down. Far below and all around, he could see the tops of the forest trees, stretching away towards the horizon.
High above, stars and a half moon gazed back at him, and washed the sheer sides of the tower with a cool milky light. Draco looked around and realized that he hadn?t been outside in days.
There was no way to climb down that he could see, and no other exit than the one they had come through.
Ron didn?t even swear this time. He was very pale in the moonlight, his freckles standing out like inkblots. 'We?re trapped.' He looked at Draco. 'Can you do anything? They took my wand.'
It was an obvious effort for him to ask this, but Draco didn?t say anything. He was thinking that it was all very well and bloody good to be a Magid, but not actually that much use in crisis times. All he could do was spells without a wand, and he couldn?t think of any spells that would come in handy, even if he had had a wand. If only he?d learned how to Apparate. Experimentally, he held up a hand, casting his mind back to Charms class. 'Catedra,' he said.
There was a bright flash of light, and a large overstuffed sofa appeared a short way away from them, resting against the battlements. It looked very comfortable, and had a matching paisley ottoman.
Ron looked at him in disgust. 'Malfoy…'
Draco glared, and tried again. 'Cerrucha,' he intoned, and this time thin ropes burst from his fingers and tumbled in snakelike coils around his feet. He grabbed for one. 'We can climb down — ' he began, tossing one end of the rope to Ron.
Ron looked at it dubiously. 'At least it isn?t paisley.'
'You?re working my last nerve, Weasley,' said Draco, turning to see if he could wedge the sword in between the crenellations of the balcony. If he could tie a rope to it, then perhaps they could -
'Malfoy,' said Ron, in a strangled voice.
Draco turned and saw Ron staring off behind them with huge eyes.
He spun around, feeling the blood drain from his heart.
The three dementors stood at the tower entrance, tall and remote and terrifying. The moonlight iced them with silver, throwing terrible elongated shadows over the flagstones, making them seem ten times taller than they were. They paused where they were, the blank black spaces under their hoods indicating nothing at all.
Then, slowly, they began to move forward, and a bright spear of cold shot through Draco, freezing his nerves, turning his blood to ice water. No, not this, not now.
He sensed that Ron beside him was not as affected as he was.
Swearing, Ron bent down, grabbed the ottoman at his feet, and thew it at the advancing dementors. The tallest of them caught it neatly out of the air, crushed it on one huge, spatulated hand, and heaved it over the side of the balcony.
'I don?t think he liked your ottoman, Malfoy,' said Ron in a strangled voice.
Draco was beyond being able to think of anything clever to say in return. 'Get out,' he said instead, and shoved Ron away from him, hard. The red-headed boy stumbled, and looked at him in surprise.
'They want me. Get out of here.'
He had a vague sense of Ron looking at him in surprise, saying
'Malfoy-' and then his words bubbled away like speech heard under water, as the dementors began to move forward, gliding in stead of walking, and driving before them the cold. Cold so intense it sliced into his flesh like knives, as it had in the forest, and as in the forest the cold brought with it the agonizing weight of memories not his own, a rising tide of screams and shrill pleas that stoppered his ears and blinded his eyes. The memories of blood washing over his hands drove into his brain. And this time there was no Harry to drive them away.
He hit the wall with his back, hard, the uneven rocks driving into his shoulder. For a moment, the pain cleared his vision. Feet away, the dementors were moving towards him. He could see Ron standing by the tower
