Do-Over DNI FINISHED

Draven's gaze was turned inward, searching for a far-away memory as he threw his bag in an empty compartment and locked the door behind him. He knew it was a futile gesture. The lock was merely a warning sign rather than a barrier. But he supposed a warning sign was better than nothing. It made him feel better at least, and that had to count for something.

Deimos crawled out from underneath his shirt as Draven slid down against the doors of the compartment. He disliked having his back to them, but he disliked being unable to stop them from opening even more. He wished he could have dragged one of the seats in front of them. He couldn't. They were bolted to the ground, if he remembered properly. A part of the train rather than a piece of furniture. Even the pillows were stitched in, kept together by ancient thread. It was a miracle, how it hadn't rotted after all the years it had been there. Hadn't frayed either. The whole train compartment was comfortable and plush, not a spec of dust floating across the room. He was half tempted to lay on the floor and sleep. It was so clean.

But there was no point. If he slept now, he wouldn't be able to later. In an actual bed, with sheets and a blanket. Not the floor of the train. He supposed he could have shimmied himself underneath the arm rests on the chairs, but he didn't fancy being pinned in place either.

Digging through his bag, Draven fished out a fork bent out of shape and jammed it between the two glass doors. The tail end of the fork, a whisp of metal he kept in his pocket, was then put through the prongs. Alohomora worked on locks, not forks. He wouldn't be able to do this with his bunk. There would be no locking fabric curtains. Not in any substantial way at least. Any student with a locksmith's knife could slash through them willy-nilly, or simply crawl under. The thought made the knot in his stomach, a knot that had loosened ever so slightly, grow tight again.

If worst came to worst, he could request to sleep alone. He could claim sickness, something viral perhaps.

But no. Draven winced as he remembered. There was no sickness in the magical world. Not a cough or a cold of a fever. They could all be healed with the flick of a wand.

He could sleep in the room of requirement. Hidden behind stacks of broken furniture and tucked away behind gargoyles. They could alert him if anyone was coming. Jab him with their tails as a warning sign, have him scrambling up before the person caught him in there.

The gargoyles.

Draven smiled. They'd berated and insulted him, but they'd meant well. He would be able to see them again soon. He wondered if they still cared about the awkwardly long 11-year-old kid who'd spent so many hours playing them piano. The most atrocious, god awful piano playing in the world. But he'd serenaded them nonetheless.

He'd quite like that. Seeing them again.

Draven's fingers drummed against his knees as he sat. Deimos had found his way to the windowsill and begun weaving a black web, his feet gracefully traversing the pit of space. His spider danced. Weaved and bobbed and spun, his silk flowing from him like thread from a sewing machine. Before long, he'd covered the whole window in a thick web and settled down in the center of it. 'Beautiful', Draven signed, fingers splaying out in front of his masked face.

Deimos didn't respond. He couldn't.

Digging through his pockets, Draven pulled out the pin again, slipping it back between his lips. There wasn't much he could do to pass the time. He could listen to the train shake and groan on the tracks. He could feel the vibrations under his skin, as his palms pressed against the squeaky clean floor. He could count the spots of light that still managed to make it through Deimos' web, struggling between strands to hit his clothes and the tiles. He could count the number of squares on the plush covering of the seat. Could survey the places where the wood had been scratched by other students before him, and count the cracks.

'CPEW 349', Draven thought, recalling the license plate number of a car he'd passed by on his way to the station. They were a funny looking thing, cars. A marvel of physics and technology. Created not by magic, but pure ingenuity. In fact, many of the things in a muggle's world were brilliant. The roads those cars drove on. The underground systems and the flickering lights. Doors that opened and closed by themselves, warm air that blew through holes in the ground. Machines that washed clothes and dishes and cars. Draven had stared at them with open-eyed wonder, mouth agape.

Muggles had ways of contacting each other across continents in the span of a second. They had machines that could predict the weather and earthquakes. Things that could play music and things that could lift thousands of kilograms and-....and they didn't need magic. They weren't rendered useless by a pointy, funny looking stick breaking.

It was terrifying, what muggles could do if you crossed them. With one flick of a lever, they could wipe out millions of people. They could have wiped out the wizarding world, if they put their mind to it. And no magic in the world could help the wizards if they weren't around to cast it.

Draven swallowed hard, pulling his knees up to his chest. He was still leaning against the frosted glass doors, his back crying out in pain. Only half an hour had passed. He thought. Maybe. He didn't have a watch to check.

His bag was laying crumbled at the other end of the train compartment. He wanted to get it. To hold it. The weight of it was missing from his chest, and his hands ached to fiddle with the straps. But in order to get it, he'd have to move from in front of the doors.

Which meant the doors could be opened.

Logically, he knew that if no one had come to knock against them up till then, nobody would. But he couldn't bring himself to move from his spot. He knew the lock would hold. He knew the fork would hold. He knew that the only person who'd disturb him was possibly the lady with snacks. But he didn't want food, and the thought of having to refuse it made him ill.

Draven's eyes pinned the bag in place like a butterfly to a board. His wand was still up the sleeve of his hoodie. But he couldn't bring himself to pull it out either. Because what if he wasn't allowed to cast spells on the train? He couldn't remember.

A bubble of panic burst in his chest. The bag was too far to reach without moving. The doors were too far to keep holding closed while he reached for the bag. But he needed-...he needed the bag.

He focused on the pin in his mouth. On the air in his lungs. He focused on the clank of the train and on the rumble of (what he assumed) was the engine. One the drapes. On the feeling of the floor underneath his hands. He was breathing. He was holding the breath for one, two, three, four, five. He was letting go of the breath. One. Two. Three. Four, five. In again. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Out again. One, two, three. Four. Five.

Deimos, he suddenly became aware, had crawled across the room and was busy scaling his leg. It wasn't long before the spider had climbed against his chest, nestling in the hallow of his throat. His long legs gripped Draven's hoodie, drawing it closer around the boy's face. He was hidden underneath the mask, a tiny secret that only he knew about.

Draven smiled, fingers going to stroke his friend through the mask. He'd learned it was made out of a material called polyester. Muggles had trouble dying fabrics, but polyester was really good for dying. It was comfortable too, airy and breathable, and keeping the heat in. He liked it. He liked the mask. He liked that Deimos could hide under it when they were sitting like that.

Draven let go of a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, feeling the tension drip off him little by little.

He'd get the bag. And he'd fix the sleeping situation, And he'd fix himself. Eventually. But right then and there, all he could do was hold still.

It would bother the spider otherwise.