The shadows under the corridor of hedges leading to the distant front gate of the Manor lie on the ground in a thick mess. Draco squints, staring hard past the shadow's leafy edges and straight into the darkest parts under the hedges. The shadows look stranger than the ones under his mother's roses, and the magic from the hedges themselves, warm and oozing over the still plants, brush against Draco's senses more roughly than the light touch of the enchanted white flowers. It's nothing different than what he's felt before though, walking with his parents around the grounds as Father pointed out the concealed thorny tendrils behind the leaves.

"Do you see anything?" Draco asks Theo, who's crouched beside him.

"No. They look the same as the roses." The other boy states, his hands resting on his knees and away from the dirt pressing against Draco's palms.

Ever since the strange conversation with the house elf, they've been looking over the grounds, under rose bushes that encircle Mother's part of the gardens and through the hedges that serve as Father's defense against the most idiotic of intruders. But so far, none of the shadows have been like the ones Theodore describes that rest around the Nott Manor.

Apparently Theo's seen them since he first walked with his own parents through his family grounds. Lying strangely upon the ground with wisps of something that draws the eye and ensnares it. From the way Theo talks, it's like looking at a whisper, its features indistinguishable and its murmurs far too quiet to truly make out what they are.

If it's servant's magic like Dobby said, then it can't be all that special. Still, if Theodore can see it on his family grounds, then surely Draco should spot something under one of the Manor's old shrubs. The land has been Malfoy land for over nine hundred years; surely some of the shadows are old enough to look as strange as the Nott's.

"There's the woodlands in back. The trees are definitely older than my great, great grandfather." Unlike the hedges that Septimius Malfoy cultivated by hand. "Surely, that's old enough." Draco frowns as a problem surfaces. "But it'd take forever to walk that way. I don't think we'd be back in time for supper, let alone lunch."

Draco pushes himself to his feet, the dirt leaving smudges on his palms. "We could fly there. That wouldn't take long at all."

Theodore stiffens, not even standing up when Draco does.

"Do you see something now?" Draco asks, quickly crouching back down again to stare right where Theodore's looking.

"No, just, you're right, we should fly to the woodlands." Theodore states, abruptly standing and turning toward the directions of the broom shed that sits near the Manor. By the time Draco's standing and hurrying after him, Theo's quick steps have carried him a few paces away.

It isn't long until they're at the small shed, tucked away out of direct sight of the Manor by a curved wall of roses. Draco's Comet's Tail rests close to the door, its smooth, slick bristles glowing a soft amber in the dark shed until the sunlight hits it, causing it to dim to the same dark brown color as the head of the broom he shoves into Theo's hands.

The magic of the broomstick thrums through the handle right into Draco's palm. The playful vibration of magic waiting to fly causes him to smile before he throws his leg over the other side of the handle and pushes off the ground.

With a rush of air, Draco hovers just parallel to the shed's roof. A grin breaks out over his face as the magic of the broom spreads and cocoons itself protectively around him. It's a child's broom, so even if he went tumbling right off, that cocoon would stop him from hitting the ground all that hard. Draco doesn't need it. He would never fall off his own broom. But the warmth of the protection rests nicely around him all the same as the cool air breezes lightly past.

Theodore still stands with both feet on the ground. His broom gripped tight and upright in front of him.

"Theo?" The grin slips from Draco's face as he looks down at the other boy. "Are you coming up?"

Silently, Theodore slowly lowers the broom to his side, cautiously stepping over the handle as Draco drifts in the air. The minutes stretch as the boy stands there, both hands gripping the broomstick while his feet remain firmly on the ground.

"We're not playing quidditch," Draco promises because Theodore must truly despise the game if he can't even bring himself to push off the ground. "Come on, we need to go look at those trees."

The sound of Theodore's breathing, a little louder than it should be, pulls Draco down until he's levitating only a few inches from the grass. Theodore's shaking, not nearly as bad as he had been yesterday, but he's still shivering. His eyes are wide and his features pale as he looks up to meet Draco's eyes.

"I don't like flying." Theodore says softly. The words carrying the weight of the years where he's never even touched a broomstick in Draco's presence. Only looked on in disdain every time all of the other pureblood children have joined Draco in games of quidditch.

The scared boy standing before Draco hardly resembles any of those memories at all.

"Well," Draco swallows the lump in his throat, "get on then, I can fly us if you can't."

The Comet's Tail has room enough for two, two children at least; so, Theodore fits right behind Draco, even if it does take him long, lengthening minutes to peel his hands off the other broom and to step over to where Draco has settled onto the ground.

The other boy's hands are quick to wrap right around Draco's middle, though. Just as quick as his face is to burrow into Draco's shoulders as he pushes them off the ground. The warmth of the other boy fades into the background as they fly over the shed and past Mother's gardens.

The cold that starts to emit from the boy is too thick to notice anything else, his cool magic curling under the cocoon of the broom's. It's almost like it's seeping under Draco's skin, digging in as deeply as Theodore's arms are into his middle.

"You're cold," Draco says, his voice cracking, the broom only traveling as fast as it would take him to run over the grounds. The rest of the words cling to his throat as what feels like Theo's fear trembles under Draco's skin.

The cold magic stills, not drawing back but not digging in deeper either.

"Sorry." The other boy mumbles into Draco's back. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright. Snow's colder and I can handle that." Draco's not really sure which is colder at this point, but lying so Theo stops saying sorry is perfectly acceptable. "Maybe it's because you're upset. Like your magic is cold when you're scared."

He can feel Theo stiffly shrug. "Maybe, it just feels gritty to me." And it does, if Draco really focuses past the cold. It's like little grains of sand settling under his skin.

It takes forever, not nearly as long as running along the ground, but minutes stretch until Draco's feet settle firmly upon the ground. Hawthorn trees are scattered around them as the thicker groves of woodland cluster farther away. Theodore sinks off the broom and into the grass beside Draco. The cold magic slips right out of Draco's skin and back into the shaking boy next to him.

"I've never liked flying." Theo admits again, looking up to Draco as he stands there holding loosely onto the Comet's Tail.

"That's fine." And it is. It's not really that big of a deal anymore that Theodore never plays quidditch. They can just do other things, like look for shadows. "We should start looking though, for the shadows," Draco clarifies at Theodore's confused furrowing of his eyebrows.

When Draco reaches out his hand to help the other boy up, Theo grasps it tightly in his sweat-slick palms as he's pulled to his feet. After a few shaky breaths, the sandy-haired boy glances around at the hawthorns around them. The shadows are lighter than the hedges, with the sun nearly overhead over what's more field than trees. It's doubtful that any of the shadows under the trees here stay dark enough throughout the day to be considered old. They'll have to walk over to the deeper woodlands, then.

Theo's gaze fixes upon a hawthorn not too far from them. The bark twists into itself like two trees growing together instead of one. Its canopy stretches out to one side, as if some wind has permanently blown it to arch towards the horizon as its shadow curves over the ground.

When Theodore steps forward, Draco's close behind.

"There, you see something right there, don't you." Draco states, staring right at the shaded grass crawling up near the base of the tree. The shade looks the same as any old tree's shadow, but maybe Draco isn't looking hard enough.

"Yes, but..." Theodore drifts off, his gaze moving from tree to scattered tree before settling back onto the hawthorn Draco crouches under.

Draco doesn't see a thing except grass and dirt that's darker than what's in the sunlight. No matter how much he squints and leans over the tree's shadow until he has to place his hand onto the ground to balance himself.

The grass tickles his palm while feeling loose, shifting, and cold. Cold like Theo's magic, yet it doesn't slip past his skin. Instead, the feeling fades leaving behind only the coolness of a solid patch of earth that's been shaded from the sun.

"I felt it!" Draco calls out, looking back at Theo whose gaze has wandered to another tree. "It ran away, but I felt it first!"

Theodore treks over, peering over Draco's shoulder before saying, "it looks normal now."

"Of course it does," Draco huffs, "I said it ran away, didn't I."

Draco looks around, none of the other hawthorn's look any different, but if he can feel them while Theodore can see...

"Where's the next one? I want to see if I can catch it." Draco might be able to manage that. Just so that he can get a proper sense of the texture of the old shadow's magic. He's never been able to grab onto the magic of portraits, but he's pulled through enough locks to know that some magic he can get a hold of.

Theodore looks around, eyes wide as he observes the closest trees. He frowns as he turns a bit, his eyes darting quickly from one to the next.

"I don't...It isn't like the gardens. It won't stay put. It's flickering." Theodore finishes cryptically as he turns again to look back at Draco.

Beneath Draco's palms, the ground flickers cold again, the texture almost clinging to his hands in clumps that don't match the sight of the solid earth beneath them. Theodore's hand slams down next to his and the ground flares so hot that Draco pulls back with a gasp.

Theo flinches back too, just enough for his hands to raise and for whatever was trapped in place to disappear.

"We caught it. We caught it!" The momentary heat has already faded from Draco's hands as he grins. If they trapped it once, they can do it again.

When he looks back and catches Draco's grin, Theo smiles. It's not a very large smile, barely big enough for Draco to see it even with how close the two of them are, but it's there softening Theo's face.

"Master Draco! Mister Nott!" The house elf's voice, unexpected and high, causes both boys to jump. "You's don't poke it! Never poke it like that!"

The house elf's fingers are gripped tight into fists at his side instead of wringing themselves like Draco's usually sees them. It's strange the way Dobby's eyes narrow sternly for the first time ever. They're always wide, or downcast. Always.

"You's never prod it! Or you disappear for weeks and weeks!" Dobby's stands close to them now, even though Draco swore that he was a couple trees away. Waving his finger sternly in their faces, Dobby continues, "Even young elves know that, or they learn very, very quickly once they find their way back."

Theodore's quiet "back from where?" almost drowns under Draco's shrill "Disappear!"

Dobby waves a hand, saying dismissively, "Back from the spaces in-between."

"In between where? And you never said you can disappear for weeks!"

"Dobby said shadows can make you unseen. So, of course they make you disappear too." The house elf says primly, "If you poke at them wrong. Especially if you make them stay where they don't want to."

Draco glances back, back at the spot where Dobby said he could have disappeared.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco says quietly, chills crawling up his arms.

"It means moody shadows are moody, especially when poked at. Now, Master Draco, Mister Nott, Dobby said it isn't proper for wizards to see servant's magic. Meaning, it isn't proper for wizards to play with servant's magic either."

Indignation floods up Draco's throat and burns his cheeks as a house elf scolds him.

"You're lying. It's not servant's magic. If Theo or I can see it, then it's wizard's magic. And any magic a wizard sees can't be servant's magic." Draco spits out, stomping his foot onto the ground.

Dobby stops talking, staring wide-eyed at Draco.

"Not servant's magic..." The house elf trails off. He looks away and to the side mumbling to himself all the while, "Dobby's magic not servant magic..."

The house elf's gaze snaps right back to Draco. "All right, Master Draco. Dobby was wrong, it's not servant's magic."

Draco stares suspiciously at the house elf. Dobby doesn't appear to be saying what Draco wants to hear like he does for Father when he's trying to avoid punishment. The house elf looks very certain of his words, which isn't the face of a house elf trying to lie his way out of trouble.

"Of course, good of you to admit you're wrong, Dobby. Don't punish yourself for it since you figured it out yourself." Draco quickly includes. Because it'd be ridiculous if the house elf started banging his head on a tree for admitting his own mistake.

Dobby nods, his mouth curled down in a serious frown. "Thank you, Master Draco," the house elf says very briefly with a flicker of emotion in his large eyes, "but you still shouldn't prod shadows. Master Malfoy and Lady Malfoy would be very, very displeased with Dobby if Master Draco went missing."