Disclaimer:No recognizable characters and/or magical whatnot belong to me (unfortunately); they are the property of Ms. Rowling. Neither do I own the lyrics; Evanescence does. I ALSO do not own the original story of the Snow Queen. Hans Christian Andersen does, brilliant man that he is (well, was). I just own the plot. =3




Prologue - Fairytales


“Dear, my love, haven’t you wanted to be with me?
Dear, my love, haven’t you longed to be free?
I can’t keep pretending that I don’t even know you;
at sweet night you are my own.”


As a child, his mother would, on very rare and very secret occasions, as his father looked down upon such things, read to him from a great, dusty old tome that contained Muggle fairy tales. This massive volume contained accounts of wicked stepparents and knights that used swords instead of wands to duel. He’d been disgruntled with the dragon slaying, skeptical of the happy endings, and scoffed at the general sentimentality of it all. But there had been one, just one Muggle fairy tale that for reasons unknown had fascinated him.

It was a rather dark telling...

A dark sorcerer once possessed a mirror, a mirror that was shattered in to a thousand million pieces, very long ago. The many shards flew up, up into the heavens, then came raining back down, showering the entire world with the tiny slivers of darkness. Some of these shards that fell, slipped into people’s eyes, rendering them unable to see anything but a twisted, repulsive distortion of anything they observed. These people saw only reflections of the flaws and faults of the world. Other pieces sank into people’s hearts, corrupting their very being. These were the wicked, the malformed, the amoral ones who delighted in evil, and the suffering of others, reflecting the hatred that lay deep within their own blackened hearts –

He had grown to believe that his father was one of those people.

There were two children that lived a small, cozy village: Elizabeth, who was as Autumn and Summer combined; some called it Indian Summer. He hair was long, and untamed, as flaming red as the sunrise, and fair, flushed skin smattered with a constellation of freckles. Her smile and laugh matched her hair in their radiance; they could heat the coldest of hearts when sent their way. Paul was a thin, fair boy, with hair like spun moonlight and steady pale eyes that seemed to look into your very soul. He did not smile or laugh very often; they were almost exact opposites in every way. They were also best friends. They lived across the street from one another, and played together every day of their lives, many times in their ‘hidden place,’ a small, neglected garden overflowing with wild roses of every hue.

One glorious summer day, as they were outside in their garden, a mirror shard came falling down, unnoticed by both of them, landing in Paul’s eye. Soon after, he left for home, saying that he did not feel well. In the days afterward, he became withdrawn and spiteful, no longer wishing to play with Elizabeth. He said many unkind things to her; calling her ugly and boring. Hurt and sad, she stayed in her house, watching his house across the street from a window in her room.

Summer soon faded into Fall, and then it was suddenly Winter. Elizabeth stood watch by her window determinedly, ever hoping that her best friend would come to play with her again in their rose garden, even though the roses had wilted and turned to dust by now.

That winter was the harshest many had seen in a long, long while. And with it, unknown to the villagers, came the Snow Queen. She was a magnificent creature, cloaked in the fur of a snow leopard, and dripping with ice-cold diamonds. They studded her flaxen hair, glittered and glinted on every long, elegant finger, and lay twinkling at the base of her milk white throat. She was beautiful, and she was heartless. And she wanted Paul.

Soon, too soon, she had mesmerized him, and late one frosty eve she bade him to come away with her, to the far North that was her home. And willingly, all too willingly, he complied. Elizabeth, who had been diligently watching his house for some time, saw everything. She cried out softly in alarm, but could do nothing but watch helplessly as her best friend climbed up to sit beside the Queen in her sleigh, and disappear in a whipping whirl of snow, into the night.

The next day, Elizabeth, packed, ready, and determined, set off after him.

She traveled for eternity. Seasons passed; Winter melted away into nubile Spring, and Spring grew into Summer. Along the path of her travels, she came across a small, weathered cottage, in a clearing in the woods.

An old woman appeared at the door, adorned in a hat that was covered with flowers of every variety. The strange but kindly old woman bade her come in. Gratefully, Elizabeth did so, and was soon well fed, comfortable, and in a real bed for the first time in months!

The crone looked after her for many weeks; she would keep making up one more excuse for Elizabeth to stay, if only for a bit longer. Elizabeth was soon quite content and helped her friend in the flower garden that grew behind the cottage. During this time, the hedge witch – for that is what she was - was very careful to hide every single rose from Elizabeth’s sight, for fear that the girl would remember her quest. It worked very well; Elizabeth grew to forget how and why she had come to be here. The old woman had always wanted a daughter of her own; the time had long since passed since she had been able to bear children, and she was very lonely.

But one warm Indian summer’s day Elizabeth caught a forgotten, familiar scent, and followed it out to where the old woman knelt pruning some berry bushes. She still wore the funny flower hat she had created for herself. And there, tucked shyly between a bold-faced sunflower and a merry, bouncing bluebell, was a red, red rose.

Elizabeth felt strange…it was if she had suddenly woken up from a dream! She gazed at the rose. She remembered everything; she remembered the Snow Queen…and Paul! In a flurry of panic and guilt, she hurried to gather her supplies. The old woman, surprised and disappointed, begged her to stay, for only a little while longer. Elizabeth, moved by compassion for the lonely woman, but steadfast in her mission, had to refuse. The old woman surrendered, and let her go.

Months passed. Her feet were very blistered and sore, but her spirit never flagged as she continued North. One day, while walking down the side of a country road, she met a little girl in a torn and muddied dress and wearing a solemn expression. Elizabeth, concerned, knelt before the child and asked what was wrong. The child did not speak, but looked at her in reticence with clear eyes. Then the little girl spoke.

“You will prevail. You do not require any armaments, nor armies; the warmth of your heart will see you through to the end.

“Now go; he is waiting for you, though he does not know it.”

And then she was walking quietly past Elizabeth, continuing her journey down the deserted country road.

Without looking back, Elizabeth pressed on, her heart and spirit steady.

More weeks passed, and the land grew more barren, and the air distinctly chillier, for he could see her breath come out in puffs of fog. But she was not to be hindered by the cold; indeed she could not feel it at all.

The landscape soon looked as an exquisite, desolate ice sculpture, but there was no life here, no sunlight or warmth to take away the coldness. She knew she was now in the realm of the Snow Queen. Later that night, she came to a great, sprawling castle, carved completely from ice…the Snow Queen’s palace! Elated, she slipped silently in, and hid in the shadows to wait to see if she could get a glimpse of her friend. Her patience was soon rewarded when he came into view; he was behind an enormous block of ice, pushing it! He looked malnourished and frostbitten, his skin a deathly shade of frosted blue.

She crept up behind him, and touched a shoulder. With a pained yelp, the boy whirled around. His eyes were narrowed, dull and almost lifeless, safe for the hateful spark buried deep within his gaze. Gasping, Elizabeth drew back, tears forming in her eyes. With a cry, she reached for him again, and wrapped her arms around him. Her hot tears were rubbed against his icy cheek as she held her dearest friend to her.

He cried out in pain and alarm – he was so frozen that her very touch burned him. She let go, startled, and saw that her tears had not evaporated from the cold, but instead lingered there like liquid diamond droplets. It was then that Elizabeth noticed, for the first time, that the corner of one of his eyes was red and swollen – it looked infected!

Just as she was noticing this, something incredible happened – the boy cried out again, holding his dripping face; her tears were melting the cold away! Tears of his own were welling in his eyes, and the wounded eye glistened for a moment...and then a tiny sliver of mirror slid down onto his cheek. Gasping, she reached out and plucked the shard from his face, staring at the small fragment that lay so innocuously on the tip of her finger. Then, with an angry cry, she turned and hurled it as far as she could, and it flew with a last defiant flicker before disappearing into the haze of moonlight and frost. Then she turned back around.

Paul was staring at her – no, behind her - seeming as if he had just awakened from an unpleasant dream. Frightened, Elizabeth whirled around...only to come face to face with the Queen!

She stared at the Queen in anger, shaking. “He does not belong to you anymore!” She cried in defiance, hardly aware of what she was saying.

The Queen for her part was livid, trembling with rage. “Just who do you think you are, little girl? You are nothing! You cannot hurt me, and you will not take him from me!” With that, she reached around her for Paul. Furious, Elizabeth grabbed one diamond-covered hand and thrust it away, feeling the gems bite into her palm painfully.

The Queen fell back, stumbling, incredulous. Her hand felt brittle and cracked and scalded; as though it was on fire! How dare she! “How dare you touch me, you rabble!” she snarled, holding her burning hand close against her protectively. She was beautiful no longer, but a bristling, cornered savage beast. For a mirror shard had fallen into her heart, very long ago, on the day of her birth, rendering her unable to reflect true, untainted beauty.

Elizabeth sneered at the Queen elegantly; her head clearer than it had been a few moments ago. “He was never yours. I cannot take him from you; he does not belong to you. And,” she added softly, tears stinging her eyes, “I could not take him anyway; I cannot touch him for fear of breaking him. See what you have done to him! You have frozen him!” She flared again, motioning angrily at the still, pale boy behind her.

Then, with one last contemptuous look at the Snow Queen, and without another word to her, Elizabeth turned back to Paul, and beckoned to him with a trembling hand. “Do you wish to go home?” she whispered. He was quiet, and simply looked at her, eyes wide and pained. “I cannot force you; I would not even if I were able to touch you. Do you...wish to stay here?”

She saw him start, and a muscle in his jaw tightened. “No,” he grated out, as if he were not used to speech. His breath hung in the air between them. “I wish...” He looked away for a moment, unable to meet her warm, honest gaze. “Can you...take me...?”

“Where do you wish me to take you?”

Home, Spain, a rupturing volcano. Did it matter? “Anywhere. Take me anywhere; I will follow you, friend.” He reached out then, and put his icy hand in hers. His lips trembled; he looked as if he were in deep pain. But he clung to her, although he burned where she touched him. Determinedly, he gripped her hand tighter. A tear glittered for an instant in his eye, unnoticed, before drying abruptly in the frozen air.

She gazed at their joined hands; one small and soft and very freckled, the other long and elegant and touched with frost. She slowly closed her fingers around his, hoping she wasn’t hurting him too badly. Then she looked up at him, to find him looking at her as well. She smiled her glorious, sunrise smile then, and he glimmered back, just a little. “Then...let’s go anywhere.”

They left the palace of the Snow Queen that night, hands still joined, and no one stopped them.


“We’re leaving here tonight;
there’s no need to tell anyone,
they’d only hold us down.
So by the morning’s light
we’ll be halfway to anywhere,
where no one needs a reason...”

Chapter One – Will

“Unwinding snares of distrust,
your wrist in my fast grasp.
Look me in the eye; it's clear –
this is your time.”



It all began so innocuously – and doesn’t it always? Simply an amusing distraction, a subconscious noticing of other people’s troubles, and gaining a laugh and a crude joke or two from the observers. It was something you gossiped about in your common room, and sniggered over when you saw the poor soul walk past you in the hallway. With the Slytherins, for the longest time, it was the most picked-at topic in school. Draco Malfoy, as always taking the lead, had the others following suit in this new and entertaining pastime. For the better part of his fifth year, it continued in this fashion, with no one ever really comprehending the reason why. They thought it a great game, the Slytherins did, and they enjoyed it immensely.

And then, one late summer’s eve, their eyes and minds were diverted to the Dark Mark that hung once more in the sky. Voldemort had returned, and in full force.

That summer, the one separating their fifth and sixth year, came and went, but Voldemort stayed. The Dark Mark and death statistics were splashed across the headlines of the Daily Prophet almost every week now. People soon forgot to make catcalls to the girl who trailed behind Harry Potter everywhere he went, who so obviously watched him from behind her loose locks of fiery red hair. There were, as the Muggle saying went, bigger fish to fry now. More juicy little tidbits of rumors and speculations that floated about the campus were pounced upon, shook hard and mangled to death by the student body. Fear and morbid excitement, anxiousness and anticipation all hung in the air about Hogwarts, charging the atmosphere as the days passed.

No, the youngest Weasley was all but forgotten by then.

Except for one observer, who never forgot.

---

The gossip had ceased over that summer. There was no one left to take note, no one else to see how her eyes followed him discreetly yet steadily, thinking herself so clever for her new and improved methods of stalking the local icon...not even the prat himself noticed! Hung up on a dead man’s woman, that one was. Bloody sick making. The observer felt disgust twist in his gut every time he let himself dwell on it. What had he heard that Mudblood call it? Ah, a soap opera. Melodramatics played out on those Muggle tellies; somehow they were supposed to be entertaining. And they were…this Hogwartian soap opera was dead amusing...to a certain extent.

On the surface, you had your lovesick best friend’s younger sister, the clueless hero, and the grieving ‘widow’ of the man whose death he was responsible for – the same girl our champion mooned over incessantly. To a casual observer, it was a random source of entertaining diversion that you could gossip and twitter over in your dormitories late at night.

But he was much more than an observer. In his opinion, he observed far more than was healthy for his peace of mind.

He saw the way she hid her pale face behind limp locks of hair, studying the other boy intently. Hungrily. He spoke, and her head turned. He smiled, and her eyes shone. But never to her, never at her. The words went to the two that sat on either side of him; the smiles went to anyone, anyone that wasn’t her. She was so…so dim. A pale, sickly shadow of a being. Even her long, rippling tresses seemed washed out; they hung, wilted and dull, about her narrow face, deepening shadows that already clung there.

Oh, she wasn’t hideous looking, just…haunted. And strangely hollow; emphasized by a stick-thin figure that would otherwise be considered willowy. She drew almost no attention to herself, instead spending time at either the Library (to flit about the edges of Potter’s group), or in more dimly lit parts of the corridors (to trace his steps as he walked to his classes)...No, this Gryffindor was not the honey the boy-bees flocked about, nor the trendsetter the other girls looked to for guidance in everything feminine. She was...incomplete. Silently broken; a withered shade of what might have been an incredible specimen of vivacious womanhood and magical potential, had it not been for this useless, idiotic obsession with Harry Potter.

But there was one redeeming quality, he reminded himself.

That girl was a devil at Quidditch.

She had, to the observer’s astonishment, tried out for the house team in her fourth year, and earned herself the Keeper position. But it was obvious why. He’d never in his sixteen years seen anyone fly as if they’d nothing under them, like she did. In the air, she was Grace incarnate, and when the wind whipped into her, you could actually see her face. And it looked nothing like it did when settled on solid ground. Slashes of a becoming shade of pink marked her angular cheeks, and her eyes...effervescent was the word that came to mind; a flashy, painfully mawkish sort of word, but not when used in reference to this girl. It made him all the more curious; why, if it made her so obviously happy, had she not tried out before?

When she flew, she came alive. Wild, windswept sunrise hair that was somehow brighter, seemingly reflecting the sun itself the closer she got to it, floated about an animated oval face; it was the only time he had ever seen her laugh out loud like she did then, when she flew. Why did no one else see that? She could roll and dive and soar with the best of them; she made one helluva Keeper. But no one ever came up to her after a match to hug and shake her, hoist her high on their collective shoulders and scream her name...not like they did Potter’s.

And Potter was unknowingly picking all of this apart, to leave the once beautiful budding potential as scraps lying jagged and torn about his feet. Such a waste. He didn’t know which was more pathetic; the prat, for being such a great blind...prat, or the girl, for loving such an undeserving fool.

He saw everything, took it all in silently and - to his own chagrin - avidly. He came to anticipate every meal, even found himself hanging back in the Great Hall, hidden in the shadow of the doorway, all so he could watch her fall apart. For all that he loathed the boy hero, he came to – dare he say it? Almost subconsciously, and for the longest time, he nearly...envied him. If that was the appropriate word for it, back when all he had ever heard her say were those words she had spat at him those five years ago, in Flourish and Blotts.

“Leave him alone; he didn’t want all that!”

Even then, it had been about Potter, defending him.

Envy. Such a base, undignified word. Something that should have described the attitude of those Weasley peasants. A Malfoy did not envy, he did not covet, he took. When a Malfoy saw something that was worth his time and attention, he went after it diligently and shrewdly. He did not lurk about in doorways to spy on it, to yearn from afar.

Good God, ‘yearn’ wasn’t even in the Malfoys’ ruddy vocabulary.

And yet he yearned anyway, lurking about in doorways to catch a glimpse of her. He observed, not even understanding why he did so; not quite comprehending his own motives. It had begun as a source of amusing distraction for him, in the beginning...and over the weeks and months it escalated, evolving into something quite different. When his sixth year had come around, this was how he had found himself spending his days, just watching. Then, summer break again - and with it came a strange deflating of his spirit; restlessness, and a hollow ache where the physical sight of her face had been. There was nothing for him to fill up the hours with; he felt somehow incomplete himself.

---

Just before Seventh Year

His mother had taken note of his melancholy behavior that summer, and managed to corner him in his private Library, a few weeks before the new term was to start. He had snarked at her, he remembered, and put his nose back into the book he had been studying – Muggles and Mudboods: How to Properly Deal With Necessary Evils – before she had interrupted him. But she had persisted, and finally Accio’d his book away, placing it on a table on the other side of the room so he would no longer have a distraction.

“Mu-um! You should be thrilled that I’m actually reading for a change, instead of outside trying to kill myself on a broomstick –”

“Draco.”

Her tone was flat, and brooked no arguments. He gritted his teeth and slouched in his armchair, glowering over her shoulder to the window beyond. I haven’t done anything, have I? Surely she can't have guessed... ”Stop looking at me like that!” He snapped when she refused to acquiesce. He knew he sounded like a petulant child, but he didn’t really care. Anything to make her leave him alone.

“You’ve been too quiet at dinner lately. You’re losing weight, and sleep as well, if I’m not mistaken...is there something I should know about?” Her eyes finally caught his, and he managed to make himself sneer elegantly. It was harder than he thought it would be. Her gaze was too straightforward, too probing, too suspicious...he felt himself go cold for a minute, and he rolled his eyes expressively in order to break eye contact.

“The Parkinsons are coming for tomorrow night’s dinner, yes?” A nod from his mother. He inwardly squirmed; he hated to admit a weakness, even if it was a lie. “Pansy will be there...you know my feelings...in regards to...” he purposely trailed off as if suddenly self-conscious, making vague motions with hands that were mercifully steady. Let his mother take from it what she would. “It’s just a bit of nerves. Nothing of terrible importance, I assure you.” Now just buy it and kindly let me be.

She searched his face; her eyes, so like his own, narrowed in doubt. Then one side of her mouth curled slightly, into a dry smile. “Your father wishes to speak with you,” she announced suddenly. And without further ado, made as if to leave, turning to the side and moving towards the door.

He froze, stomach dropping. “About...?” He hated how his voice suddenly cracked. As if I didn't already know.

She paused, and turned slightly, looking over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were strangely shadowed, her usually tranquil face suddenly void of all feeling. Her voice matched her expression. “Your future.”

And then she was gone, leaving him alone in a sudden maelstrom of emotions. Anxiety, expectancy, acknowledgment...fear.

His seventeenth birthday had been only two days before; the deadline for his decision in the matter. As if I ever had a say in it...he would never forgive me should I refuse. It was either be Initiated, or be disowned. Possibly even punished. Done away with. Killed.

And now it was time to announce his decision.

With unusual mixed feelings of foreboding and resignation, he stood. In order to stall for a bit more time and indulge in a bout of self-pity, he meticulously straightened his wrinkle-free robes, and swept back his already coiffed hair. Then he looked into the mirror that sat in place of a portrait above his fireplace mantle. “Beautiful dear, just divine.” The mirror purred.

Despite his initial misgivings, he smirked, very faintly, and took a bit longer to study his reflection critically. The arrogant expression soon melted away from his face, leaving him looking rather gaunt, and paler than usual. His mother had been right; he was losing weight, and sleep. The too-angular jaw and the dark shadows under his eyes were a clear testament to his recent attack of agitated insomnia. He scowled faintly at the sight; Father would see right through him if he didn’t do something to veil his emotions.

If his father ever found out why he was suddenly prone to these melancholy fits, he would never hear the end of it. He would wish to put a stop to it immediately, and take precautionary measures to ensure that his only son and heir be a person worthy of the Malfoy title. Do away with all distractions; destroy anything that could prove detrimental to his son’s reputation and future.

And, Merlin help them all, Ginevra Weasley more than fit the description.

How did I ever let it get this far? When did it change? When did I change? His pale eyes searched the flat surface of the mirror, as if it held all of the answers, even those he had no question for.

A handsome, finely chiseled face stared back at him. His skin was flawless; almost translucent it was so fair. The eyes were his father’s and mother’s combined; hooded, smoky eyes that were heavily lashed. Above them his brows arched elegantly, giving a permanently superior cast to his features. His jaw was not as pointy (he assured himself) as his rivals claimed; it had a sharp, angular sweep to it, and the cheekbones were fine enough to chip a diamond. A perfectly straight Roman nose was set above a wide mouth. When he smiled, he knew, the top lip would curl just a bit, giving him a rakish look, and a dimple would appear in his left cheek.

All things considered, he was as near to perfect as a human being could get. A classic example of a true Malfoy. Always sharply dressed, every flaxen hair on his head swept back in a coiffeur, and an arrogant look perpetually stamped on his face.

But it was the eyes that gave him away.

They say that eyes are the windows to the soul. His own were almost devoid of color, and horribly blank. No backlight shone from behind them, to give them warmth and emotion and life. He was nothing more than a hollow shell of a person, waiting to be filled with whatever personality they desired.

It was cold, empty beauty that he looked upon.

Beautiful. Divine. Who said that the mirror never lies?

He closed those eyes for a short eternity, and then opened them to meet his own pale gaze. What he saw there...was not he. And yet it was. Cold. Controlled. Proud. A Malfoy. A young man that had everything he could ever dream of, and more.

But at that particular moment, he just felt like a worthless pawn.

Why is everyone else allowed to make their own future...but not me?

He turned from his reflection, perplexed and not a little disturbed at his own treacherous thoughts. Took a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady himself. He had a meeting to attend, and it would not be an enjoyable one, he already knew. Merlin help him.

He had been given a choice. It was his decision, his right to secure his own future. And this was the path he had chosen to take.

But he couldn’t help but wonder if he had chosen the right one.

Without looking back at his reflection for fear of what he might not find, he turned and left the Library, heading towards his father’s chambers.

Forget the girl. She means less than nothing to you. She is a pauper, a blood-traitor, a Weasley. A Malfoy does not consort with the likes of them. We do not need them or their kind.

You do not need her.

This is your future.

Not my will, but yours be done...


“Devil guides the way,
tells me what to say;
pours himself inside,
snuffs the final light...”