“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...”
To Be Continued.
Marie Vulffe is the author of 0 other stories.
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