Candle

by : epiphanies

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Millicent asked me a question the other day. She asked what it's like, being with Draco.

"What's it like," she said, "being with Draco?"

I raised my eyebrows a bit, "Being with Draco?"

"Yes," she answered, glancing at her horribly ragged fingernails, "Being with him, the way you do."

"And what, exactly," I leaned on my elbows on my own four-poster and glanced at her, "is the way I do?"

"You tell me," she said quietly.

I should have hexed her. But I didn't.

I stared at her a bit, though. How is it with Draco? What's it like, being with Draco?

Am I... with Draco? I have to wonder, you know. The furtive glances, that I share with few others. That I allowed him to dance with me, when I wouldn't let anybody else at my thirteenth birthday party (we got to sip Firewhiskey and it was brilliant - neither of us admitted the awful headaches we endured the morning following.)

I shared a candle with him, once, when we were sitting by the lake on his father's estate. We both watched it like the pyro-maniacs I suppose we are, until it became nothing but a sweet-scented pile of ribbed scarlet wax. We liked the flame, I remember, but not the colour because it was of Gryffindor. Any bad luck we had that year we contended to the burning of that candle - only between us, of course.

We became Prefects together - and members of the Inquisitorial Squad - and I was there when he had his Death Eater Initial Acceptance Party and he was there when I had my Debut. We tend to be the only ones able to not handle the formal galleria well, so we hide out in whatever stairwells the building employs - there are usually plenty to choose from.

He was the first boy to ever hold my hand, but it was actually both of my hands, because he was teaching me how to walk on ice without falling and hurting myself (a very uncharacteristic move, one would think, but not really.)

I did kiss him, once. I kissed him, not the other way around. It was under mistletoe in fifth year, and nobody else saw. We haven't talked about it since then and nothing has really changed between us. We just know that we'll be a pair forever, or until forever has come to pass, or we pass it before it passes.

But Millicent really wants to know, and I don't know what to tell her.

"Is he lovely in bed?" she prods, and I laugh. I say naught and give away even less. She takes this as a yes and I'm sure Draco will appreciate my silence this evening. He shall have quite a reputation, that boy, in the morning. He'll be the King of Slytherin and I will be his definite Queen - whatever that means.

"Are we talking about Draco?" asks Annette Pearson as she entered the dormitory with a flourish. Annette is a sweet-looking blonde with the most prominent streak of malicia I've ever experienced.

"We are," I affirmed, and her eyes sparkled.

"So," she flopped herself onto her own four-poster, unaware that her dress had hiked up considerably, "What it like, Parkinson?"

"What's what like?"

She flipped over and her eyes widened, "You don't have to play games with me, we're way past that. Come on, Pansy. As your roommates," she motioned to Millicent vaguely, "we deserve to know the goods."

"The goods aren't for sale," I retort, before realizing what they could interpret that as. Annette's eyebrows shot into her fuzzy blonde hairline.

"Really? That good, huh?"

"Think what you will," I sniff, pulling my covers over myself, suddenly disinterested in the conversation, "but I'm going to bed."

I heard them talking about him in hushed tones as I pretended to fall asleep. I had pulled my curtains across, but I could hear the giggling as well as every so often a "blonde hair....grey eyes..." or a "that pale little body...." or a "what about the smirking...." or even a "it's hot when he makes fun of Potter."

Nothing bothered me until I heard Annette whisper gleefully, "Pansy doesn't know, but I made a pass at him before the House Cup."

My eyes shot open and my heart began to pound as she continued.

"Yeah... I gave him a kiss on the cheek and wished him good luck.... ran my finger down his chest, like this..."

Annette was obviously giving a demonstration on herself. My blood boiled.

Draco had worked so hard for that Cup, and it had been snatched away from him for a reason nobody could understand - he almost fell off his broom a few times that day, and he looked at me with a kind of strange sadness, I remember. Was he regretful that he wasn't with Annette (the hoe...!) Or was he worried that I would find out?

But nothing had ever really happened between us. If he'd gone off with Annette, I wouldn't have cried. I'd have hit her, but not cry.

And yet, a tear is slipping down my cheek for what she did to him. For what she made him do. For the glory that she unknowingly took away from him that day and the days following.

I didn't fall asleep at all that night. I woke up the next morning and marched to Draco's dormitory and forced him to go on a walk with me. We talked like normal. Nothing was wrong. I brought up The Cup and he stared thoughtfully into the lake.

"Well," he reflected quietly, "that day was a difficult one. I think we'll get it this year, though."

I smile a little bit, because I know that he'd never tell me what Annette had done. He wouldn't want me to get involved and he wouldn't want me to hurt. Though why I would hurt is beyond me.

I know that Draco is an entity to which nothing can cling to. So am I. We stand together and yet independent and I will never worry, ever, about his will breaking. He is strong. We are strong, and nobody, especially simpering little girls, can make that go away.

That candle we burned may never really fade out.