1As my first fanfic I hope y'all will be nice to me. Reviews and suggestions are appreciated! Disclaimer: I do not own in any way shape or form the wonderful universe that is Harry Potter.
Ch.1 A Girl's Shape
1 year ago
During the summer I would go into the mountains behind our manor. I can remember a time when my mother took me and everything was good. So I go to the mountains, alone now, during break.
It was something I could count on. Mountains are always there, solid, wonderfully, wonderfully solid and always, always there.
One day, that one day, was the one when everything came crashing down.
It was cold that morning and my toes were numb, despite the warming charm I used. Despite the ministry, or, perhaps because of it, I can cast such spells while away from school. Gold paves roads.
I am bitter.
I had climbed aways and stopped. The mountain was quiet, the only sound was the shushing of the grass and a single, lonely tree. Pausing to catch my breath, I saw it. A person, on a broom, in a dive, like a Wronksi Feint. Only this was so much more. Not a maneuver, but a dance. I was drawn to it . . . the wild beauty I had never seen, much like a moth to flames. It was not perfection.
I have seen perfection.
I have seen it in the shape of my mother: long, silky, blond hair; flawless, white skin; red lips; black gown. Perfect. The Ice Queen. Cold and crazy. Yes, I can see it. My mother is going insane. She walks the halls at night, talking and dancing with imagined specters and sweet, nostalgic music from far off memories.
My father, on the other hand . . . ha, my father. At one time I wanted to be just like him, it was my greatest aspiration. I wanted nothing more than for him to be proud of me. So, I became perfect.
That, is why I was drawn to it. The indescribable, beautiful imperfection. A dance in the air, in the center of a secluded mountain range, drawn to what I am not.
Whoever was riding that broom, the dancer . . . I needed to meet them, desperately. Never had I needed anything so fiercely.
The rider touched down. They were small, in height and frame, dressed in black with black hair.
I drew closer.
Who was it?
I jumped back, burned by the fire I had been drawn to.
"Hello Draco," it was a girl. Pretty, wild, with green eyes that glittered. I was frozen, I should have said something. I know it now, more's the pity I knew it then.
She sat down under the tree. "Join me," she said and patted the grass beside her.
I sat down and we watched the sky.
"Who are you?"
"You don't recognize me?" She asked, blowing a lock of hair out of her eyes.
"Should I?"
She sighed, as if tired by it all. Instead of responding she lay down on the grass and looked up at the leaves of the tree we were under. I noticed she went barefoot. I looked at her hand. It was fine boned, callused, and bore a faint scar that read, "I must not tell lies," and looked very familiar. As it should, I had only seen the same writing a million times at school. She said I knew her, this wild girl.
Black, messy hair; tan skin; full, pink lips; and shining, green eyes. But, something was peeking out from under her bangs. I brushed them aside impatiently. It was a scar, one that had been aggravated lately. It had the familiar zig-zag shape of a lightning bolt.
I jumped back once again. There was no possible chance this was Potter. "So you figured it out," came her . . . no, his voice.
"All right Potter! What the hell are you trying to pull?" Everything was strange; the world had been overturned. My world had crashed and fallen into many tiny, jagged pieces, like those of a window or mirror.
He looked up, "Nothing."
"Hiding in fear from the Dark Lord?" I sneered. It was a pathetic retort, but a retort nonetheless.
The Gryffindor drew shapes in the grass. "The Boy-Who-Lived can't really be a girl, now can she?"
It clicked. And that is how my once most hated enemy became my best friend.
