A/N: New story, new measure of corruption. sigh. Rating is for the nasty stuff in the future. That which is in italics shows Natalie's diary entries or thoughts.
Rating – R
Summary: An innocent from Gryffindor gets caught up in the manipulation and mind-games as the battle between Houses notches up.
The train compartment was empty but it resounded with sound – the sound of slamming doors, anxious goodbyes, laughter, chattering and shouts. Rain began to splatter the platform, and relatives and friends began to hurry, quick kisses, and huddling under umbrella charms as they moved off. The whistle sounded, and the door to the compartment opened.
The girl crept in, cautiously, expecting someone to be seated there, and sighing faintly with relief that no one was. She seated herself in a corner, shivering a little at the contrast between the cold of the early September autumn outside, and the warmth of the carriage. She ran fingers through her long hair, tangled by the unexpected rain, and curled up blissfully in the warm like a small cat.
There was a bang as the door slammed open, and quick footsteps sounded, moving back and forth across from the other carriages. Three voices, one high and persistent, one good-natured and low, the other less frequent, interjections made in an only just audible tone.
"This is empty," Hermione declared, sliding the door back, and stepping in. Her robes swirled about her as she moved and obediently fell back into neat folds as soon as she stopped. Hermione was tidy like that. She looked back at her two companions, sighing a little over the dirty smudge on Ron's cheek.
The redhead looked abashed as the girl waited impatiently. "We're coming, Hermione," he said, catching up with an awkward lope. "Harry got a bit caught up." He shot a grin at the black-haired boy behind him. "All those women wanting to hug you, 'saviour of the wizarding world'..." He smirked. Harry gave him a shove to the arm, pushing Ron back a step.
"Shurrup," he grumbled in a half-mumble, the words slurred by embarrassment. He raised his head, and looked about the carriage, and glanced at Hermione. "It's occupied," he said shortly. Hermione looked over.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said quickly, a faint flush rising in her cheeks. She pushed her hair behind her ears anxiously, exchanging a look with Harry. "We'll have to find an emptier carriage down the train. Sorry for interrupting you," she added, unnecessarily to the girl. She uncurled, trying to smile, awkward and uncomfortable.
"It's all right, really," she said softly, dropping her gaze, not looking at any of them. Harry blinked, running a hand through his messy black hair.
"You're MacDonald, aren't you?" he asked, bemused, his forehead furrowed into a frown. "Yeah. Chaser on the team?" She nodded, blushed, and kept her eyes down, her gaze up through her eyelashes.
"Natalie," she said inaudibly, cheeks stained red. She looked up briefly, found she couldn't hold his eyes, and looked at the floor once more, her fingers tangled in the twisted wool of her scarf.
Harry nodded barely imperceptibly. "Right. Natalie," he said quickly. "Nice to see you." He smiled at her warmly; feeling somewhat ashamed that he'd not remembered her as a 'Natalie', rather 'MacDonald', and the shy, short girl who hung back until mounted on her broom. She was fast, he remembered vaguely, but Quidditch hadn't been so important last year.
"We'd better find a carriage without anyone," Hermione murmured in the vicinity of Ron's ear. "We can't discuss...things around someone." She looked meaningfully over her shoulder at Harry making awkward conversation with the girl. Ron nodded
"Harry, mate," he broke into the almost-conversation easily, with a light tone. "Luna and Neville aren't here. We need to find 'em first." Harry swung around, and nodded. Natalie sank into her seat again, the soft glow of excitement at his interaction fading from her eyes.
"Goodbye," Harry said, guided away by Ron and Hermione. "See you at practise!" The three left the compartment as it swayed violently, the train taking a bend as it left the scrubby, patchy land that constituted London's railway sides, and set off into real countryside.
As the rain drummed the roof and windows, in soft sweeps as the wind wove back and forth, Natalie drew her knees up to her chin and hugged them tightly, trying to lock in every moment. He knew her name. He'd been friendly. To her, Natalie MacDonald.
Once more alone in the train, she lifted her head, and shook back her hair from her face. Her brown eyes took on a dreamy cast. She delved in a bag next to her, and pulled out a small book. She opened it, resting it on her knees, and began to scribble, her pen moving quickly. Every second moment, she paused to look up, her gaze soft and warm and unfocused, twirling a piece of hair between her fingers.
The sky darkened, and the lights flickered on in the train, bright and comforting against the dismal, gloomy sky. Fog clouded the scenery, if one pressed one's face against the glass of the window, the dim outline of rolling hills and bare plains could be made out behind the thick white mist that covered everything, but the chat and giggles pervading the train showed that no student was particularly interested in the landscape.
After a summer spent among the muggles who were not aware of the heightened worry and anxiety of the secret world within them, they fell with relief into fast-paced talk on the drama reported in the Prophet, those living in areas sparsely populated with muggles sharing news from daily deliveries with those based in London, Dublin, Cardiff and other centralised areas where an owl carrying a newspaper could be seen as distinctly 'odd'. The train was packed, the Prefects patrolling the compartments dressed in their robes and badges, the newest showing off shiny badges with an air of importance mingled with embarrassment. First years were in clusters, huddled together as if without one another to rely upon they would get lost in this new, exciting and dangerous world. Second years, contrastingly, hung about in smaller groups, sprawling with an air of nonchalance that was proper for someone who'd already attended Hogwarts for a whole year, but belying their outward insouciance, their conversation was of the Ministry, and Death Eaters, conducted in low, important whispers.
Natalie's carriage was the emptiest of the train; she alone had no travelling companions. This did not concern her, lost in her own world, webbed in castles of cloud and fantasy, but it was the reason for the pair striding through the open doorway and into her sanctuary, with easy arrogance.
Two boys, Sixth Years, one tall and dark, the other shorter and so fair he was almost white haired, stepping in pace with one another.
"The very problem, Zabini," the blond concluded, sweeping the carriage with a contemptuous, cursory gaze. The darker boy laughed softly, lowly and gave a quiet whistle.
"What have we here?" he asked, nudging the other, and indicating Natalie, unaware of their presence. His quick look took in the scarf of deep crimson, twisted wool, the jeans and thick sweater, and he curled a lip. "Muggleborn. Scum. There seem to be more of them each year." He stepped closer, his look menacing.
"Blaise." The word from the blond was enough to stop him, and half-smiling; the shorter boy moved forward, his walk soundless until he stood before her. Natalie's lips moved without sound, eyes roamed unseeing, and then caught, suddenly seeing the two in the carriage. Without emotion, Draco watched her eyes widen, the dark pupil flooding the soft golden-greeny-brown of her iris. His lips curved into a smile, observing her instant terror and withdrawal, she moved back, her arms and legs curling into herself, trying to make herself as small as possible.
"I didn't see you," she said, stumbling over the words, shaking with embarrassment, nervousness and fear. Had he, had either of them, she saw, sinking further into mortification, noticed the words she had whispered to herself, heard the story she had told?
"Really?" Draco drawled, his voice silky smooth, Blaise moving closer, eagerly, to watch the fun. Natalie dipped her head, her hair falling forward to cover her face now burning hot.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, barely daring to look upwards, to meet their amused gaze. She blinked, suddenly recognising the blond.
"You're..the Seeker for Slytherin, aren't you?" she asked, her face clearing. "Malfoy, isn't it?"
Draco exchanged a look with his companion, disbelief interwound with interest. Her reaction hadn't been from fear of him, or Blaise, but simply of the intrusion. Who among the students, for she was no first year, did not know who he was, or what he was?
"I am," he answered, his tone thoughtful. Blaise slipped an arm about his shoulders carelessly, his own eyes searching as he watched the girl.
"This is Blaise, do you know him also?" Draco asked, his voice measured and calm. Natalie fair forgot herself; she cocked her head on one side, considering the matter, a flood of silky brown hair falling over her shoulder, and shook her head.
"No," she said clearly, more reassured. "I know you because you play Quidditch." Draco smirked at the other boy.
"See, this is why no one knows you, Zabini," he said reprovingly, hidden laughter beneath his tone. "For you do not play Quidditch. I've told you, you should play for how else is this girl to know you?"
"Of course," Blaise drawled, his fingers digging into Malfoy's shoulder, reminding the other boy of their purpose. "Why, I had not even considered that prospect." He nodded to the girl, bored of the novelty.
"I'm afraid we require a private carriage," Draco said smoothly, "So if you wouldn't mind?" He let the sentence hang delicately in the air, and Natalie scrambled for bags, robes, and book, pink tinge entering her cheeks. As she left, if she had noticed, the faint laughter of the two accompanied her out.
Harry Potter knows my name. Harry. He looks so tired, and yet brave, the scar is livid on his forehead. He's more mature than anyone I know, and considerate. He said hello to me, and he barely remembers me, except that I play Quidditch.
Maybe this year he'll recognise me, and talk to me. Perhaps I'll score a goal bringing is closer to Gryffindor victory as he catches the Snitch, and our eyes will meet across the pitch, and we'll nod, congratulating each other on the game. And when we land, he'll kiss me, and hold me, getting dirt on me because of the mud from his Quidditch robes, but we'll walk up to Gryffindor Tower together, and celebrate Gryffindor winning the Quidditch Cup, surrounded by friends. Our friends.
And he'll think I'm pretty, and sexy, and not shy, or awkward or odd. He won't think I'm crazy...