Chapter One.

Professor Draco Malfoy braced himself as he walked out into the biting cold Massachusetts weather. Two things had always been beyond his realm of explanation. The first was how he had ended up a professor of modern English literature at a university in the United States. From what he could recall, Britain was much less brash than the United States. Furthermore, he hardly remembered it being this cold in England, though that may just have been his wishful thinking. For Draco, his days in England seemed distant, vague, and almost entirely too hazy. Nothing was certain in his memories, but Draco attributed that to his devotion to his work, and to his mind obviously working to block something out. Perhaps he would explore these someday, but today was not that day. Draco had to first survive trekking to his car in the faculty parking lot.

The second thing beyond Draco's grasp was why none of his fellow faculty members were younger than the Second World War. That may an exaggeration, but Draco could never understand the great age gap between he and his colleagues. He, proudly, recalled he earned his doctorate at a relatively early age and managed to get a tenure-track position all before the age of thirty. He, regrettably, recalled the conversation held in the faculty breakroom before Draco bolted for his home.

"Virginia Woolf is simply too outrageous to be taught. T.S. Eliot as well."

"I agree completely Joseph. Woolf work is poorly composed and Eliot is entirely gibberish."

"You probably met Virginia Woolf you old bag," the posh drawl whispered as he pulled the items from his mailbox.

"What was that Dr. Malfoy?"

Draco turned to look at his possible competition. Were Woolf and Eliot worth defending against this shriveled prune of a man and his partner in crime who looked remarkably like a peanut shell? Did he want to stir the waters of a department filled with men each at least 40 years his senior? The answer to the first was yes, and the second was no. Quite frankly, these trail-mix ingredients posing as men were undeserving of Woolf's brilliance and Eliot's wordplay.

"Oh," Draco sighed as he backed down from a fight, "I was just mumbling to myself. How's your term going Joseph? Bert?"

The peanut looking one shifted in his chair slightly uneasily. Draco knew he made the man uncomfortable for some reason.

"Quite well, I suppose. Students can't write well anymore. I haven't given anything higher than a C plus all semester."

"Shame. Gone are the days of composition, wouldn't you say Joseph?"

Now the prune turned to look at Draco. His nose hair was protruding in a most offensive way.

"I would have to agree Dr. Malfoy."

Draco hated the condescending way the nose-hair trembled when the man called him "Dr. Malfoy."

Draco attempted to mimic the pretension that reeked from both men as he smiled and began to turn away.

"Ah," the peanut man trembled, "Mr. Malfoy, my wife and I are hosting a bit of a- a bash if you will. Would you say it's a bash Joseph?"

"It's more than a gathering, but I think bash puts far too high expectations on it. Small celebration."

"There we are, well- my wife and I are hosting a small celebration. The details are on the card in your mailbox. I would enjoy it if you came."

Draco knew Dr. and Mrs. Bertram Howard Nooms would not lose a wink a sleep over his absence at their terribly quaint holiday gathering. It was said to maintain an appearance of camaraderie. Academics stick with academics, Draco supposed.

"Wonderful! Thank you Bertie. I'll check my calendar once I get home and I'll give you a ring either way."

"I shall look forward to it Dr. Malfoy! Oh, and please don't call after 6:30 on weekdays. Helene can't stand calls after dinner."

"Of course."

With that, Draco left the faculty breakroom and willed his jacket tighter in order to brace himself for the near freezing temperatures that awaited him.

The roads were terribly icy and Draco hadn't really mastered the American car yet. Shortly put, the drive was interesting. Fortunately, it was quick. Draco removed himself and his belongings from his car and trudged through the quickly piling snow to his house.

A much-too-large Craftsman in a neighborhood of Colonials was the residence of Dr. Draco A. Malfoy. The much-too-large house fortunately had a much-too-large heating system and shortly Draco was warming up. He was squatting to focus on lighting a fire in the fireplace when a wet tongue met his neck.

"Hello Lucille," Draco stroked his poodle's black fur, "miss me?"

The fire caught and soon the fireplace was emitting warmth. Draco then fed Lucille and gave her the attention she rightfully deserved. He remembered her as a puppy. He had gotten her as he was finishing his dissertation as a 26th birthday present to himself. She was the only present he would get that year. Draco then tried to remember earlier birthdays. Slowly, he worked his way backwards to his 19th birthday, and most with vivid detail, despite his 21st being a little hazy. But it stopped at 18. He couldn't remember anything about his 17th, 13th, 9th, or any birthday until his 19th. He remembered his mother sending a letter for each of these birthdays. She was in France while he was at university and she had stayed there after he moved to America. Draco thinks he's visited her once or twice, but again, it was hazy.

Draco was stripping himself from his winter clothing of the day. A trench coat, a heavy wool coat, a cable knit jumper left him in a black thermal shirt. He tried to kick off his boots, but accepted his fate and bent over to untie them one by one. His thick socks were then peeled from his feet and he wore thin anklets. He took off his slacks and traded them for a more comfortable pair of denims. He always felt weird in denims. It felt like something wasn't right, but it was much more comfortable than any other pair of pants he owned. Well, other than his sleepwear, but that wasn't entirely appropriate to wear until one is actually sleeping.

He shuffled from his room to wander into the kitchen. Along the way he grabbed his school bag and removed the mail from his box. Draco examined the contents on his kitchen counter. A few students were requesting a letter of recommendation for an internship or graduate school or whatever they were applying to. Julianna, the departmental secretary, whom Draco was nearly positive had a crush on him, put a "message-for-you" tab in his box. Terrance Pontilier. A friend of his from his graduate school days was going to be attending a conference at Draco's university. Draco decided he would call back Terrance, Terry rather, this evening or this weekend, whenever really. A letter from a newspaper included a check for an article he had written earlier that month about the identification of modern classics as they emerge.

Lastly was Dr. Bertram Herbert Nooms' promised invitation. It was crushed slightly at the edges, from his bag, Draco assumed. He examined the card. The front was a rich maroon with gold lettering that spelled out "You're Invited!" Draco was nearly positive he had seen this exact card when Dr. Nooms invited him to his Fourth of July gathering/bash/small celebration earlier that year. He flipped the card and saw the scrawl of Mrs. Nooms. She and the doctor were hosting a group of people the next Saturday. The party was set to "begin at 5 and end promptly at 7:30."

"I'm glad they've extended their bedtime," Draco said to no one in particular.

Despite knowing he had nothing planned for that day, Draco checked his calendar. Without fail, he was free. He stood staring at the grid for a while. Draco debated his options. He had declined the last three Nooms and company parties with regrets, and wondered if he could get away with a fourth. Maybe if he stayed for an hour, made a complete ass of himself, and ate his weight in crackers with some crab paste on them, Draco could avoid any further Nooms parties.

He ultimately decided to not decide. There was no reason for him to trouble himself over the matter. It was the penultimate Friday of the term, and all that was left for him to do was review his students and administer the final for the class.

With this leisurely mindset, Draco sauntered first to the refrigerator and next to the pantry to search for any semblance of sustenance for dinner. In spite of his searches, he found nothing overwhelmingly appealing. There were a few take-away boxes littered around the fridge, with fruit and vegetables in the crisper. The pantry bore a loaf of bread that had gone slightly stale, a couple jars of peanut butter, and an ungodly amount of macaroni and cheese. Draco soon came to the conclusion that he should probably go shopping.

Shopping was always an adventure, especially in Winter. Most of the true essentials, water, canned food, things of that sort, were nearly barren. Fortunately, Draco was not buying water or canned food. Instead, he thought some well-cooked protein would be the best route. Chicken, maybe, or pork. Draco's solitude had forced him to either learn to cook well or get by on terrible tasting food and frozen meals.

Draco had not chosen to be alone, not entirely at least. He had Lucille. But human company was few and far between outside of university. His friends from his doctoral program were either still getting their coveted degree or across the nation. That was something Draco could hardly fathom. The enormity of the United States. This nation that coasted a continent on both sides had never bored him with what it looked like. What he grew bored of was the people who composed the nation. He assumed it was somewhat of an elitist mentality mixed with general aloofness. He had not intended to be an elitist. Draco never entirely intended to be anything, often he just was. His attitude was something he subconsciously developed after finding more interest in academics than extracurriculars. The aloofness came, and hardly ever left. Draco now simply hoped it was endearing. He knew he was lonely, but would never admit it. There was no point. Life would continue on for Draco and everyone else regardless of his feelings of solitude or isolation, and he would have to either continue or resist, and one was much scarier than the other, but entirely necessary.

He had picked chicken and whatever excuses for vegetables a New England Winter could conjure up. Stir-fry seemed like the best idea.

Dinner was made and Draco was cleaning the remnants of it off of his plate. The night had come much more quickly than expected and he had to now decide what to do. He could venture out into the cold and attempt communication with other cold creatures that lurked at bars late at night. He could watch a movie he had been promising himself he would watch for the past four months. He could go to sleep, which was unlikely. He could pamper himself and bathe luxuriantly and spend the rest of the evening relishing in the perks a professor's income promised.

Draco ran a hand slightly wet from dishwashing through his fine platinum hair. He would not decide now. He'd call Terrance. It was too late by Nooms standards, but knowing Terrance, his night was still young.

The ringing reverberated in Draco's ear. He kept his eyes fixed on the window that displayed his now snow covered backyard. Draco stared in an attempt to remember his last meeting with Terrance. It was a year and a half ago, if he was not mistaken, which he was not. Draco's friends had decided a bar-hop was the appropriate celebration for Draco's early obtaining of his doctorate degree. He could hardly resist a bar-hop, though he was more fond of wine. Terrance was there, obviously. Draco and he had been close, he was probably Draco's closest friend in graduate school. He and Terrance entered the program at the same time. Terrance was from humble origins and a Norman Rockwell family. He had attended college in the state he grew up in, thirty minutes from his childhood home. When his midwestern tour came to a close, Terrance decided to head east, and to the place everyone goes when they go east: New York. Draco had decided on New York because of its relative ease to stand-out while attempting to blend-in. Draco never wanted to show his desire to be desired, but he adored the attention. His origins were unknown. From what Draco can imagine from that time, he had a relatively comfortable childhood. His undergraduate days were spent in Oxford. He excelled and enjoyed his time. Draco never backed down from a challenge, and was always willing to learn.

The night of the day Draco defended his dissertation was filled with haze and alcohol. By the fifth bar and Draco's eleventh drink, the night was wrapping up. Draco, miraculously, was still coherent enough to invite an equally inebriated Terrance back to his apartment. The night was spent rubbing warm bodies until either one found pleasure. It was awkward, liberating, and far too hot.

The following morning, both fought urges to never move again, swore to never drink again, and Terrance departed with a light kiss half on the cheek. Draco then spent the day packing and preparing for his move and his job.

By either the thought alone or sensory memory, Draco began to sweat lightly as the phone continued ringing. Just as he was about to pull the receiver away from his ear and ditch the call, Terrance's voice filled Draco's ear.

"This is Terrance."

Draco thought this was oddly appropriate.

"Hi Terry."

Draco relied on his drawl to excuse any formalities.

"Draco?"

"Yes. Do you know any other British prats in Massachusetts?"

"You're actually one of five."

"You're a twat. You called?"

Draco relaxed his stare from the window and now played with the hem of his shirt. He was leaning against the counter much too casually.

"I did. I'm going to be Amherst in a couple of weeks."

"For that Hawthorne Conference?"

"Mm. Redalian's presenting a paper and asked me to come along."

Dr. Y. R. Redalian was Draco and Terrance's Grammatical Analysis professor. An incredibly boring man nearing 90, he was a carbon copy of Dr. Joseph M. Schwartz and Dr. Bertram Howard Nooms.

"Redalian eh? What did he write about? The placement of commas in 'Young Goodman Brown'?"

"How'd you know?"

Draco smiled. He had set this up, but he was still glad he seemed somewhat prophetical.

"I saw the speaker list for the conference."

"Right. You work there. How is work?"

Work was work. Terrance knew the answer. He just wanted to see how miserable the other side of the degree was.

"It's always interesting talking to professors who actually met the people they teach about."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely. Always fun to hear that Grendel wasn't as bad as he seemed."

Terrance laughed. Draco knew that joke would kill.

"I'd like to see you Draco," Terrance responded as he recovered from his laughing fit.

Draco had a feeling this was inevitable. He hadn't decided how to feel about it. Terrance was a friend, and someone Draco would love to catch up with. But Draco knew that Terrance meant something entirely different be "seeing" as Draco did. Draco weighed his options for a split second. He could make up some bogus excuse and avoid seeing Terrance. He had gotten pretty good at making excuses. But it was couple of weeks out from the conference. Any plans claimed now would be transparent. He could agree to see Terrance, whatever that may mean. Draco wasn't entirely opposed to sex, as much as he was unfamiliar with it. He recoiled at the idea that he had become the bookish prude. His and Terrance's drunken struggle for pleasure was only Draco's third sexual experience and the most recent one.

"I'd- like to too."

A partial lie. He had added the "too" to make it seem like he had agreed wholeheartedly when really he could go either way with seeing Terrance.

"Wonderful! I'll give you a call when it gets closer then? Is this a good number?"

"Mm. It's my house number. If I'm not at school, I'm here."

"Great! I'll talk to you soon Draco."

"Yeah."

Draco ended the phone call before more decisions could have been made. He was irrationally afraid of decision-making. The fear of his decisions defining him. Draco was entirely used to being told what to do and doing exactly that to his best ability, while keeping himself the primary beneficiary.

He wanted to go to the beach. He wanted to avoid the unreasonable cold and snow and winter. He wanted to go to the beach.

Draco ended his night falling asleep on the couch halfway watching a movie he promised himself he'd watch.

The last few scenes played while he dreamt. A vivid, odd dream. He stood alone in a forest. This alone scared him slightly. The eerie green mist surrounding the dark towers seemingly everywhere only added to his fear. He was naked. Draco tried to move his legs to walk, but only collapsed on the leaf-covered earth. He could see brown dirt staining his pale skin. He could see black bugs crawling underneath, on top of, around, and through the leafs. He could see the seemingly endless and alone forest. He could see a great stag standing a safe distance away.

Draco propped his torso on his elbow and made fearful eye contact with the stag. He could swear the stag was someone he knew. He knew.

Neither creature moved, partially out of stubbornness, but mainly because of reluctance to scare the other.

The stag took a half step forward. Draco recoiled slightly. He felt his eyes fill with fear. The stag retracted its step, and lowered its head. Draco didn't know if this was a threat or a peace offering, but after not moving, the stag again stepped forward, this time with a consciousness as to not rustle or break any leaves. Draco relaxed. The stag continued forward, gently.

The stag was arms-length from Draco. He didn't move forward. Draco assumed he would have to make the next move. A hesitant hand reached. As it inched closer, the spirituality of both creatures trembled.

Finally, a soft hand put its fingertips on the head of the stag, between its antlers.

Draco then awoke.