This story is for The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition

THE WIGTOWN WANDERERS

BEATER 2: Draco Malfoy and Vincent Crabbe -Romance

Additional Prompts:

Dialogue: "What on earth are you doing?"

"Sometimes your life boils down to one insane move." – Avatar.

Dialogue: "We can't do that!"

We met in January, he was all sharp points and fine near-white hair. I remember peeking out from behind my father and wondering if he was a ghost. I looked from the boy straight to his larger double. My father grunted before pushing me forward, "Vincent, these are the Malfoys." I was introduced. We were supposed to become friends; our families had been allianced for many years.

Not long after there was another boy there with us, playing in the Malfoys' extensive gardens. "Goyle. Gregory Goyle." He had stated; his eyes on the ground, hand outstretched hopefully. I stared at the hand for a few moments before reaching out to shake it; my hand was instantly slapped away and replaced by a paler one.

My ghost sneered at me, "You are MY allies," he told me, making the word ally sound far closer to 'servant', "Not each other's."

I gave a slight nod of understanding before turning back to the toys. My ghost suddenly had to be shared, and in that instant I felt as though I'd lost something.

Gregory and I played together in one of the various sitting rooms of Malfoy manor, a deck of exploding cards shaking violently between us. My ghost wandered through the room with a thick book, his nose buried in its fascinating depths.

"Draco," a rich baritone caressed our ears, "You are meant to be acquaintancing yourself with our guests."

"Father," he huffed, "How am I supposed to acquaintance myself to them when they are so ignorant of the world."

"You teach them Draco."

"But father," he whined, "They are far too lacking in intelligence to understand."

Goyle went to open his mouth, clearly to spout that he had received a first class education and could surely carry on a conversation if ever given the chance. I knew this, because I had been taught by the very same private tutors. However, I must have learned just a slight bit more, as I knew what a faux pas it would be to interrupt such a clearly private conversation, I motioned to Goyle for his silence.

The younger copy continued on bashing our respective wits, we sat there silent and reserved, proper gentlemen from proper families. Families with such long-standing life debts as ours could not afford to speak contrary to our creditor.

Long long ago, the Crabbe estate had been ambushed by a group of mudbloods; we had found ourselves pitifully outnumbered, and nearly wiped out. The lady of our house had been ripe with child as she shouted through the floo to any and all houses that would hear our plea. House Malfoy came to our rescue, the mudbloods were defeated, but it had been too late for all but the small babe within the lady's womb. Lord Malfoy had delivered the child himself, before taking in the small boy and raising him alongside his own children. My great-great-great-grandfather had been raised a Malfoy, and even granted a fine Malfoy daughter as his wife to replenish our line. All since, the family Crabbe had owed house Malfoy their unwavering allegiance.

I looked across at my ghost, hair pale as a sheet, knobbly knees, sharp cheeks, pointy chin, and large grey eyes. I didn't see the loud whining insulting child he was portraying; I saw the idol I had been raised to revere, a saviour of our family; fair and sleight, but majestically powerful. A beauty displayed in stunning grace.

In September we went to Hogwarts, I watched him carefully construct his face that morning, a blank mask to shield the world from the all too telling expressions I had so rarely been graced with glimpsing.

On the platform his mother stiffly reminded him that we would be attending school in the same year as Harry Potter, I watched that carefully constructed mask crumple as bright enthusiasm shone through. His father grumbled, but my ghost knew just how to adjust such attitude, "Oh father, think of all the political uplifting our family would gain if I were to befriend THE Harry Potter."

My chest tightened as I realized that my ghost had never expressed such joy at the prospect of befriending myself. I bit my tongue and stared dolefully to the station floor; soon he grasped my arm and dragged me away to find a compartment. Gregory Goyle joined us not long after, he and I spent the train ride dutifully trailing after that blonde head.

We spent the entire year; and still the entire year after trailing dutifully after him.

In the spring of our third year I could no longer resist, he had just been hit by that mudblood Granger. He was reeling from the shock surely, how dare she hit him, the nerve of that girl. I reached out slowly to stroke his reddened cheek; he stood there silently, still quite flabbergasted from being punched. It was only when I stepped closer and ran my hand trailing under his eye, across his temple and into his fine pale hair that I provoked a reaction. "What on earth are you doing?" He yelped, jumping away from me.

I quickly withdrew my hand and stepped back; swallowing the lump of embarrassment, I looked towards the forest, "It looked painful." My voice breathed out the half-truth. The endless remainder of what ran through my mind at that moment would stay unsaid, 'You looked so lovely, standing there silently, the wind rippling through your silky locks. I couldn't resist reaching out to touch the pale contours I have so long gazed at without indulgence. I had to admire those lovely grey orbs one last time before the barbaric strike forced upon you closed one by swelling….'

My thoughts could have travelled on in such a manner for days, but I quickly clamped the lid down on that can of seductive worms. We were purebloods, purebloods were meant to have pureblood children, and for this I could never have my exquisite ghost.

In fifth year it suddenly hit me just how hideous I truly was. I had always known that I was not terribly attractive, but I had never before cared about that little fact. After all, I was a pureblood, and purebloods' stuck together, some respectable girl somewhere would marry me. Unfortunately, it wasn't girls I was thinking of. I was dreaming of soft white silk, fair smooth flesh, prominent cheekbones, and a thinly muscled torso.

My ghost, I could see and hear and smell his presence, though all but that once I could never touch him. I didn't want him to be my ghost anymore. I wanted to run my hands through his yet longer tresses without restraint, caress his aristocratic jaw, and drag my fingers across his supple pink lips.

I observed blankly as he flirted shamelessly with Parkinson, and watched with a frown when he turned his attentions to Tracy Davis, when it came out that she was a mere half-blood he all but forgot her presence and began wooing Daphne Greengrass. I was more than mildly relieved when she ignored his advances.

Her coldness began something I would eventually be grateful for; my ghost took longer and longer in the bathroom each morning, more than once he made us all late for classes. His frustration grew awkwardly obvious, but I waited, just a little bit longer, a smidgeon more, trusting Greengrass to continue in her refusals. I was so patient, and the very moment it finally appeared as though he would turn once again to Parkinson, I let go of all my worries, and realized the hopes I had been dreaming of for months. In March of fifth year, my ghost became flesh.

Sometimes your life boils down to one insane move. We were alone in the dorms when I finally worked up the courage. I trailed the back of my hand down his cheek, leaning ever closer, I licked my lips whilst staring hungrily at his. He stood rooted to the spot as I inched forward; and closer yet. My other hand touched hesitantly on his hip in our otherwise empty dormitory. When he moved I was all set to jump back and claim illness, but he didn't push me away, or sidestep my desperate approach; instead he shuffled closer, placing an accepting hand upon my shoulder.

My fluttering hand resettled, firmer on his hip, and pulled him in. I dipped my head staring him dead in the eyes as I drew near; I could feel his hot breath ghosting over my lips when I froze. All my doubts and fears suddenly rushed back to me; I would be disowned for this if he ever spoke, all the tentative acquaintances I had made would flee from my side at the news. My hands shook on his body, my eyes widened, pleading, begging him for my life.

When he bumped just that hair's breadth forward, touching his forgiving lips to my own, I nearly slumped in relief. Instead I opened my mouth just enough to suckle on his bottom lip, pulling it away a fraction and then swaying forward to tongue its new plumpness. He opened his mouth, and just as our tongues brushed each other, he jolted to life with a sudden cry "We can't do that!"

A Gryffindor might be proud of me for the words I next spoke, but it was purely out of Slytherin self-preservation, "Why ever not?"

"Be- because you're a boy!" He floundered.

"It doesn't have to mean anything," I lied, "It can just be release. Companionship."

He leaned away to eye me, and I had never felt so self-conscious. His eyes finally settled on my lips, and with a sigh he conceded, "Fine, but only because there is an overabundance of empty broom cupboards in this castle."

"Just waiting to be filled." I acknowledged.

And so began the rest of my life.

He got his birthday present the same day the train brought us home. Days later he wrote to me, claiming that what we had done was disgusting and unnatural, and that only for the sake of my line, and my faithful allegiance over the past years would he be silent.

Yet when September came, and he bragged of the important task he had been given, I knew first. I knew that he shook with tears each evening, before waking with a scream each morning. I knew that each time we were alone he would look to me with apologies lining his eyes. Grey orbs that had once been so bright and full of hope, they were deadened now; dull and dark, cold and closed.

In January when he crawled wordlessly into my bed, I said nothing, shutting then silencing the drapes; I took him into my arms and held him close as he sobbed raggedly over the task he had once boasted. Come morning he would be empty again, he always woke hours before the rest of our dorm, sometimes shuffling back to his bed, but mostly out of the dorm to wherever he went, to work on the project delivered by the Dark Lord.

When the year ended with a battle, I was terrified, not of the clamour, not of the invaders, all of close relation to myself. What fear need I have of my aunts and uncles? My fear was of the Dark Lord, and for my beloved, who had failed in his task.

As we ran through that vast room, past towers of junk, chasing after Potter, Weasley, and the mudblood, on a hopeless errand for the Dark Lord; I had more than enough time to think, and when you think for too long, you begin to understand. The understanding that dawned on me during that chase was that I would never have my ghost. The battle would end and he would either be dead, or if not, be quietly married to some woman. Yet here he was, chasing desperately after Harry Potter, to deliver him to the Dark Lord, and it was all Malfoy cared about. All that the entire family cared about was protecting their own, being on the winning side. I finally understood that if need be; Malfoy would sacrifice my life in an instant to save his own.

At first I yelled at him, collapsing a pile of junk around Potter and his crew, Malfoy tried to stop me, screaming out that I'd kill Potter. Of course, the only one that would affect was Malfoy, the Dark Lord wouldn't blame me, after all, I had put forward a near flawless mask of idiocy.

I was so enraged at the thought of being sacrificed, that it took me until long after I had cast fiendfire, long after we were running for our lives, to notice that Malfoy, my ghost, no. Draco had touched me; he had not bothered with physical contact for nearly a year. That slight touch, and all the tingling beautiful sensations I received from it shook me from my potent rage too late.

I miss stepped on the long climb up a pile of rubble, the chair I was on wobbled dangerously; and I screamed as it gave and delivered me into the fires.

I stared to the heavens as I fell my long descent to the fiery blazes below. There, above me, were two bright grey orbs, widened in horror as they watched the flames engulf me. His little mouth opened in a silent scream, that soft white hair was coated in ash and soaked in sweat, a single pale arm outstretched in a belated attempt to catch me. But it was his eyes that held my gaze for that brief eternity. All his grief screamed through them, carving into my soul what I'd always wanted.

Potter and Weasley swooped down to grab Goyle, and my Draco. He would be safe, I told myself. Even as the inferno licked at my flesh and charred my body, I kept my eyes open and held his gaze.

Those eyes held everything I'd always wanted, every kiss he never returned, every hug he'd pushed away from, and every 'I love you' he was too stubborn to say. I died in the flames with a smile on my face; my ghost, my Draco, he loved me.