Beth: I wanted to do something that wasn't like me - that would make my mother worry about me - something that would make him worry about me.
~Playground Girls
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As the sky turned a dark gray and the people ran inside to cover themselves from the batter of the rain two very regal people were having a conversation.
Two very important people were inside the young lady's dormitory speaking quietly--he was in the girls' dormitory--and no one ever noticed.
Two very important people were sipping butterbeer and the younger was hogging a plate of crisps and Swiss chocolate.
Two very important people were talking. Quickly, swiftly, without much thought with polished British accents in a dingy dormitory.
October. It was in the late October.
"Ever wanna be bad?"
He laughed at the statement and took a calm sip of butterbeer.
"I don't know, Parkinson. We aren't exactly good now are we?"
"Oh no," she laughed, "but...bad? No, no, I don't think so. I mean, there's a fine line," she said as she applied a thick layer of clear lipgloss. "A very fine line."
"We're bad, Parkinson...we're very bad indeed."
"But we aren't that sort of bad," she reasoned, "like 'killin people in the night sort of bad. And we don't drink whisky."
"Yes we do!"
"Well," she said, "not often and not enough to get us drunk. And we don't go dirty dancing!"
"Well Parkinson," he said leaning against the scarlet chair. "It's something like this--you're a good friend--a very good friend--and well, Parkinson--"
"And I'm gorgeous, might I add," she said with a snicker.
"You're little enough to be my baby sister!" He added, indignant, never wanting to call the Princess of Slytherin pretty or even attractive.
"Well," she said as she slumped in the vanity chair. "I'm not your baby sister, Draco."
He pinched her cheeks and then took a liking towards looking out the big window. Out at the cloudy sky where crystal raindrops were dropping from the clouds laced in water.
A storm.
A storm was coming on.
"My parents aren't bad either," she said, perhaps woefully. "They're just not very nice people who were never even decent people to begin with."
"Your parents bloody love you," he said firmly grabbing her hand and holding it tightly.
"That doesn't make them any better," she commented dryly. "Not even a little."
"Cut 'em some slack, Parkinson."
"No."
"All that good and bad stuff...Parkinson, it's all an illusion to make the bad feel more crummy and to make the good feel lots better. And to make people like us--whatever we may be--just like we don't belong anywhere."
His voice was serious like bread being broken across a wooden cross.
He went back to glaring out the window it was stormy--it was going to make rain and thunder and lightening and perhaps chaos.
But it was beautiful.
"You can actually sell yourself that bull, Draco? You can actually believe that there's no good and evil? That it's all some creation? Creation my foot! It's very real, Draco. And I've seen good--I've seen white haloes and singing angels and I've seen people kill mudbloods in cold blood and then bring that blood back as a reward--" her voice trailed off so as to seem like she was about to cry--
but she wasn't.
"--are you saying that all that is just heroes and villain rot? It isn't, Draco. It isn't. And you can lie to yourself...but you'll never be able to lie to me." She took a deep breath and glared at him.
Silver eyes met golden-tinted one.
He didn't respond but merely gestured for her to sit upon the bed next to him. Her bed. The bed with a jade comforter and flannel sheets--an unmade bed. She went over to him and sat down next to him, her head on his shoulder.
It was beautiful.
It was stormin' on an October Night.
No words were needed as the two looked off in the hazy distance. Two minds becoming one and two hands held tightly. Both pale--one smelling of butterbeer the other of overused cosmetics.
And for once in their short--forever thirteen lives--good and evil was hidden.
But never forgotten.
*