As I said in the summary, here are Draco's thoughts about his reluctance to kill Dumbledore. It's something I've been working on for a while. I'd be thrilled if anyone has suggestions, seeing as this is my first fanfic ever. Rated T for some kissing and mild sexual references. Nothing strong. Please R&R. Thanks a lot!

Quick note about the poem: Please don't be discouraged by it. I know it's rather emo. If you want, you can skip it. It's not that important.

What Draco was thinking—

Here he was. He, Draco Malfoy. Nobody, not even his parents, had expected him to succeed. Yet now, here he stood, wand in hand, the great Professor Albus Dumbledore lying at his feet. His parents would be free. Voldemort wouldn't kill them after all. He had evaded all the security of Hogwarts, the most prestigious wizarding school in the world, doing the Dark Lord a service no one else could. Here he was.

And yet he could still not get her voice out of his head! It was infuriating. It was beyond infuriating. He had done it. Everything he needed — wanted — was within his grasp. Everything. But still, he kept repeating the same thoughts, standing here, doing nothing. Hearing her. And worse, listening.

It had been the summer between fourth and fifth years. When Draco finally pushed his way through the irritatingly loud mass of students on Platform 9 3/4, having reversed a vexing mixture of curses, they weren't there. Usually, his parents met him on the platform. Not so now. They had obviously been detained. Bemused, Draco settled on a nearby bench to wait.

It was not until much later that he realized they would not be coming. Everyone had left. While the magical Hogwarts platform would never grow dark, he knew that it was twilight outside. There in the invisible gathering dusk, it came to him. The full import of Dumbledore's words at the end-of-school banquet. "Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort," he had said. "Harry Potter managed to escape from Lord Voldemort." "In the light of what has happened — of Lord Voldemort's return. . . ." Draco's breath caught in his throat. It had really happened. The Dark Lord was back. He had known — shouted something about losing sides at that Potter — but he hadn't truly understood. Now, with his parents doubtless engaged in a reunion of the Death Eaters, concrete proof was before him. It was real.

He made his way across the platform slowly, pushing his trolley to the far end. There, he tapped the brick wall with his wand. It moved back, revealing a large chimney, which ignited instantly. Draco reached into his pocket and produced a small packet of floo powder. He tossed it into the fire and followed immediately after, his cry of "The Malfoy Estate!" almost lost in the roar of the flames.

A few seconds later he tumbled onto a beautiful antique rug, bruised and sooty. He glared at the imposing black marble fireplace. He hated traveling by floo powder. Trying his best to look dignified (despite the fact that there was no one around to see), he stood and dusted himself off. Leaving his bags in a heap on the floor, he made his way to his room upstairs, where he collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.

The next morning, he woke up at five a.m. He always woke up at five. It was the remains of a badly cast Insomnia curse that had been placed on him when he was a child. As far as he knew (and he had done some extensive research) there was no way to reverse it. So, he was left with late nights, early mornings, and a pale, gaunt face. By now, he was used to the heaviness that rested perpetually in his eyelids. He didn't know how much he compensated with his brusque, sharp manner.

Despite his usual, however, he did not feel very sharp on that particular day. School always left him drained. Even if there was some small triumph during the year, it was invariably squashed at the banquet. Gryffindor wins the Quidditch Cup, Gryffindor wins the House Cup, Harry Potter saves the day. How he hated Potter and his idiot friends! Even his own father talked about him constantly. "That Potter can do a Patronus, why can't you?" he mimicked softly, burying his head in his hands. He had never dared reply that the visions even Boggart Dementors gave him were the stuff of a lunatic's nightmare. The stuff of his life in a house of darkness.

Not that he minded darkness. Draco loved it. The light was so predictable and immediate. Things turning out the way they should. In his mind, nothing should or should not happen. It just did, depending on which side was stronger. And yet those who proclaimed themselves on the side of "good" always acted as though they were completely entitled, because their future was the one that was supposed to happen. He snorted into his pale palms. Would they ever learn? Nothing had a purpose. People fought, they got hurt, they died, but none of it was for a reason. If it was, he would know. He would have long ago figured out the purpose of his life. But it had none. He could do nothing for anyone. Too young to help his parents, not powerful enough to help Voldemort, too steeped in darkness to do anything for the "good" people.

It hurt. Draco felt the dull pain in his chest that always accompanied such thoughts, and he placed a hand on it absently. For a moment it subsided, the ache that lay beneath his rib cage. The wound of inadequacy. He smiled, recognizing his infrequent poetic bent. Perhaps it came from living in the medieval air of his house and family. Maybe he was just creative. But no matter the reason, his words often formed a kind of rhythm that was pleasing to him. He had several notebooks of his poetry. Reaching for the nearest, he opened it to a blank page and began to write.

A boy sat
On the front porch steps,
With a shadow dark in his eye.
A bird called
From a nearby tree,
Its fluid song brushing the sky.

The dark came
With the sinking sun,
Its choke hold embracing the tree.
The bird cried
For its lost piece of day,
Notes resounding with soft misery.

The boy looked
At the shadows around,
That so beautifully mirrored his own.
The bird wept
At the horrors in the black
While the cold winds continued to moan.

A dark fell
That was different this time,
For it carried no substance or thought.
The bird shrank
In the face of the night,
For nothingness cannot be fought.

The boy saw
In the face of the void,
Perfection, but death is the cost.
The bird left
In the deepening dark.
The boy to perfection was lost.

It took longer than usual to write. He was out of practice, since he didn't dare risk discovery at school. He couldn't imagine what would happen if the other Slytherins found out. But despite the rustiness of his mind, he liked what he had produced. The meter wasn't perfect and the theme was somewhat disturbing, but that was normal. He supposed, looking over it now, at a distance, that it could be construed as suicidal. Death being perfection and all such talk. Really, though, it wasn't. Draco wasn't. He was too curious for that. There was so much left to see, things that he probably couldn't even imagine.

He liked that idea. Things beyond even his fertile imagination. He wondered what they would be like. Of course, if they were beyond him, he couldn't even begin to guess at them. Therein lay the wonderful mystery of it.

It was midmorning by the time his parents returned. Draco nearly fell down the stairs, eager to hear everything. "Mum! Dad!" he called excitedly.

"Draco!" His mother swooped down on him, landing a kiss on his pale cheek. "Darling, it's so good to have you home again. How are you?"

He shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

Further comments were interrupted by his father's soft interjection. "You should be much better than that. The Dark Lord has returned, and now is a time for rejoicing!" Despite its quiet tone, his voice was fervent.

"I understand, Father. So — it is really true? You have seen him?"

Lucius nodded silently, a familiar expression of awe tinged with fear writing itself across his pale face. When he spoke, his voice was slightly husky. "He was not pleased with many of us. . . . He was angry that we had not come to find him. That we doubted him, thought he might have died. And he was quite right. We were, all of us, quite incorrect. Unfaithful."

Draco was shocked to hear his father speak so. He had always praised their family as the truly loyal, truly gifted. Now he saw for the first time the extent of Voldemort's traumatic influence, and it exhilarated him. Such power! What it would be to serve a master such as him! None could stand before them. Finally, he would have his revenge.

He had been so excited when he received the owl on his eleventh birthday, though there had been no question about its arrival. Draco had shown strong magical aptitude from a very young age. He remembered going to Diagon Alley and choosing his wand. Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy. The admiration in Olivander's eyes as silver sparks cascaded from the tip, swirling to form half-imagined shapes in the air. Very interesting, very interesting indeed. You have a talent, my dear boy. Quite a talent!

He had been elated. All expected him to shine at Hogwarts. And then, he had met Potter on the train. Again, excitement threatened to overwhelm him. Here was the Boy Who Lived, the boy his own age who had defeated the Dark Lord when he was but one year old! Here was a source of real power. A friend worthy of his aptitude. He had approached, incredulous, not quite able to believe that the skinny, black-haired boy before him was the figure of legend. So he had asked, and the affirmative answer filled him with joy. He introduced himself and his friends, trying to be kind, to make a good impression. Then that Weasley boy had laughed at him, and when Draco tried to be sufficiently haughty, to educate the woefully unlearned hero (who, after all, had been raised by Muggles), Potter had retorted with surprising venom. Draco fell back, hurt, and in the agony of realizing that Potter might not want to be his friend, he had made an ill-considered remark about his parents. From then on, the possibility was gone. They hated each other with all the strength of a childhood grudge.

Afterwards, Draco was deeply injured by the rebuff of someone so obviously powerful, but he still expected to gain more friends because of his aptitude. The teachers, he thought, would certainly praise him, and the others would notice. He would recover. He had not, however, counted on Potter being on the other side. Soon, all the teachers were praising him, the students were idolizing him, and Draco was cast into shadow. Into darkness.

Granted, Potter was a superb wizard, but did it have to be at the expense of Draco's moment? The one time in his life when he was absolutely certain he would succeed?

So now, the Dark Lord was back, and Draco could finally get his fifteen minutes of fame.

It was accompanied by such thoughts that Draco Malfoy left his house the next day. He often walked around the outskirts of a nearby wizarding village. It was a good time to truly think, as was often impossible in a house where his parents dominated, making him practice spells incessantly. After a long, leisurely meander around the outer rim of houses, he made his way to a nearby hill. He considered it his place, regarding it with affection and a sense of ownership. As he reached the top and sat down, his back against his favorite tree, he heard something unusual. Something he had never before heard on this hilltop.

A voice, not his own, singing. It was a lullaby, Irish perhaps, and the beautiful, lilting notes hung on the still air with uncommon grace. A girl's voice, clearer than crystal and much gentler. Draco admired the choice of music. Somehow, it seemed to fit the surroundings perfectly. The rippling grass, the soft blue sky — he could feel them in the melody with its dreamy, undulating phrases.

While he was occupied with listening, he did not notice that the voice was getting closer. And so, when the girl came into sight, he had no time to hide. She did not stop singing, but waved cheerily and made her way toward him. In an appallingly short time, she had reached him. She sat down in the grass next to him, her jean-clad legs crossed delicately. She sang the last cascade of notes with beautiful finality, then smiled brightly. "Hi," she said. "I'm Sarah."

"Um . . . Draco. Draco Malfoy."

She nodded in greeting and her long hair came loose from its ponytail, cascading into her face. "Oh, bother," she muttered, running her fingers through it as she tried to put it back in its place. While she was thus occupied, Draco observed her surreptitiously. She was short and slender, with the well-tanned skin, long, lean muscles, and calloused hands of one who has spent much of their life outdoors. The light brown hair she was wrangling with fell in loose curls about her shoulders. Her features were pleasant, if not beautiful; she had large, blue-grey eyes that were somewhat dwarfed by a straight, wide-tipped nose and strong dark brows. Her mouth was wide, with the deep corners of a person who is always smiling. Even white teeth flashed in her suntanned face as she grinned, hair successfully contained.

"Pleased to meet you, Draco. I think I know where your family lives. It's that big house a ways outside the village, right?" He nodded mutely. "Great. I live over there." She indicated vaguely over the other side of the hill. "Or at least, I do now. We just moved here. Me and my parents."

Draco cleared his throat, making an attempt at conversation. He immediately regretted it, however, as the first words out of his mouth were: "Would you like me to show you around?"

The girl smiled sunnily. "That would be wonderful! I don't know anyone here. Thank you ever so much." She bounced to her feet with admirable ease and energy; Draco's perpetual fatigue made it a bit more difficult for him. When he'd managed to push himself up, he strode of toward the village. The breeze caught his robes and made them billow around him; it was an effect he'd always liked. He was vaguely pleased that there was someone else to witness it. Sarah caught up with his long-legged stride, still beaming. She reached out and grabbed a handful of his large sleeve. He glanced at her in alarm. For all his sharp retorts and speeches, he was not very good in dealing with people. But she simply examined the cloth for a moment, then released it to continue its dramatic billowing.

"I like that," she said suddenly. "It's thin enough to be cool, but still formidable-looking — black suits you."

Draco was not entirely sure what to say, so he muttered a thank-you. She was perceptive. He had not even consciously realized himself that he wanted to look formidable. And he always wore black because it was what they wore at Hogwarts; he was a creature of habit. The idea that it suited him pleased him immensely. Abruptly, he decided to spend the day showing this girl — Sarah — around. Perhaps she would say more insightful things.

Indeed, that was exactly what she preceded to do. They walked into the village, where he took her to a small store that sold ice cream. It felt odd to him, but he knew from eavesdropping on other people's conversations that it was the customary thing to do with acquaintances. Or at least with teenage acquaintances. When he paid for both their cones, Sarah gave him a sharp look.

"You're not used to that, are you?" she asked.

He narrowed his eyes in confusion. "What?"

"Paying for things. You usually just get what you want."

"Oh. Well, I suppose," he replied slowly. "So you've heard about my family, then."

She raised one eyebrow. Draco was not sure whether the look was amused, curious, or somewhere in between. "No, actually. I guessed. You held that galleon like you didn't know what to do with it." She laughed suddenly, brightly. "Isn't it ironic that the people with the most money have the hardest time dealing with it! I suppose it comes from never having to worry over it, to hoard it, to see just how far a dollar will stretch."

Draco blinked once at the unexpected musings, then made an attempt to regain his balance in the conversation. "But you've never had . . . money trouble . . . have you? You live here."

"No, not personally. But I have some friends who aren't quite so well off. They've told me a bit."

There followed a silence as both ate their ice cream and Draco pondered her words. As they finished, he looked up at Sarah, meeting her bright, warm eyes with his pale ones. "Sarah —"

"Maclay," she supplied.

"You're an interesting person, Sarah Maclay," he stated bluntly. "Do you want to be friends?"

She laughed at him — at his ineptness in the business of making friends — but when her chuckles stopped, she nodded. "I'd certainly like to give it a try," she replied. "Of course, I can't promise instant friendship, but I have the feeling we'll get along."

All that summer Draco spent with Sarah. She was, he was convinced, light incarnate. Happiness shone from her face. He had never seen her not smiling. It was somewhat unnerving, being constantly close to a substance so different from his own, but the simple pleasure of being in her company was more powerful. He had found that Sarah was bright and curious, though sometimes too much of both; he often had to steer her away from delicate subjects. He was convinced that she knew more than she said, but as she did not recoil at any information she might have gathered, he supposed it was all right.

Neither had met the other's family; she because Draco had told her frankly that his parents were not the most welcoming of people and probably wouldn't like her much, and he because Sarah's parents, both employed by the Ministry, were very busy. Draco supposed they must have been powerful, to live in their village. And pureblood. His father saw to that.

As the days wore on, they learned more and more about each other. Draco learned that Sarah was very interested in plants and animals and spent every minute possible outdoors. She was scornful of both using magic for easy tasks and the new Muggle "appliances." Her view was that people should learn the value of work. She was strong in her beliefs and eloquent in their defense; she once launched into a tirade about Lord Voldemort that had shocked Draco into silence. She also had a kind of anthem, one that was hard for Draco to fathom. "Violence is never the answer," she would say. "There is no justification for taking any life that could have been spared." She repeated these thoughts until they were ingrained in his mind, if not accepted. As for what Sarah had learned about Draco, he had told her more than he meant to about his childhood. She was sympathetic to his experiences and careful not to voice her opinions about his parents. Several times she offered him a shoulder to cry on. He never took her up on it — he hadn't cried since he was five — but it was nice to know it was there.

When August came, Draco found himself disliking the idea of leaving Sarah's company. On their last day together, he managed to mention it to her. "You don't go to Hogwarts, do you?" he asked sadly.

She shook her head. "I'm afraid not. I'll miss you."

He was taken aback by the sudden declaration, but found it to be apt. "I'll miss you too," he replied hesitantly.

There was a moment of solemn silence. Then Sarah, as always, brightened. "Tell you what," she said hurriedly. "I'm sure that we'll both be a little different next year. But we've become close enough that I think we can endure. So . . . I'll meet you at the same spot, same time, the day after you get home. Then we'll see if we are still friends. Deal?" She extended her hand, and Draco clasped it.

"Deal."

Perhaps there was a spark of warmth, of tension . . . perhaps they held on a second longer than was necessary. But it didn't matter, anyways, because the next day Draco boarded the Hogwarts Express. And surely no one would be his real friend for two summers in a row.

Sarah had spoken truly. It was a very different Draco Malfoy who got off the train after his fifth year. He had grown considerably, standing at six feet with some distance left to go. His once immaculate platinum blonde hair was slightly tousled, the result of a frantic last-minute embrace from Pansy Parkinson, one of many girls who had suddenly decided he was worth noticing. There was less tenseness and more of a practiced languid grace to his movements. And the shadows in his eyes were deeper.

His parents were waiting for him this time. As she always had, barring only the summer previously, his mother swept him up in a warm embrace, prevented from a shower of kisses only by the public nature of the platform. And, also per usual, when she finally let him go, his feeling of safety and happiness was banished by his father's level gaze. There was nothing overtly angry or cold about that stare . . . it was simply calculating, in the most ominous of ways. As though seeing the balance laid out before him, Draco knew that his efforts of the year were being weighed, and his father was finding him wanting.

They exited the platform in silence. As soon as they reached the Manor, the house elves supplied dinner. His mother chatted easily about school, drawing from him news of his teachers and fellow Slytherins. She made him blush with consistent questions about Pansy et al. How mothers came by their information he would never know, but the results were formidable indeed. His father was silent. When the inevitable beating came, Draco bore it with equal silence. Then he went up to bed, wincing only slightly at the familiar sting.

Draco never thought his mornings could feel lighter, but the next one certainly did. He fairly bounced out of bed (which is to say, he was able to stand up and cross the room without falling over his own feet or knocking his shoulder against the wall that always seemed to have moved from its previous position). His back ached, but it was distant and dull, easy to ignore. He showered quickly, brushed his teeth, donned his robes, and left.

He was early. All the same, it was nice to be out of school, out of the house, in a place that felt welcoming and calm. Draco allowed himself to collapse into a sitting position, flopping back against the cool, slightly damp grass. He laid there for several hours, mulling over the events of the year, writing poems in his head, trying to remember what Sarah was like. Finally, he heard a clear crystal voice. It was a wordless voicing of an instrumental part, an introduction. He smiled. He knew the song. It was Vergebliches Ständchen, by Johannes Brahms.

There was a pause, and the introduction repeated itself. Draco furrowed his brow, bemused. It repeated again. Suddenly, he knew what was required. Quietly, hesitantly, he began to sing.

He didn't have a particularly good voice. It was pure and he could most certainly carry a tune, but there was nothing extraordinary about his inflection or expression. He had mediocre vibrato and little real power. But Sarah's voice filled in the missing verses, teasing, dancing, at once perfectly solemn and completely comical. In that way, their voices fit the parts. Draco was the suitor, the fool, most probably drunk. Sarah was the noble lady, clever and well amused by the idiotic git standing outside her window. She played along, but ultimately refused to let him in. Just as the window was supposed to slam, she came into view. Draco smiled and waved her over.

Sarah sank with a sigh into the grass beside him, pillowing her head on her hands contentedly. "Well, it's a bit long, but I think it'll do for a secret knock," she laughed softly.

"Oh, and I have to play the bumpkin? Since when does our friendship require me to degrade myself?"

Propping herself up on one elbow, Sarah stared at him. "Draco Malfoy! Are you teasing me?"

"Perhaps," he replied evasively.

"Well, in that case . . . I take it that we are still friends?"

Draco smiled softly. "I suppose so." Sarah laughed and leaned back, staring at the sky. He took advantage of her moment of distraction to assess her changes. There weren't many. Her hair was slightly longer, the muscles in her arms more defined. Other than that, she was the same sunny person he remembered. Comforted by the familiarity, he leaned back beside her.

"How are you?" he murmured.

She smiled at him. "Oh, I'm fine. School was fun. But I missed you."

Not sure how to respond, Draco let his eyes drift again. It was then that he noticed a difference in her posture, a languorous grace, an ease in her own skin that had not been entirely present before. He colored slightly. "You're not a virgin anymore, are you?"

Sarah bounced up, cheeks glowing red. "Why, Draco! Such an impertinent question! But to answer your question . . . no, I'm not. You?"

Blushing further, he shook his head. "No. I'm not. So . . . does that mean you have a boyfriend?"

She sighed. "No, it doesn't. I did, for almost six months, but it's over now. He just wasn't right, you know? I want someone who will love me and take care of me and protect me, but all he was willing to give was — you know — the reason I'm not that anymore. So I broke it off. Well. What about you?"

He shook his head again, unable to answer. He never should have brought up this topic of conversation. It was making him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Sarah seemed to sense his unease, and deftly changed directions.

"How did your O.W.L.s go?"

Draco shrugged. "I think I did well. Especially in Potions. I loved the practical test. We had to make Cerebellum Mortis. It induces a coma-like state. It's really tricky, because you have to shut down the brain without killing the basic functions of the body, so you basically have to magically replace all the involuntary processes controlled by the mind. . . ."

He rambled on for almost an hour on the complexities of Advanced Potions. Sarah listened serenely, a tiny smile gracing her mobile lips. It was only when she didn't respond to a direct question that Draco realized she was asleep. He looked up at the sun, noting how low on the horizon it was. He didn't want to wake her, but he couldn't use magic . . . finally, he settled for gently picking her up and carrying her down the hill. She was small enough that it was no great trouble, but his breath came faster all the same. It didn't help when she turned toward him, snuggling closer against his chest. Draco felt a flush rising in his cheeks and walked all the faster.

Finally, he reached her house. Shifting Sarah's weight quickly, he reached out and rang the doorbell. A small, motherly figure with Sarah's curly hair opened the door, smiling happily. "You must be Draco," she whispered. "Do come in. We've heard so much about you."

Feeling out of place, Draco crossed the threshold. Looking about, he located a couch where he gently deposited Sarah's still-sleeping form. Turning to her mother, he bowed slightly. "I'm afraid I have to go," he said softly. "If you could please thank Sarah for listening to my tangents, I'd be grateful. Goodbye." And with that, he left.

The meetings continued, as both friends knew they would. Every morning, Draco and Sarah left their respective houses and met on the hillside, parting ways only as the sun started its slow descent toward the western horizon.

Their activities varied. Much of the time, they were content to talk. The conversations they had were often philosophical, sometimes silly, and always engaging. Other times, Draco indulged Sarah in a hike, when she was wont to go into rhapsodies over some flower or bird. He learned quite a bit of absorbing Herbology, a subject that had previously held little or no interest for him. Occasionally Draco would "borrow" his father's broomstick so that he and Sarah could fly. They played impromptu one-on-one Kitch games (a children's variant of Quidditch that required less players and balls and, honestly, rules). Then, Sarah teased Draco for showing off. He couldn't help it. Flying made him feel invincible, and he was quite good at it.

As time passed, however, the simple joys of their friendship became strained. Draco couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he knew that something had changed. It was affecting the way they interacted. There were awkward pauses in the once-effortless conversation. He worried incessantly over what exactly the new factor might be. He got his answer on July 15.

It was a perfect summer day, warm without being hot, clear blue sky peppered with salt-white clouds, grass still cool from the previous night and green from the rain of three days before. Draco and Sarah were all but giddy. They silently agreed that it was a flying day, and Draco ran back to the Manor to grab the broomsticks. When he got back, they mounted and flew in dizzying spirals, not even pretending at a Kitch game. Sarah was very good on a broomstick as well, and a chase soon ensued. Laughing in polyphonic tandem, they climbed higher than they had ever dared before, until the air cooled alarmingly and both were gasping for breath. When they returned to the ground, they were shivering lightly, but too completely exhilarated to care.

They collapsed on the ground, sitting facing each other. "That was amazing!" Sarah crowed breathlessly.

Draco nodded, still gasping for air. "Incredible," he managed to pant.

There was a moment of silence as both fought to regain some semblance of control or composure. Finally Draco looked up, semi-solemnly meeting Sarah's gaze. They stared for an instant before he began to speak. "Thank you. I don't know —"

Giggling, Sarah placed a finger on his lips. "Shh! You'll ruin the moment! I —" But she, too, stopped as they both became fully aware of her skin against his. Her long, callused index finger rested delicately against his lips. Startled, she lowered it, then paused again. Draco, supremely uncomfortable, made a move to stand. She stayed him with a light hand on his knee. Then, slowly, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

It was at first a cool, distant kiss, more explorative than anything. Then, quite suddenly, Draco found himself returning it. He raised one hand to her face, caressing her cheek and her neck, drawing her closer. His other arm circled her waist. They stayed that way for a moment, a perfect tableau. Then, reluctantly, they pulled apart. Draco was blushing furiously. Standing suddenly, he pulled away and hurried home, to overwhelmed to say anything.

When they next met, they stole another kiss. And though they felt that it was not enough to express the turmoil they felt sitting side by side, both found themselves inhibited by some shred of shyness. Their kisses were infrequent and chaste. But gratifying, all the same.

It was July 28 when Draco asked. They were sitting on the hill where they'd met. The sun had started its descent toward the horizon, and Draco was searching for a topic to keep her there a little longer. In the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware that this was a new emotion, but he put it aside in search of a conversation. "So," he began softly. "What school do you go to?"

Sarah smiled, looking for the first time less than cheerful. "I don't go to Hogwarts," she replied evasively.

"I know that. But seriously. Beauxbatons?"

She shook her head slowly.

"Durmstrang?" No.

"What school, then?" Draco could not think of any more names.

Sarah looked up at him. The was a hint of desperation in her clear, soft blue-grey eyes as she said, "I go to Dalton High."

There was a pause. "I don't know it," he finally replied. "Does it specialize in anything? Charms, Transfiguration. . . ." He trailed off at the look on her face.

The corner of her mouth, that lovely, smiling corner, twisted with grief. "Does it really matter, Draco?" she whispered. A shiver ran down his spine, but not of fear. . . . Then, just as she had on that first day, she took a fistful of his robe and drew it toward her, but this time he came with it, he wanted to come with it . . . and then his arms were around her and he was kissing her and she was kissing him with all the passion they had previously withheld and her sunlight and smiles were exploding inside his mind. She was warm, smelling of earth and tasting of sun. He was happier than he had ever been in his life, happier than when he got the letter from Hogwarts, happier than when he learned Potter was on the train. It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Carefully, he preserved every detail in his mind. The softness of her lips, the feeling of her fingers twining through his hair, the brush of her eyelashes against his cheek. And he was happy.

When they finally pulled apart, Sarah's eyes seemed unusually bright. Draco reached out and, to his dismay, found a tear glistening on her cheek. "Sarah? What's wrong?" he asked.

She gave a small half-sob. "It's so perfect," she murmured. Then she drew back, features hardening in determination. "I should have told you. The moment I knew that I liked you, a Malfoy, that maybe you liked me back . . . I should have told you. Draco, my parents are pureblood. But I'm adopted. My biological parents were Muggles. I have no magic. None of my family ever has. I go to Dalton Highschool in London, where they teach math and history and English and science. If I so much as mentioned having held a wand or seen a dragon, I'd be locked up in a padded room. And now, you will suffer because I was selfish, because I wanted you. I know that your family considers me a second-class citizen, and having seen the full extent of magic, I'm not sure that they're wrong. I know that you will be punished severely if they ever find out. I'm sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I'm a Muggle, you're a wizard, and in your world, that doesn't mix. I knew that all along, and I apologize." She turned and walked away, vanishing over the edge of the hill.

Draco blinked, looking at the spot where Sarah had disappeared. A Muggle? A lowborn, filthy, treacherous Muggle? He felt the urge to spit, to purify himself. Yet, he then thought the oddest thing. He remembered how she had smelled, how she had tasted. Like sunshine.

Surely it was no coincidence that just as the Dark Lord had returned, this light-girl had entered his life? He saw now. It was a choice. There was Sarah, with her smiles and her singing. Her message of peace. And the danger, for both of them. Instability. Finally, she was a Muggle. All his life he had been told how low and common and unintelligent and base Muggles were. How they lacked refinement of emotional, feeling only the crudest of urges. How they were less than him, not worthy of his company, with a lack of higher morals that would leave a stain on his soul. How monstrous they were. And indeed, she had waltzed into his life, waited until she held his heart in her hand, and then left, taking it with her.

And on the other side . . . there was Voldemort, with his Death Eaters and his snake and his power. His message was the one Draco had been raised on. He was familiar. Almost god-like in his might. How Draco wanted that power!

And so it was that Draco Malfoy made his decision. He turned and walked back to his parents' house, robe billowing impressively behind him.

Sarah came to him on the last day of summer. She stood on the doorstep, and he opened the door, and they embraced. Draco didn't know why he allowed her to do that, but he did. She would not come in, saying that she had only come by to give him a present. Into his empty palm she dropped a small, plain gold ring. "Call it whatever you like," she said. "It can be a friendship ring. A promise ring, a promise to see each other sometime in the future. A commitment ring, a commitment to a cause, an ideal, anything."

Draco smiled. "It's a sunshine ring," he whispered.

She didn't ask questions. For a moment they stood, awkward. Then she leaned forward, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'll miss you, Draco Malfoy, for all that you're a wizard."

"I'll miss you, Sarah Maclay, for all that you're a Muggle."

And then she left.

He was never to see her again.

So now, at the moment of his biggest triumph, Draco's mind returned to that summer. Of course it had made perfect sense. How could he have abandoned his family, his future, for a Muggle girl? Moreover, one that he had only known for a few fleeting summer months? She had been selfish. She had hurt him. And she was behind him. Yet, standing here, wand pointed at Dumbledore, almost two years later, it was her voice that he heard. Violence is never the answer. There is no justification for taking any life that could have been spared. So he stared. He didn't kill Dumbledore. Because of the Muggle girl, the sunshine girl — Sarah — he failed.

Draco never knew what happened to Sarah. She could have lived and prospered, bestowing her radiance upon all in her presence. More likely, she was among the faceless Muggles who confronted Voldemort and fell.

Even when he turned to the Dark Arts, when he became a Death Eater, when he married a woman he loved, Draco kept the ring on a cord around his neck. He was not quite sure what it meant, but it was definitely something. A connection, perhaps, to a time when he had a choice to make. When it might not have mattered that she lacked magic. When he may have chosen the wrong path. He was never sure. After all, in Draco's philosophy, nothing should or should not have happened. It simply did.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. . . .

Signed,
Draco

A/N: Thank you for taking the time to read my work! I would be eternally grateful if you would now submit a review, no matter how much or little you have to say. I love constructive criticism! Thanks again.