Haunted, a harry potter fanfic

Corey Flood: That'll never be me, that'll never be me. That'll never be, never be me. NO! ... NO, NEVER, NEVER, EVER! And don't you EVER THINK IT!

~ A movie

Resources used: My gosh, Harry Potter Lexicon to the xtreme. It states that Lucius Malfoy was born in '54, so he started Hogwarts in '65. Lily was born in '60 so she started Hogwarts in '71. This means that when Lucius was a sixth year, she was a first year and when Lucius was a seventh year she was a second year.

Once upon a time, everything was haunted.

It should be a fairytale, but it's not. And it's not really happy, like that. The Prince and Princess don't jovially walk out of the spotlight and build a comfortable home. They don't elope and go against their parents' wishes with smiles on their pale faces. They don't fight, either. In gallant wars, for the good side, for the bad side, is there really any difference? They just live, with ups and downs, and probably more downs in the end. And they are drenched in sugary memories and some rotten ones. But they always remember.

Lily Evans and Lucius Malfoy. It just sounded bad together. They were bad together, wickedly awful and both seemed misplaced. He was to go with a Slytherin girl, about three years younger than him and she was to marry James Potter. Don't ask them why things were the way they were.

Despite the differences and the obvious "hatred" (much like the apparent differences between Sirius and Potter) the two shared, she sought his counsel more than once during her first two years at Hogwarts and many times over.

Don't ask her why it was helpful, but he was cynically intelligent, much like her, and he knew much more than she was to ever know. Often she'd speak of James and it always brought a smile to his pointed face and he almost reddened even at the mention of 'what was going on' between the children.

Wasn't it just painfully obvious?

Love. Although, of course, he didn't know much of that. Only what they spoke of in books.

It was obvious what the young girl didn't see in James. Seeing as he was a pathetic nitwit. Sure he played Quidditch and got decent marks he was still (and always in Lucius' mind) a disgrace to all good things and even some bad things. He was an arrogant disgusting specimen and according to Lucius, he should've been thrown out of Hogwarts. And perhaps he should've been.

Malfoy wasn't totally frozen by the time Evans got 'round to him.

Lucius began dating Narcissa Black somewhere in between fourth and fifth year and it was clear to all that Black didn't much like the younger Evans. She was "way too much competition."

Narcissa always said that Evans had his heart. And perhaps it was true and perhaps it was false. But the two got along smashingly and about Narcissa...well, there was no other for Lucius.

A young girl--no more than eleven--anxiously stepped outside a candy apple red train. She pulled along her baggage and looked up at the massive castle and murky lake. Alone. The girl sighed and her emerald eyes were caught by gray ones. They locked for a mere seconds and the young man pranced over towards her.

"You're that girl the git--" of course, referring to James "--was speaking loudly about all train ride, weren't you? Evans...wasn't it?"

"Oh," she said trying not to blush, "I suppose I am. Lily...it's Lily," he offered his hand and she shook it.

"Malfoy," he said curtly. "It's Malfoy."

And then he walked away, back to an annoyed looking Miss. Black. Leaving the girl, once again, alone.

Not as though she minded.

"Mother used to make apple pie," he informed her as they picked idly at a pie in the kitchens. She must've been one of the few first years that knew how to get into the kitchens.

"Did she?"

"Yes."

"Do you miss them? Your folks?" She asked, suddenly as she stopped picking at the pie.

"'Miss'?"

"Yeah."

"Oh I don't miss them, Evans," he said in a removed tone.

"That's bull," she said loudly. "That's bull."

"When you grow older, Evans, a bit of your heart sort of crumbles and you're okay with not missing people," he whispered.

Then the two went back to the crisp apple pie.

They always met near an old oak tree. Initials carved all over it. 'Best Friends:' one crude carving said: 'JP' and underneath it, 'RL' and underneath that 'SB' and underneath that 'PP.' Four stick people accompanied the drawings. One with a book in his hand, one tiredly eating a slice of toast, one fooling around with a map, and another tossing a snitch. Best friends. Another carving said: 'MP+ AW = True Love' in fancy cursive. But Lucius never found interest in carving into an old tree stump.

Usually they met on Sunday's because they were quiet days and most wouldn't notice if they snuck out the front door. The weather was always better on Sunday, Lucius always said. Bloody Sunday. And Narcissa visited 'the family' once a week on the manor and not like there was anything to hide--but if there was, it should be kept hidden. Lily. He knew how Black got when he talked of the little redhead.

Noon. Right after a lunch of warm tomato soup and ham and cheese sandwiches. The sun was the color of orange crush, then.

"If you keep speaking of love, Evans, you'll make me go soft," he laughed in a way that suggested he'd never go soft and she laughed right along with him.

"A bit of toughness goes a long way," she said with a shrug, "some people don't even seem human, isn't good. It makes it so you can't relate to anyone but Voldemort."

His eyes danced, the statement was silly. Did the girl ever make sense? "Eh, Evans, I don't work with Voldemort 'cause of that. For the money, you know. For the love of the game and all that."

"And you do love it, don't you?" She said.

"Oh, much Evans, wouldn't do it if I didn't. There's something about it, Evans. And it's not a lovely topic but there's something about doing what we do--it's not as difficult as you'd think to get a high from that."

"No," she said, "I suppose it's not. Bet you'd just kill me like the rest though, for the love of the game, wouldn't you?"

"No," he said shortly, offended. "Couldn't do it. Haven't got the heart, though I believe I've got the nerve. Plus your little lover boy would be after my hide if I tried anything like that."

"You aren't scared."

"No, 'course I'm not."

"What do people think of you, Malfoy?" She asked one day.

"I don't know, Evans. You tell me."

"I think they find you rather awful."

"Could you blame them?"

"No, 'course not."

The redhead laughed girlishly and fell down next to him on the grass.

"Oh Christ," she commented, "you'll be gone come Sunday."

"Yeah," he said nonchalantly as he slung an arm around the shoulder, "I will be. Seven years here...I'm quite glad it's over, really."

The oak tree swayed in the cool wind and she hid inside his jacket. He laughed at the display and his hair flickered in the wind. "Knock 'em dead, Evans. Knock 'em dead."

And the story is as old as time. Young girl meets older more experienced boy and neither falls in love--not quite--reality doesn't allow--they don't allow--no one's willing--but it's a substance very close and no one shall admit. But it's something-- a spark a flare a boom a bang a firework a crash.

But not quite.

Once upon a time, everything was haunted.

He has a girlfriend, a pretty girl by the name of Narcissa and he always calls her 'Cissa for short. She's poised and proper and does everything he says--not like Lily--Lily's wild. Narcissa has sugar blond hair that he can run his pale fingers through and she speaks politely too. And she's sixteen too. Sweet sixteen. He can push her around, she lacks substance. They'll get married someday, everyone always guessed.

And Lily has James, even if he's not much. He's a sure deal. They'll marry someday, perhaps in October. Don't ask her why she loves October. He has black hair and she has red, it's like a silly strand of licorice when they're woven together. The young man speaks to her funny and yells at her when he's tired and because she's Lily--she'll yell back. It's not romantic. It's not nice. But it is wildly entertaining.

But Lucius shall always be her boy.

Snow melts away, people tire and grow old. Toys don't last forever, if only in memories. Gravesites grow dirty and weeds make it so you can no longer see the epitaphs. Even marble rusts and the poor grow poorer and the rich grow richer. Some people go from happy to sad and some from sad to happy, but the latter is more unusual. Dark, thick mascara drips from lonely eyes and tears pound like migraines.

And the memory of the two shall forever remain because neither really changed.

Once upon a time, everything was haunted.