For months, years even, I'd convinced myself that you were an infatuation. Nothing but a disgusting, twisted infatuation. But after a while, I began to wonder whether I was telling the few close enough to dare to ask...or myself? It may have been a case of utter denial; on according of Lucius had given me the task of luring in and killing somebody at Hogwarts. And that day, when he sent me the letter to inform me that you were my prey, my heart sank. It was that, or be tortured and most probably murdered by the Dark Lord.
Even the few short days leading up to The Letter were good. The days were the only major thing that plagued my mind was you, schoolwork, and my hair. There were N.E.W.T. s coming up, and along with the rest of my year, I listened to the advice of my teachers, I stressed about the exams, and I joked of how Longbottom would surely fail everything and end up working as Snape's maid. How my stomach hurt after picturing him in a French maid's uniform. But then, by some weird twist of fate, the conversation had suddenly swerved towards the topic of Ravenclaws and your name was mentioned. Several times. I retired to my room, claiming a headache from taking points off first year Hufflepuffs was hindering me.
The Slytherins had stuck together, most of us being put in a similar situation. Most were to recruit or to spy. It wasn't only the "Light" side that had the sense to find somebody to check to situation of the opposition.
This was The Year. The year we received the Dark Mark and joined the community. It was thought that this was our dream come true. But in fact, it was a living nightmare. I received my letter first. Truth be told, I was shocked. It was barely two weeks into September, and I was being sent my task.
As the great eagle swooped into the hall and dropped the letter with our family crest printed on the back, the whole of Slytherin 7th year seemed to hold their breath. In anticipation? In expectancy? In hope? I am not sure, and possibly never will be.
It was a Sunday afternoon and I had been playing a game of chess in the great hall with Blaise, who knew I always won, but repeatedly challenged me to rematches. I only readily agreed only to bask in the afterglow of victory once his efforts were dashed to smithereens. Those were the good days. The ones that I will forever look back on with regret, spite and nostalgia. The days before you became a part of my life.
The letter was still in my hand when you glanced idly in my direction. Had I not been a Slytherin and a Malfoy, perhaps my hands would have been shaking, or my eyes watering. Quite frankly, if I had been anybody else, I would not have been able to sit as I was, as if reading an ordinary letter of correspondence. I would not have been able to let the cold haze of indifference pass over my face. Whether to avoid suspicion from neighbouring houses or my own housemates, I wasn't quite sure. Pillars of strength were sometimes the only things that held operations together.
The simple paragraph scribed on that parchment had the power to turn me to pure, unadulterated mush. But even then, I didn't flinch; turn red with anger or even cry. My heart had taken on a pace of its own, and I had trouble swallowing, my throat had swollen painfully. I stared at the parchment, with still hands and tilted my head to a sharper angle, trying to stay in character. Strong is what I needed to be, and strong was what I was going to be. My face portrayed nothing, but my eyes, multitudes. My blood ran cold, as I read the ultimatum, and my time limit. A cold sweat broke out on my face, and I felt a hot sting at the back of my eye, threatening to break me, to splay my weakness for anyone to kick and stand on. Slytherins aside, I didn't want anyone else to see them but you.
And you were the only one that saw. Ever observant but never the one to talk. Your eyes rose to meet mine, and you raised an eyebrow, and then returned to your work. Or what I thought was your work. Had it been under normal circumstances, I would have taken the opportunity to approach you as I had so many times before. Why was it always me to make the first move? And even if I had, we both knew that you wouldn't retaliate. You wouldn't flinch, or turn red with anger or even cry like Weasley would. Let's face it. We all know he cries.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to find Pansy with a sombre expression on her face holding a similar looking piece of paper. I turned again to find Blaise had packed up the chess set, ready to leave. Vincent and Greg were both looking at me; looks of reservation scrawled blatantly all over their features.
Contrary to popular belief, and rather unfair (but justified) preconceived notions, Slytherins aren't actually that bad. We shun everybody else from the outside mainly because of our intellectual insecurity and people problems. We stick together, we tell each other everything, and comfort each other in times of need. Of course, this need never get out lest we were mistaken for misplaced Gryffindors. Sure, we were evil and take pleasure in ridiculing everyone who isn't with us into a tiny ball of Twitching Pathetic in need of some desperate counselling. What a lot of people didn't realise is that we were smart. We never gloated or may it so high that people commented. But we were smart enough.
Smart enough for us.
As we left, taking our frosty demeanour with us, I couldn't help but turn back to you, and relish that fleeting glance you treated me to. So tangible, I felt I could almost reach out and touch it.
That evening, Pansy and I held a meeting for the seventh years. We discussed our different tasks, how we were to go through with them without question so as to cause as little suspicion as possible. It was only Pansy and I chosen to perform our given tasks, partly because too many deaths would rouse too deep an investigation and we were the only ones trusted. We'd been given a year to do it, and Lord knows, we'd need all of it. We were to make it seem as though they had taken their own lives, and clean up all of our own tracks.
As everybody left, I kept my grimly determined look plastered on my face. For the sake of others. I was to be the pillar of strength. As the son of the right hand man of Voldemort, I was thereby looked at as the leader of the youth. The Deatheater Youth. But the moment the last person closed the door to the small chamber, I broke and stumbled over to the small barrel and poured myself a scotch. As the son of an alcohol abuser, I should have been staying clear away from the poison. But over the next year, I was going to find myself turning to it more and more, to help drown out the impurities in my life. My father, my task. You.
Behind me, a soft creek alerted me of Pansy's presence. I didn't turn, not even when her sweet musky scent invaded my senses. But even now, as I look back on it, however sweet she seemed, she could never surpass you. The clarity shocked me beyond belief, and I felt blown away.
"It's begun, Draco. Are you ready for it?" Her chin came to rest on my shoulder and her arms wound themselves around my waist.
"Not even close, Pansy...Not even close. I just hope when the time comes...nobody messes up. When we planned, we didn't allow for accidents." My hand intertwined with hers and we rocked slowly for a long time afterwards.
The next few weeks, I began to strategize and plan my moves. Getting to know you was like chess. The journey was slow and sometimes painful, and at one point, I thought I had almost lost. You played me like your pawn, and at times you were ruthless, to the point were I asked myself why you had not been placed in Slytherin. But in the end, when I won you over, I felt that same glow of pride, just as I did when I mercilessly beat Zabini. But for you, mercy wouldn't even be enough.
Sometimes, I felt as though you could see right through me, in the early months, when you intrigued me more than attracted me. Your great glowing eyes would stare through mine, unblinking, unchanging and you would search for a long time, and finally you seemed to find something, and you would look satisfied. Albeit ever so faintly disappointed. Within a blink of the eye, you would be back to normal, twittering about some interesting article you read in your Father's magazine as your head lay on my chest and I twirled my fingers in your hair.
At points, it felt as if this was real. The real thing. Love. And nothing and nobody else in the world mattered or would be able to stop it. On a good day, I could almost make it feel like you and I were together, as an ordinary couple. Like Potter and Granger. Or even Snape and McGonagall. Let's face it; everybody knew they had been screwing.
I know that immediately after, I would mentally slap myself; reminding myself that being with you was just a test. A way to lour you into a false sense of security so I could successfully carry out my task and be done with you. But I learned the hard way that nothing ever happens that way. Time and time again, we would sit together after a particularly hard day and you would mutter softly into my hand Cela est la vie, mon amour and I would sigh, and kiss you lightly on the head but say nothing because I knew that before long, you would have no life to speak of.
To start at the beginning, would serve to make this story easier to tell, as is the situation with most. But I don't feel like being easy (that way or the other) and so I will plunge in on one day in the middle of January, when we as a couple were established and you no longer had any fears about anybody finding out because I had swept all the fears away with my charm.
It had been snowing for weeks on end now, and all herbology and care of magical creatures lessons had been cancelled and or taken inside and so the whole of the student body had had to suffer theory in these subjects for an inane amount of time.