Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything else that is recognizable in this fic. If at any point it gets confusing, please ask me or wait it out - everything happens for a reason, unless it's a mistake.
I.
Chapter One.
His footsteps are quiet against the stones of the corridor, long practice making it easy for the almost-man to walk through the halls of the school without being heard in advance. It has proven a useful talent in the past, and he is sure that it will continue to do so, especially now, when the one he stalks is so very fragile - so very fragile that it hurts him to see her cry. Silky hair gleams silver in the light of the moon, and he slips through the shadows as though they aren't there, following a trail that sings to his heart and bypasses thought of common sense he's ever possessed.
The halls of the school are silent as his conscience, and he doesn't have a problem following the scent she's left behind - she smells like ashes and mint, and it should probably be off-putting. He should probably be concerned that it's not, but he's never been entirely up-to-date on what is considered normal by other people, and she's always held him captive, anyway. That her very scent can stir up emotions and feelings and knowledge that he's long suppressed isn't surprising; it's more surprising that it is only him that it affects.
Somewhere deep in a part of him that he would rather not acknowledge, he knows that it won't be just him for long. That doesn't seem to matter much, though, because he didn't ever really think that he could possibly hold onto this secret for too terribly long - a secret isn't kept a secret, no matter how whoever spills it would wish otherwise; sometimes, a secret can't be kept by two people, or three people, and must be shared, told to the world again and again until the foolhardy and somewhat sentient entity accepts the new knowledge.
That he isn't the one who will be there, proving to the world and to the people that inhabit it that he is telling the truth is another strike for honesty that he would rather not face just yet.
And when he rounds the corner, he finds still another - because there she is, Ginny Weasley in all of her glory, with red hair that shouts that it is flames, won't you believe it yet?, what does it have to do?, and brown eyes that are tilted up to the ceiling; pale skin that glows in the light of the moon that comes through the single window, skin that is glowing without the help of the moon and only he knows that secret - there's another - Ginny Weasley, who is with another boy-man, and is tilting her head back so that he can easier nip at the glowing skin on her neck, eyelids fluttering shut, moans drifting from too-pouty lips with something that, to him, sounds like sin.
He feels something low in his throat, knows that it is not bile and yet lies to himself anyway, and backs out of the room as silently as he came, because he can see the tear tracks that are drying down her cheeks, can tell that she would not want him there - and the boy-man she has chosen for the night is piecing her heart back together with sweat and sex and he cannot match that. His silent presence - the very idea that she wouldn't realize he is there is so ridiculous that he has never even considered the idea - would do more harm than good tonight, and he considers himself mature enough to realize it.
The path back to the dungeons is long.
The next morning dawns bright and clear – a rarity in the area of Scotland that they reside in – and he resists the urge to hide under his bedcovers and sleep the day away. Down in the dungeons, little light reaches them; that is the curse of being a Slytherin, far above anything that the other three Houses might proclaim so proudly to the world. They are proud and they are clever and they are cunning, and they will never feel shame for that – who is to shame them for their best attributes? There is a reason that so many of the 'higher-ups' were once, are still, Slytherins, and it is not just that some were born into money.
They, above others, will do anything necessary for those that they deem theirs, and he has had experience with that – it is a daunting thing, to realize that you have crossed paths with a snake that is protecting its young, or its loved one; you will never come out of it the same, if you come out of it at all.
But being born into the dark – and living in the dark for the seven years that is sometimes called schooling and more often known as the only time you are ever surrounded by those who know you in a House that quickly becomes your family – means that you learn to play dirty, and those who reside in the Light can look down on it all they want. He, and the others who play the game, know better – they know more, in a sense. It is almost a shame that no one from the light thinks to play in the dark, too, because there is so much to see when your eyes are closed.
He, though, is not a fan of the light – there is only one that he will ever truly believe to be better than she believes that she is, and she is nothing more than a fantasy he has built on a kiss five years ago and stolen moments spent wandering the halls of Hogwarts – and it is a long moment before he pulls himself from his bed.
It is only the thought that he is going to see her, at some point in some way during the day that has him really truly moving, and the heat of the shower wakes him up enough to bring a sparkle back to grey eyes, to bring movement back to long limbs. It isn't enough to make him wish that he weren't still sleeping, but then, it is early. His roommates are all gone by the time he emerges – except for Theodore, who has been there through everything and knows him better than he does – Theodore, who betrays him every day and eats with him, too.
The boy was practically lounging on the bed that he'd claimed as his years before – and if anyone could lounge in the Slytherin boys' dormitory, it was Theodore Nott. Pale blue eyes glanced up insolently when he emerged from the bathroom, a small smile flitting onto thin lips. "Took you long enough, Malfoy."
Draco smiles, too, more at ease in the presence of Judas than he would have in that of the Christ's, and reaches for his bag. "Perfection doesn't come easy to us all, Nott."
A laugh danced into the room around them, silvery with the promise it held. "True enough," the other nods, stands smoothly, pulling his cloak around him with ease – they'd grown up in the world of Magic, had grown up as princes; it was not so very difficult when you were five to put on the airs that your fathers practiced and mothers taught.
By the time you were turn sixteen, it is your life, too.
The two leave the room and the comfort of their House together, walking just enough so that Theodore is behind Draco's shoulder, bright eyes laughing and brighter smiles glittering with the fakeness that has become the penchant of their worlds. They talk of nothing on the way to the Great Hall – of the classes and the girls that they have seen, of the world that is changing, of the news.
They do not mention that Draco's father is still in Azkaban, or that Theodore has been vaulted all the higher because of his last act of mercy. Calling it anything other than that would be vulgar, and they have lived all their lives to be above such an adjective; even now, when the world they think that they would like to be in is crumbling around them, they cannot bring themselves to do differently.
Entering the Great Hall does not change things – it simply means that their conversation becomes all the more banal, their steps all the lighter; their smiles all the sharper. Only one would dare to come near them when they are thus, and the one who follows her is just as brave – so, perhaps, it is two who dare. But they have never been in any danger; Draco and Theodore would no sooner hurt a girl of their blood than they would their own families, and families are more important than all else in the world except for their continuation.
They are both rebelling in their own ways, but that does not mean that they do not cling all the more fiercely to the old ways, and the two girls who approach them – women, almost; both of them walk with the grace that shows their knowledge and contentedness in their beauty – have committed themselves to following.
The darker haired of the two slips a thin hand along Draco's shoulder, settling herself next to him with a way of moving that makes him wonder if she has not practiced that and then laugh because of course she has; the other slinks to the where Theodore sits, green eyes flashing playfully in the light. "You were late today," the first murmurs, spreading butter on a piece of toast.
His teeth sparkle in the light of the Great Hall, the grin as honest as the rain that, on occasion, showers from the ceiling. "My apologies, Pansy."
A dark eyebrow raises in obvious disbelief. "Try that again," the girl says, "And this time make me believe you."
Theodore laughs. "You know he doesn't mean it, Pansy. And it is sunny today; cut him some slack." A wink, and even Pansy laughs, the honey-smooth sound mingling with the other girl's more mellow giggle.
Draco has, in the past, been foolish enough to tell them that he associates them with drinks – and if Pansy is the bright, sparkling champagne served at the parties they have all attended, then Daphne is the warm nightcap before bed. The girl in question reaches for the fruit near her and takes a little before passing it on. "We know not to expect anything of Draco when the sun is out," green, feline-like eyes slant towards the boy, "But of you, Theodore…"
The delicately-laid emphasis on the words shifts the attention from him, and he is grateful, focusing on eating and forcing the food down his throat; today will be a long day. He is going to need the nourishment. An elbow jabs into his side and he startles, coughing; turning to glare at Pansy – no one else would dare sit close enough to him, let alone actually hit him – the sharp comment dries on his tongue, following her gaze.
She has come into the Great Hall, too – he should have expected it, really – and glimmers in the light of the sun, red hair shining with all the glory of a girl who has nothing to hide. He knows that isn't true, but it is nice sometimes to think it – and a single glance in brown eyes that glitter with the hair would prove that he is right. He doesn't think that anyone else could see it – but he has been wrong before.
Her bright voice rises above that of the other people in the Hall, but he knows that it is just him – he has asked others at time, and it is a trait as unique to him as his hair that he hears Ginny Weasley whenever she speaks.
"She looks tired," Pansy breathes, and, inclining his head, Draco agrees. The circles under her eyes are almost hidden by the gaiety with which she moves and speaks – almost. He thinks bitterly that perhaps it is because she was out so late last night, but stops himself; he cannot think of that, cannot remember the way she looked. There are other things to do today, and the entirety of Slytherin House is not so forgiving of his fascination with the youngest Weasley as the three he spends time with.
"Perhaps she was with someone," Theodore says, a cruel glint sparking in pale eyes. "Draco did come in late last night…" Trailing off suggestively, the boy waits for an explanation.
Draco doesn't give him what he wants to hear. "Perhaps she was. I was studying in the library, Nott, you know that."
The other Slytherin's eyes rolled in clear disdain for the boy-man called friend, but he didn't make a comment; the four gathered together knew full well and good just where Draco had been the night before, just as they knew that the sight of Ginny Weasley embracing Harry Potter hurt him more than anything that Theodore could have thrown at him.
But they are Slytherins, and they do not say a word about it, finishing their breakfast and going swiftly, almost silently to their classes with the nonchalant grace that comes from their Blood.
I've finally figured out where this story is going; that means updates should be faster. If you've taken the time to read, at least a word or two, any comments would be very much appreciated.