It is a challenge by me to myself. Make the most wanted characters of Harry Potter fandom do anything everything with each other but without uttering a word. Can I do that? Let me see. If i am not making the lips move to talk. I better work extra hard on the other senses, of sight, of touch, of smell and of hearing.

Chapter 4

He is stealing glances

Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft

6th year

He is now kneeling at the Dark Lord's feet. His left arm throbbing in pain. His father's body still trembling from the aftermath of the wretched curse. But his is not thinking about him right now. That excuse of a man, can rot in hell. Surely something like that exists. They believe it to be there somewhere below his very feet.

He is thinking about his mother. A mother whose hands are figuratively tied, who fate is gruesomely getting tangled with that of the task he has to carry on. Kill. Kill the very man, he would have considered a true mentor, a powerful teacher. Though Dumbledore is bias. But Draco can for moments in his little life give the old wizard credit for being powerful. And he has to KILL. Like how was he suppose to do that.

He is done with his classes for the day. As if everything is so normal. Like no one is breathing down your neck. No one is watching your every move.

He truly lives among snakes. Snakes who live in the bowels of a castle. Snakes who don't bother if their own will one day turn into, they food. Snakes watch him through hooded eyes. He has dreams.

Dreams where Nagini with every other snake that breathes the dungeon air with him, is sharing his canopy dorm bed. Slithering all over the posts, the covers, the pillows, over the headboard and hanging from the canopy. Their mouths open. Fork tongues out. Dangling and swaying at the beat of the pendulum. Hissing at him at the beat of an invisible clock.

Aunt Bella, and her eccentric tendencies. She wants to help and teach him arts of killing. What is wrong with these people who are suppose to be his guardian? His Godfather? He cannot even think about him clearly. Whose side is he in? Is he the reason for father's state? Is he responsible for mother's tears? Is he the man behind, making him, a boy not even out of school, prepare himself to kill a living human being?

He can not eat. Not a morsel. He can not drink. Every time he touches any of it, feels their texture over his tongue, he feels like throwing out. He has already spent hours one night in the prefect's bathroom. Dry heaving his raising panic. He has spent hours in the Room of Requirements fixing the Vanishing cabinet. His other attempts were half-hearted. He is sorry to have done that to Katie Bell. He is genuinely sorry for Ron Weasley. But he will not say it. He envies that whole brood of red hair Gryffindors.

He would have given anything to live surrounded by such love, happiness and – there She is.

She is walking ahead of him. A few feet away, her head dipped down. Her hair. He has spent hours thinking how would it be like to have the opportunity to look at them closely. How would it feel like to wrap a strand around his pale finger? He is still to decide the real colour of her hair. If she is sitting on the grounds, it is caramel. If the sunrays dare to play with her strands it becomes sunflower blonde. If she is looking back at him, in all those occasions when he had picked up a fight intentionally- it becomes sparkling amber, hot coffee and copper shimmer.

She stops suddenly. And is about to turn. He has to escape right now. He takes the only way he knows will not blow his cover. He walks straight into her, literally barging into her firm yet petite body. Knocking her breathe. Slamming against her half-turned form- a perfection made by God? An envy of a failing sculpture?

Pretending she does not even exist. He keeps walking. Feet stamping on the floor. His ears are ringing. His heart is beating like galloping horses. He has seen those in books, he will never mention the names of. His palms are sweating suddenly. His eyes are not seeing anything once again. Are those tears?

Turning the corner, he breaks into a run. His feet thumping now, his heart is about to burst open. Air. AIR! He needs air. He needs to breathe. There. A splash of light. Against the stone-cold floor.

The empty courtyard. The fountain is quiet. There are no birds to be seen. Good. Better. Quiet is better than noise and laughter. He slides down a secluded pillar. Eyes close shut. He is seeing stars behind his eyelids. And is panting like a nearly drowning man, suddenly getting hold of a drift wood lazily floating on the surface of a shipwrecked stormy ocean.

He bangs his head softly against the stone pillar. At the beat of his heart. Perhaps this will help him to rein down his racing pulse. The palm of his left hand is secured tightly into a knuckle whitening fist. The Dark Mark is throbbing over the pulse point.

Even if every cell of his body is screaming evil spawn. His left fist is of gold. It has stealthy dipped itself, into the cauldron of a successful alchemist. And may be, hoping against hope, has succeeded in purifying itself?

Finally, he dares to take in a deep breath. He feels the chill air, entering through his nostrils, instead of his mouth. Chilled air warming his throat, his lungs and slowly his entire body. Warming enough, that he can at last relax. No one is here. It is pin drop silence.

Draco Malfoy opens his blue grey eyes, his blond hair kissing his temple and his eye brows. His cheeks red and tear tracks visible over their chaffed surface. He brings his left fist close to his eyes. And opens them. There right across his barely visible life line, are three strands of brown hair belonging to Hermione Granger.