Part Two : Ice
They call winter an old man, portraying him bent and crooked, fingers curled and scraping against the glazed windowpanes. They show his wrinkles and wispy crown of white, his haggard expression and thin cloak of ragged gray.
They are all wrong.
Winter is a woman, temptress with cheeks pale as snow, heart of unmeltable ice. She flirts with her eyes of frosted glass, teasing with her stinging touch and settling around your mind in a haze of ivory. She is the courtesan of a million Galleons, untouchable and unreachable yet everywhere at once.
(She haunts like a ghost in the fog; gentle breath crystallized diamonds against the dark morning sky.)
The holidays are spent - in my case - lazing about the common room and imagining scenarios at home. I am glad that I did not return. There would be a stream of women with porcelain skin and painted faces, eyes green with cupidity and lusting after my father. (He alone to wear the crown of winter: strings pulled by those ice-cold hands. Power is a cold comfort at night.) There would be hushed meetings that Father would encourage my participation in, pompous whispers and frightened chuckling in the midnight shadows.
No, Hogwarts has a better Christmas. Especially if it is to be spent alone.
The fire has burned itself down to embers, despite the fact that it is still early evening. I eat alone and pass the days alone. It is happier that way.
Cheek pressed against the cool glass, I stare down at the grounds of Hogwarts. Several students are gallivanting about, snowball fights and rosy cheeks and sugarplum dreams. (Ridiculous to indulge in such hopes.) The group is dominated by fiery hair, blazing against the backdrop of ivory in the winter twilight. And yes, there is Granger, torn from her books, and that Hufflepuff - what was her name? Hannah?
So why is it that so many have stayed at Hogwarts when all of Slytherin has gone, running home to their power-hungry parents and leaving me in this blessed solitude? Does it matter, truly?
The two pieces of parchment in my fingers are surprisingly smooth, glossy, and the writing on the first is penned with precision. The second is a great deal sloppier. (Splotches and spidery lines, dominating the page with their reaching tendrils; the curling m's and y's dwarfing the lesser scrawl of a's and i's, the surprised loop of o's. The t's stand rigid guard.)
Draco, it is your decision whether or not to return home for the holidays. Answer before the end of the week.
The stark, precise writing and the clipped cursive are a contrast with the second letter's writing, which scrolls on for several pages. It had arrived the same day and I have still not finished reading it. The second paragraph has troubled me quite enough.
They are making snow angels on the lawn, arms windmilling through the powdery snow. And where, I wonder, is he? I can picture him perfectly, hair pushed back messily from his flushed forehead, eyes burning like neon lights.
Though the fire has burned to ash, shadows still flicker among the faint glow on the walls. (Reminiscent of fall, the auburn colors and crackling leaves. It has died now, given way to winter's seductive breath and icicle fingers. So the days pass.)
I hear the door and do not turn, waiting. I know how I must appear, hands pressed against the windowpane as if longing to be closer to that temptress Winter, eyes burning like the frosty glass. And I know, too, how he must appear; his eyes are as frigid green as ever, snow-covered forests and towering pine tree pride. It's strange, but I can smell him from here, that distinct mix of cologne and cinnamon and soap, probably a little sweat, and I am already anticipating the words when they come.
"Malfoy."
So it is that I am not surprised when I turn to face those tousled curls, the pale pink of dawn creeping across his cheeks. He is breathing hard. (Rising, falling, rising again. I watch the rhythm of his chest, hear his breath heavy on the air.) He must have run. Why?
"Why are you here, Potter? Who let you in?"
"Goyle." He shrugs, a careless movement, a languid toss of his shoulder that leaves me contemplating how like a predator he is. Only too obvious. "I had to talk to you."
I remember the parchment rough between the pads of my fingers and look down at the messy script. Yes, he would, wouldn't he?
In a flash I have him pinned against the door he has just shut, staring into those dizzying pools of confusion and sudden rage. "First of all, you never come to a Slytherin place. And second-" waving the parchment like some sort of ridiculous battle flag, fingers gripping the damp fabric of his shirt- "why the hell have you been going to my mother's grave?"
"Let go of me."
The thing I hate about Potter the most - besides the smirks, the popularity, the effortless perfection, and everything else - has to be his ability to always surprise me. (I have him narrowed down to those perfect lines of black and white, as he does me, and then he does something colorful.) I think I have him figured out, think I know what to expect. And then I realize I have no idea.
I release him, reluctantly, and he shoves me away. It is then that I notice the other scent, the sweet fragrance like my mother's gardenias. Frown. (Color, again. Shades of gray. I like the austere beauty of simplicity, like having him no more than lines.)
"You were with a girl," I say.
He looks up at me and, from the wry grin that slips across his face, it seems I never fail to surprise him either. (A coloring contest. Only backwards. Look, Potter, we are children again.) "Yeah," Potter shrugs. "So? I thought we were talking about your mother."
"We were. We were talking about how you have no right to be curious about her. Stay the hell away from her grave."
He cocks his head, curious as ever. Perhaps he isn't a predator but a great silly dog, a - no, a cat, languid and effortlessly graceful but curious, playful -
(Curiosity killed the cat, Potter. Don't play with fire and don't play with Winter, both will burn you.)
"How'd you find out, anyway?" he wonders. "You've never been there, I know that much."
"Family friend," I finally concede, after considering whether or not to brush the question off. "He wrote me." A wave of that tattered battle flag, the writing sprawling spidery in lines of a general's worst nightmare. "A lot."
"Well I figure," Potter continues, hardly acknowledging my explanation, "that you never go there, and your dad never goes there, no one does, really. So why shouldn't I? And I was curious."
"What, d'you get a lot of questions answered from talking to her tombstone?"
"It's a feeling," he snaps. "Surrounded by the dead, there. And it's like a connection. You wouldn't know, of course; you've never been there."
I watch the way his jaw moves when he talks and the way his eyes squint. He is glaring at me and it makes me want to laugh. I wish I could simplify him into cartoon lines, a curve of the chin and a bit of a line for the nose, a bit of a dip just below his mouth. (Shadows haunt, there around his jaw, and cluster about his lips.) And his cheekbones, jutting from the translucent skin, ivory clear. Icy. (Flush of color there, and the eyes-)
No. There is no reducing him to mindless simplicity. Not anymore. He is watching me guardedly in return and I know that he is attempting the same.
For once, we both fail at something, and neither has tried to win.
"I was curious," he repeats. "You confuse me, D - Malfoy."
That ends it, that there, the fact that he was just about to say my name. I don't relish the thought of my name slipping through those lips, hovering on that tongue. Potter doesn't deserve it.
"Run back to your little friends," I say curtly. "Go on, back to Granger or Patil or whoever you were busy with before you decided to bother with me."
"It's Ginny," he responds without thinking, shadows parting as he grins. He does not seem to realize to whom he is talking. "I needed an excuse to get away. So I came to see you."
"I don't want to be your excuse," I say, yanking open the door. The shadows spill into the stairway and he shrugs, stepping out of my line of sight. (I don't want to be your excuse, Potter; I don't want to be your reason. I don't want to be your enigma to puzzle over. I don't want to be your anything.)
I slam the door and gain little satisfaction from it. Pacing restlessly across the floor, I crouch before the fire and stare into the sparks still glowing like demon eyes in the shadows. I reach out and poke the ashes.
"Ow! Damn! That's hot!" Sucking my finger ruefully, I wonder why I did it. "Fire is hot, Draco. Really? What a surprise." Maybe I want to feel, want to shake off the frostbite of Winter's presumptuous kisses. Her pale lipstick, a smear of frost on my cheek, shimmering. (Numbing.)
Tomorrow is Christmas. On the lawn, they begin a snowball fight, pelting the arriving Harry with snow and laughter and - from one redhead girl, at least - kisses. I snort and turn away.
Still, Christmas away from home is probably the best decision I've made in a long time.
He always used to frown when I was dissatisfied. I got my first broom at the age of three and the endless pouring in of flying paraphernalia never stopped. And the lines in his face were as imposing as any Quidditch player's smiling face staring me down from yet another poster. My first broom at three and the next day I was being forced on by his frown. I fell off.
I hate flying.
No, it's not that I hate it. Only that I don't enjoy it. I never wanted to go flying and threw fits when he forced me to try. All through childhood I avoided it and enjoyed Quidditch because I was supposed to enjoy it. Cheering from the sidelines. Adoring some brainless but muscle-bound Chaser. He made me fly and so I did, though I found no joy in it. And every Christmas I got a new broom, shiny and new. (He tried so hard.)
I still disliked flying, still preferred reading or chess or something more practical. Then I saw Potter fly.
(Hair blowing feathery on the breeze, robes billowing, eyes glowing with delight. He was some sort of graceful exotic bird, plumage spread and gaze intense. Swooping on the wind with head thrown back, eyes to the sky and that tiny glowing ball, the miniature sun hovering like terrified prey beside him.) He confused me with his effortless ease, the equilibrium, that elusive joy shining on his face. He disgusted me, maybe, finding happiness in so simplistic an endeavor. Yet-
He made me want to fly.
I was home for the holidays and received the traditional broom, wrapped in austere tissue at the bottom of my bed. ("Go on, try it," he had urged, actual interest in his voice. "There's a new type of handle from the-") I had ignored him, mostly. But I had gone.
It's not that I hate flying. It's that I don't derive any pleasure from it. Broomsticks, in my opinion, are not the choice method of travel. Not only are they uncomfortable and awkward, they expose you to wind and all sorts of unpleasant weather. And weaving through the air on a stick isn't my favorite past time.
There I was, soaring above the clouds, wondering if my father was watching, feeling utterly stupid. And I had closed my eyes (I can fly a broom blindfolded, so well do I know it) and imagined the clouds of another field, imagined soaring without parental inhibitions behind me.
And I felt something joyful bubble like springtime, something reminiscent of childhood glee (had I any, which I did not) and eyes of green ice dusted with spring glory.
I was flying.
And later, touching down on the snow covered fields, I felt the wind burn against my cheeks and I felt ashamed. There was an intangible joy that had shrouded me up there, blue skies and clear air. I wasn't Draco Malfoy. I wasn't anyone. I was just soaring, mindless, free.
I swore to everything that I pretended to believe in that it would never happen again. That uninhibited glory, that feeling, frightened me. Too wild. Too free.
Too reminiscent of Potter.
I know I don't look natural on a broomstick. I know I concentrate too much, fight the feeling; I know that I purposely avoid any sort of daredevil trick, because it might come with some adrenaline rush. But it's better than that feeling, isn't it? That letting go, that freedom. (I am not he of the raven feather hair and the midnight forest eyes. I don't fly.)
I glance down at the parchment in my fingers. That cursed Potter boy visits her grave nearly every week, the spidery script tells me. Just stands there, staring, sometimes he traces the letters on her grave.
It makes me sick, thinking of him standing forlornly in the winter evenings. Truthfully, it would make me more comfortable were it my father there, or anyone else. Anyone but Potter. Of course, that isn't possible, is it?
Your father never visits. But quite possibly that won't surprise you.
Nothing surprises me, anymore.
I don't know what the kid thinks he's doing. Yesterday he was there for a full two hours, just watching. I thought you would want to know. Your father tells me you two have quite the rivalry going, Draco. But I'm not surprised. Still…
I hated his ellipses, the way he trailed off in the middle of sentences as if I was supposed to pick up. I remembered the way my mother treasured his letters. She loved his half-sentences and his messy writing; she would read them again and again, delicate fingers shuffling the pages that smelled like her perfume after many re-readings. She loved to keep them, would fold and unfold them over again until the fine paper creased.
But I am not my mother.
Still… Still what?
I hate surprises, I hate unknowns, and I hate Potter.
It occurs to me that I hate a lot of things. (But what do I hate the most?)
I would want to keep him, I think, put him away in a crystal cage where his voice could echo lonesome from the walls. Singing one word, one thing, one name - my name. Still, he would slam one day against those shimmering bars and all his blood (Gryffindor crimson) would seep out in lightning bolt wounds. He fears captivity as much as I fear freedom: he because he has known it too long, I because I have never tasted it.
I think that, deep down; we all belong to someone else. But I know, too, that he will never be mine.
This doesn't bother me as much as you might expect. It isn't that I want him to be mine. And I know I don't want to be his. But I want something, something besides icy fingers on my skin and her frigid breath on my cheek. Something besides the façade that Winter allows me.
Still, I know he is too distant. He doesn't belong in a cage. He doesn't belong on Winter's leash.
And that, well, that is good. I prefer him riding above those glittering hills of diamond flecks, hair streaming in the winter air. I prefer him flying.
It means there is still something to watch the skies for, when the stars aren't enough.