Making moan
Sad as the sea-bird is, when going
Forth alone,
He hears the winds cry to the waters'
Monotone
The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing,
Where I go,
I hear the noise of many waters
Far below,
All day, all night, I hear them flowing
To and fro.
The poem stood out at me the moment I read it. A Muggle author, of course; even though I hated the foul breed, they were the only ones who knew how to produce deep, emotional poetry. Even my most meaningful attempts only ended in stupidity. But some Muggle poets almost moved me to tears.
Almost.
"The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing, where I go," I whispered out loud. Gee, that sounded a lot like Malfoy Manor. My home. Cold winds blew all the time outside of it. It was constantly storming there; my father said it made the house more intimidating and dark. Darkness is good.
I love the darkness. Light is so garish at times, so revealing and open and bright. No secrets in the light, no lies, nothing to hide behind. Darkness lets you be who you really are without any fear, or guilt.
The guilt was the worst, of course. I had lately been feeling guilty for many things.
But I didn't want to think about that. Thinking along those lines just made me more and more depressed.
"All day I hear…" The poet, James Joyce, wasn't just talking about the ocean, of course. I somehow identified with the emotion, and the sweeping sound rushing over a soul, monotonous and dark.
I read the poem out loud again, and as I read the wind started to pick up, rustling the pages of the old book of Muggle poems, and stirring the waters of the lake, almost as if to emphasize the words. I was sitting under the old willow tree by the lake. Not the Whomping Willow, of course, but just a regular tree. A weeping willow. We didn't have any willows at our house; my father thought the name suggested weakness. We hate anything to do with weakness and sadness.
At least, he does. But sometimes, when I'm all alone, when not one other person in the world understands why I read and write poetry and stare at the lake in the twilight, like tonight, I wish I was allowed to be weak. Maybe I would feel more real.
I heard footsteps suddenly, and leapt to my feet. I had to hide! No one could find me here, not alone, not like this, and especially not reading Muggle poetry. If my father knew, he would kill me. Literally.
Nowhere to hide in the open lawns between here and the castle. Two choices: into the lake or up the tree. Not fancying walking back to the castle with sopping robes, I chose the latter, and leaped for the lowest branch.
I hugged the rough bark, trying to keep as still as possible.
Then, of all the people at the school, Harry Potter walked under the tree, my tree, and sat down, staring at the lake.
I felt like swearing out loud. I probably would have, too, if I hadn't been terrified that Potter would look up. He'd brag to Granger and Weasley about how the great Draco Malfoy had been hiding in a tree.
Speaking of the Weasel and the Mudblood, where were they? Potter never went anywhere without his entourage. I'd at least expect the star struck younger Weasley, or boot-licking Creevey, to be with him. I gaped in sarcastic surprise; could Potter actually survive without his adoring public?
He just sat there for quite some time, not moving, not doing anything. I started to wonder if perhaps he'd fallen asleep. Then, I saw him turn his head. His eyes widened as he stared at something on the ground.
Damn! DAMN! My book! I started mouthing curses to myself. How could I be so idiotic? DAMN! He opened right to the page I had been reading! DOUBLE DAMN! A poem I had been working on was right there.
I watched, fists and teeth clenched, nearly pounding on the tree with rage, as he started to look at "All Day I Hear." Then, to my surprise, he started to read it aloud.
"All day…" He paused. Then, in a softer, rhythmic voice, "All day I hear the noise of waters, making moan, Sad as the sea-bird is when going forth alone, He hears the winds cry to the waters' monotone." I raised my eyebrows- Potter had a good sense of meter.
What was I saying? He was the Enemy, for god's sake! I hated him! I prayed for him to be afflicted with a painful and lingering illness every night before I went to bed! I wasn't allowed to admire him in any way. My father had told me to always be alert for him to display any weakness. If I found a weakness in him, he would be undone. The Dark Lord would win.
And yet, I never found a weakness. And I admired that in him. No one expected him to be perfect, and yet he was. I, on the other hand…
He ran his fingers across the page for a minute. I could sense he was mouthing the words to himself. After all, I had done that only moments before.
And then, to my complete and absolute horror, he picked up the parchment I had been scribbling on, and started to read.
"I stand in crowds of people, all united,
And yet, I know that I must stand alone,
In their circle, but somehow above it,
Rising up above their monotone.
I can see around my world of people,
But within I must forever be,
I must live within a crowd of people,
Always crushed, but always only me."
I winced at each line. What had sounded so deep and true only moments ago now sounded unbelievably corny. Thankfully I hadn't signed my name to it, or even used my normal tight and rigid handwriting, but a more open block printing I had nearly forgotten. And yet… if Potter just looked straight up, he'd know who had written the poem. And, of course, he'd show it to his stupid friends, and they'd all laugh at it. Then the whole school would laugh at me. When the other Slytherins found out, they'd tell my father, who would punish me. I still had scars from the last time he had caught me with something Muggle: a football given to me by an ex-friend.
I was so involved in my fears that I didn't even notice that Potter had picked up my pen and was writing before he finished, gave a heaving sigh, stood up slowly and walked back toward the castle. I watched him in the sunset, walking away, wondering what the hell he was playing at. Why hadn't he taken the book, or the poem, with him? What had he written? Why-
I realized that none of my questions would be answered unless I just read whatever he'd written.
I hung from the branch for a moment, then dropped down, landing gently on my feet. Then, hesitating only a moment, I picked up the parchment.
Underneath my round block printing was Potter's chicken scratch writing, in several lines. After making sure he was well out of sight, I settled back to read what he had put down.
"I stand in crowds of people, all expecting,
Their sights are higher than I'll ever be,
I side with them, but somehow I'm not with them,
Because they want a hero, not just me.
I can see so many shining faces,
Even good friends blend in monotone,
I must be above them, and yet with them,
And so, by force of fate, I stand alone."
I read the poem over and over again. How in the world he had finished what I had started, I would never figure out. How in the world we could both see our completely different situations from the same plane, I'll never know.
A thought occurred to me briefly; Potter's weakness. I could send this verse to Voldemort, who'd know that Potter was lonely. He thought that he was separate from his friends, somehow.
Or, if I didn't send it to Voldemort, I could just sign his name to it and let Snape read it aloud in front of the next double Slytherin-Gryffindor Potions class. He'd be humiliated, and he wouldn't even have to know it was me who wrote the first verse. It would be the perfect way to get at him.
The perfect revenge.
I read the poem once more. To Snape or to Voldemort, I could ruin Potter's life. Or end it. All I had to do…
I took three quick steps to the sandy edge of the lake, and let go of the piece of parchment. The gentle breeze picked it up, and, as if it could read my thoughts and do my bidding, carried it to the very center of the pond. I watched the ink run out of the paper as it sank deeper and deeper into the water.
I picked up my book, and walked back to the castle.