I watched Potter check his watch nervously. He couldn't see me, of course, and he wouldn't see me unless he decided to suddenly turn the corner. Normally, I might have been nervous about hanging around the Gryffindor common room, especially when it appeared that I was stalking the famous Harry Potter, but right now it was Christmas break, and most of the Gryffindors were at home with their families- most of the Slytherins too, but not as many, because most of my house members didn't celebrate Christmas.
Then, as a clock somewhere chimed three times, Potter took a last look around the hall- I ducked back so he wouldn't see my head peeping out at him around the corner- he took off at a rather quick pace, grabbed a seemingly random doorknob, and disappeared through it.
I didn't have to follow him, I already knew exactly where he was going. The lake. My willow tree.
Ever since that one fateful day, it had been almost routine for us both. I'd write something, and leave it under the south side of the trunk of my tree. Potter would walk out there at three in the afternoon to read it, and after a while of thoughtful meditation, write something else. He didn't always finish what I wrote: sometimes he would just write a note of encouragement. I had destroyed all of our notes except one.
Even after discovering that Potter somehow felt the same way I did, I had been contemplating suicide. My father had even suggested it. "Draco, a Malfoy either lives up to his name or dies trying." Then, with a meaning look at me, "Death can be just as honorable as life, only without pain."
I had taken it as the clue my father had meant: if you can't make me proud of you, then go away.
Knowing that Potter still had no idea who was leaving him the phantom poetry, I had written something about how death seemed rather inviting. And it did. Knowing that I had become -even anonymously- a confidante of Potter's was being a traitor. I couldn't betray my father or the Dark Lord. I just couldn't. But I was starting to wonder if I should side with them, starting to doubt that their power was the best thing to serve. And so, I had written several lines about how death was better than a decision, and that death was better than being afraid of life.
I still had the parchment with his scrawl across it. I looked at it often, and it helped me somehow.
It's never too late to make a choice. Keep yourself safe as long as possible. Death won't do anyone any good; better to make a mistake and live with it than die before you can change things.
He was right. I could always play along with Voldemort, not doing anything suspicious, until I had made a decision. No need to end my life just yet. I could always do it later.
I thought it was pretty understanding of Potter to not advise me to run to the Ministry and become a Muggle Rights Activist, or something equally corny. He knew I had to make the decision for myself.
And he still didn't even know who I was. I wondered if he'd keep it up, even if he knew that the one writing to him was his worst enemy.
Once, he'd tried to find out who I was. I hadn't known before that day that Potter had an invisibility cloak. Fortunately, I had decided to watch him as he wrote, from a safe distance. After he had written something, I saw him take a piece of what looked like liquid silver, silken reflection, and slip it over his shoulders.
That explained a lot of things, especially the "hallucination" I had seen in Hogsmeade several years ago.
I waited twenty minutes, then, after checking to make sure Potter was safely back in the Gryffindor room, walked down to the lake.
My beautiful, peaceful lake. My writing spot. Mine.
There, under the tree, weighted down by some rocks, were my notes.
They say the pen is mightier than the sword,
But I know that the tongue rules over all,
Words, written or spoken, can sometimes save you,
Or words can be your greatest downfall,
A chance word, spoken, without careful thought,
Could be a knife inside your chest,
Better silence, blessed silence,
Than a word of irretrievable death.
Underneath, in a heavier hand,
A shell of silence may be the answer,
For one chance word brings hurt and shame,
Strength inside can best be proven,
When words can't be used as blame.
I nodded as I read. Sometimes Potter disagreed with whatever I'd written, and sometimes, like now, he agreed, or at least empathized. Now I knew what caused that retarded aura that Potter always carried with him; he wasn't stupid, he was just too smart to run his mouth. A lot of people thought there was something wrong with him, especially because of the glasses, and his being silent most of the time didn't help much. Even the first day I'd met him, he had kept quiet about the things he knew nothing about, which made me assume he was something that he wasn't. Pretty smart, actually. It had taken me several years, and several dozen beatings, to figure that out. Silence, as the Muggles say, is golden.
I don't know why I keep up our "correspondence." Sometimes I tell myself it's to lure him into a false sense of security so that I can later humiliate him. Sometimes I say that I just enjoy poetry. Sometimes I tell myself that I'm just plain going insane, and this is one way I'm proving it.
But deep down, I know that it's nice to have someone to talk to.
We probably could have gone on like this forever. But of course, nothing this strange could stay the same forever.