You'll Never Turn
Striding through the corridors to Flitwick's classroom, Draco twisted his quill maliciously between his fingers. He'd skipped breakfast to finish the spells homework he'd not done the last night, and been late to transfiguration because of it. McGonagall had been furious when she had to repeat her announcements, and because his goons insisted on following him - and being late with him - she'd taken five points from Slytherin for it. "Muggle-loving Gryiffindor ." he muttered to himself.
Thud. A black-haired Ravenclaw slammed into him, and kept going. "Hey," Draco called. Both turned to face each other; she was close to him, almost touching, threateningly; her eyes stared straight into his. "Trying to start something, Briarwood?" No response. If those black eyes could kill . "Or just trying to make me take note of you?"
"You wish, Malfoy." And with that, and a swish of robes she only could have learnt from her lover, she flounced away. Well. No one turns her back on a Malfoy, pureblood or no, and Draco cast a tripping charm at her.
Ophelia blocked it from behind, and never breaking stride.
Flitwick was most out of sorts: though he collected their assignments, the one he gave out startled Draco and the rest of class alike.
"Mastering a series of spells on your own," the professor said. "With the other sixth year class."
Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. "Better than these Gryffindor Muggle-lovers," Draco grumbled to the thug to his left, just loud enough to be heard by that mudblood Granger across the aisle.
"What was that, Malfoy? An offer to be first to pick a partner?" called Weasley, Granger's entranced pureblood beagle.
"An excellent notion, Mr. Malfoy." How Draco loathed being called that: it made him feel like his father was around. There was a mischievous - scratch that, a malicious glint in Flitwick's eye. "Who's your pleasure?"
"Anyone but Briarwood," Draco hissed most feelingly, crossing his fingers beneath the desk.
"Briarwood it is." Flitwick could hardly suppress a chuckle. "Meet her in the library immediately after classes."
Draco sat down across from the Ravenclaw as hard as he could, forcing his robes to shudder violently and rustle. He sat back in the chair, his knees most haughtily apart. She looked up at him.
"Oh no," she murmured. "Not you. Flitwick wouldn't ."
"Flitwick did." He smiled, as much as ever he smiled. "But we're stuck with it, so we might as well get it over with. What do you want to learn to do?"
She rolled her eyes and stared back down at her book. "It must be something sufficiently challenging to merit an assignment like this. But not too hard - I don't want to be down here explaining it to you all month."
"What makes you think you'll be teaching me?" Draco leaned forward to look at whatever she was studying so earnestly: as it happened, her book seemed a sort of journal, filled with runes with barely dried ink. He snatched it from her and stared at the incomprehensible characters. "This is ancient magic. How did you learn it?" he demanded.
She reached for it, and he pulled it out of her grasp. "I learned it a long time ago. It works well for some," she stood up for better leverage, but again Draco moved it, glaring at the page as if expecting it to explain itself. "And not for others."
Ophelia drew out her wand and whispered the summoning charm. Her book flew into her hands. "Who taught it to you?" Draco asked. Belatedly, he checked his own curiosity. "Your beloved Severus?"
With a squeak, her chair shoved backwards. "No: we're not doing any magic now. Not with that attitude." She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Ugh. I'll see you tomorrow at three." With a wave of her wand, her things collected themselves into a book bag and she swept away, leaving Draco behind, alone in the library.
Striding through the corridors to Flitwick's classroom, Draco twisted his quill maliciously between his fingers. He'd skipped breakfast to finish the spells homework he'd not done the last night, and been late to transfiguration because of it. McGonagall had been furious when she had to repeat her announcements, and because his goons insisted on following him - and being late with him - she'd taken five points from Slytherin for it. "Muggle-loving Gryiffindor ." he muttered to himself.
Thud. A black-haired Ravenclaw slammed into him, and kept going. "Hey," Draco called. Both turned to face each other; she was close to him, almost touching, threateningly; her eyes stared straight into his. "Trying to start something, Briarwood?" No response. If those black eyes could kill . "Or just trying to make me take note of you?"
"You wish, Malfoy." And with that, and a swish of robes she only could have learnt from her lover, she flounced away. Well. No one turns her back on a Malfoy, pureblood or no, and Draco cast a tripping charm at her.
Ophelia blocked it from behind, and never breaking stride.
Flitwick was most out of sorts: though he collected their assignments, the one he gave out startled Draco and the rest of class alike.
"Mastering a series of spells on your own," the professor said. "With the other sixth year class."
Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. "Better than these Gryffindor Muggle-lovers," Draco grumbled to the thug to his left, just loud enough to be heard by that mudblood Granger across the aisle.
"What was that, Malfoy? An offer to be first to pick a partner?" called Weasley, Granger's entranced pureblood beagle.
"An excellent notion, Mr. Malfoy." How Draco loathed being called that: it made him feel like his father was around. There was a mischievous - scratch that, a malicious glint in Flitwick's eye. "Who's your pleasure?"
"Anyone but Briarwood," Draco hissed most feelingly, crossing his fingers beneath the desk.
"Briarwood it is." Flitwick could hardly suppress a chuckle. "Meet her in the library immediately after classes."
Draco sat down across from the Ravenclaw as hard as he could, forcing his robes to shudder violently and rustle. He sat back in the chair, his knees most haughtily apart. She looked up at him.
"Oh no," she murmured. "Not you. Flitwick wouldn't ."
"Flitwick did." He smiled, as much as ever he smiled. "But we're stuck with it, so we might as well get it over with. What do you want to learn to do?"
She rolled her eyes and stared back down at her book. "It must be something sufficiently challenging to merit an assignment like this. But not too hard - I don't want to be down here explaining it to you all month."
"What makes you think you'll be teaching me?" Draco leaned forward to look at whatever she was studying so earnestly: as it happened, her book seemed a sort of journal, filled with runes with barely dried ink. He snatched it from her and stared at the incomprehensible characters. "This is ancient magic. How did you learn it?" he demanded.
She reached for it, and he pulled it out of her grasp. "I learned it a long time ago. It works well for some," she stood up for better leverage, but again Draco moved it, glaring at the page as if expecting it to explain itself. "And not for others."
Ophelia drew out her wand and whispered the summoning charm. Her book flew into her hands. "Who taught it to you?" Draco asked. Belatedly, he checked his own curiosity. "Your beloved Severus?"
With a squeak, her chair shoved backwards. "No: we're not doing any magic now. Not with that attitude." She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Ugh. I'll see you tomorrow at three." With a wave of her wand, her things collected themselves into a book bag and she swept away, leaving Draco behind, alone in the library.