Don't Dab Your Eyes
All the next day, Draco was completely distracted: if his mind wasn't soaring on a quidditch broom, it was sweeping through the motions of the disarming spell. And what was worse, whenever he knew he'd completed the motions successfully in his head, he saw Ophelia's dark eyes pinching into a smile. And though he struggled to keep his mind to business, if not the particular business of the class he was attending, still it wandered down that most unlooked for path.
Draco knew Snape could tell his mind wasn't on potions. He called on Draco when he knew he had not heard the question, the boy's embarrassment recompense for his jealousy.
"Where's your mind?" Granger cooed mockingly across the aisle.
"Malfoy's daydreaming!" Weasley teased. "Thinking about the match this weekend?"
"Five points from Gryffindor for bad form, Weasley, Granger," Snape said, glaring at the two Gryffindors. "And five from Slytherin for daydreaming." At least he was equal in his punishments, Draco thought, bitterly.
Of course, this was no cause for him to pay any more attention than he had been.
Class passed quickly enough. Draco was grateful that his thugs and their Hufflepuff partners were having trouble learning their chosen spell - one of the spells Ophelia had thrown out - and he was spared inventing an excuse to send them away. His feet took him all too quickly to the library without his consent. Oddly enough, Ophelia was outside the door waiting for him.
"We'll be in trouble if we go to the Forbidden Forest again: we're sure to get caught in the daylight," she stated without preamble. She was leaning against the wall, her glossy hair falling into and obscuring her eyes, her hips protruding from her robes. Her face was expressionless: was that a smile threatening on her lips? Could she be glad to see him?
Of course she is, he reminded himself.
"So where then?" he replied, leaning toward her, holding her ebony gaze with his emerald.
"My room," she retorted. Startled, Draco stepped back. Had she really just said that?
"Not afraid of being caught?" he murmured incredulously. She dipped her head and slipped out of Draco's invisible hold.
"I'm a sixth-year Ravenclaw. Flitwick doesn't give a damn what we do." She started toward Ravenclaw tower. Over her shoulder she called, "I brook no refusals."
So he followed.
"Repetitio," she whispered at the tower door. Their brief walk had been silent: Draco had been forced to follow her lead - highly out of character - to exactly the right level on the shifting staircase, and now listened to the password. He must have looked puzzled. "Est mater studiorum," she explained. She had a point, of course. The doorway slid open on the Ravenclaw common room.
It was hung with tapestries in Ravenclaw colors, bronze and blue, depicting men and women reading and performing complicated magic. There was a warm fire blazing in the fireplace and big blue sofas and armchairs were gathered into comfortable clumps filled with Ravenclaws chatting quietly over steaming mugs; a few neat tables were in the back of the room, where a few more of them were studying. She strode confidently through the middle of the room, smiling at one or two, and he followed her to the dormitories.
Ophelia's room was on the top level. It was a comfortable room with three beds facing inwards. Everything was in varying shades of blue, from the carpeting to the bedspreads, with cornflower curtains with deep gold trim framing the window. Her roommates were nowhere to be found, he was remarkably glad.
She pulled her quill from her robes: in the clear light, Draco could see that it was a silvery gray, unlike any of the quills he had used for homework assignments. She wrote on the air in fiery runes, which evaporated immediately. She sat on the edge of her bed and opened the book of spells sitting there.
"I've put up a room-sealing spell, so don't worry about anyone walking in," she said without looking up.
"Will it hold?" he asked, glancing around at the door and windows.
She laughed. "Runic magic is more powerful, more lasting, and more discreet than other forms. I know you don't believe, but if you ever tell I know it, Draco -"
"I know, I know: you'll castrate me."
She nodded succinctly, and practiced the expelliarmus motions. "You can sit down." There were no chairs, so he was forced to sit on the opposite side of her bed. It made him remarkably uncomfortable. "How do you feel about the match this weekend?"
"Why do you want to know?" he asked, roughly.
"You seem tense," was her short reply, and they spoke no more of it.
Instead, they sat in silence, reading over the dry text about the technique of disarming, her perfume, whatever it was, floating in and out of range.
The dinner hour came soon enough, and they walked together into the great hall. Please don't let Snape see this, Draco thought. Who knows what he'll put into my food .
Most of the other students had already gathered for dinner when Draco and Ophelia crept through the door. Just as they entered, the Malfoy owl, a huge black thing, fluttered over and lighted on Draco's shoulder, a letter in its mouth.
"I'll read it later," he said. "It's from my father."
"Will he be there Saturday?" she asked. He shrugged: he didn't want to think about that. "Good luck then," she whispered. "I'll be there, but I can make no promises as to who I'll be rooting for."
She pushed her sable hair out of her face and smiled at him: he felt a smile in return pricking at the corners of his mouth.
"Well," she said. "See you then."
All the next day, Draco was completely distracted: if his mind wasn't soaring on a quidditch broom, it was sweeping through the motions of the disarming spell. And what was worse, whenever he knew he'd completed the motions successfully in his head, he saw Ophelia's dark eyes pinching into a smile. And though he struggled to keep his mind to business, if not the particular business of the class he was attending, still it wandered down that most unlooked for path.
Draco knew Snape could tell his mind wasn't on potions. He called on Draco when he knew he had not heard the question, the boy's embarrassment recompense for his jealousy.
"Where's your mind?" Granger cooed mockingly across the aisle.
"Malfoy's daydreaming!" Weasley teased. "Thinking about the match this weekend?"
"Five points from Gryffindor for bad form, Weasley, Granger," Snape said, glaring at the two Gryffindors. "And five from Slytherin for daydreaming." At least he was equal in his punishments, Draco thought, bitterly.
Of course, this was no cause for him to pay any more attention than he had been.
Class passed quickly enough. Draco was grateful that his thugs and their Hufflepuff partners were having trouble learning their chosen spell - one of the spells Ophelia had thrown out - and he was spared inventing an excuse to send them away. His feet took him all too quickly to the library without his consent. Oddly enough, Ophelia was outside the door waiting for him.
"We'll be in trouble if we go to the Forbidden Forest again: we're sure to get caught in the daylight," she stated without preamble. She was leaning against the wall, her glossy hair falling into and obscuring her eyes, her hips protruding from her robes. Her face was expressionless: was that a smile threatening on her lips? Could she be glad to see him?
Of course she is, he reminded himself.
"So where then?" he replied, leaning toward her, holding her ebony gaze with his emerald.
"My room," she retorted. Startled, Draco stepped back. Had she really just said that?
"Not afraid of being caught?" he murmured incredulously. She dipped her head and slipped out of Draco's invisible hold.
"I'm a sixth-year Ravenclaw. Flitwick doesn't give a damn what we do." She started toward Ravenclaw tower. Over her shoulder she called, "I brook no refusals."
So he followed.
"Repetitio," she whispered at the tower door. Their brief walk had been silent: Draco had been forced to follow her lead - highly out of character - to exactly the right level on the shifting staircase, and now listened to the password. He must have looked puzzled. "Est mater studiorum," she explained. She had a point, of course. The doorway slid open on the Ravenclaw common room.
It was hung with tapestries in Ravenclaw colors, bronze and blue, depicting men and women reading and performing complicated magic. There was a warm fire blazing in the fireplace and big blue sofas and armchairs were gathered into comfortable clumps filled with Ravenclaws chatting quietly over steaming mugs; a few neat tables were in the back of the room, where a few more of them were studying. She strode confidently through the middle of the room, smiling at one or two, and he followed her to the dormitories.
Ophelia's room was on the top level. It was a comfortable room with three beds facing inwards. Everything was in varying shades of blue, from the carpeting to the bedspreads, with cornflower curtains with deep gold trim framing the window. Her roommates were nowhere to be found, he was remarkably glad.
She pulled her quill from her robes: in the clear light, Draco could see that it was a silvery gray, unlike any of the quills he had used for homework assignments. She wrote on the air in fiery runes, which evaporated immediately. She sat on the edge of her bed and opened the book of spells sitting there.
"I've put up a room-sealing spell, so don't worry about anyone walking in," she said without looking up.
"Will it hold?" he asked, glancing around at the door and windows.
She laughed. "Runic magic is more powerful, more lasting, and more discreet than other forms. I know you don't believe, but if you ever tell I know it, Draco -"
"I know, I know: you'll castrate me."
She nodded succinctly, and practiced the expelliarmus motions. "You can sit down." There were no chairs, so he was forced to sit on the opposite side of her bed. It made him remarkably uncomfortable. "How do you feel about the match this weekend?"
"Why do you want to know?" he asked, roughly.
"You seem tense," was her short reply, and they spoke no more of it.
Instead, they sat in silence, reading over the dry text about the technique of disarming, her perfume, whatever it was, floating in and out of range.
The dinner hour came soon enough, and they walked together into the great hall. Please don't let Snape see this, Draco thought. Who knows what he'll put into my food .
Most of the other students had already gathered for dinner when Draco and Ophelia crept through the door. Just as they entered, the Malfoy owl, a huge black thing, fluttered over and lighted on Draco's shoulder, a letter in its mouth.
"I'll read it later," he said. "It's from my father."
"Will he be there Saturday?" she asked. He shrugged: he didn't want to think about that. "Good luck then," she whispered. "I'll be there, but I can make no promises as to who I'll be rooting for."
She pushed her sable hair out of her face and smiled at him: he felt a smile in return pricking at the corners of his mouth.
"Well," she said. "See you then."