You Mustn't Knit Your Brow
Though he knew he ought to be studying for the exams that were swiftly hastening nearer, Draco had sat in his room, curtain drawn, all afternoon. He'd hung his academic robes on their usual hook and was flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was enchanted to look like a quidditch pitch so he could work out plays, but he'd left it on auto-run for days. Now he watched the miniature Slytherins play against the other houses, over and over again, unable to pull his eyes away even to his book of sonnets.
All his thoughts were on Ophelia Briarwood, on how much he hated her in that moment. Not only had she refused him, but she had chosen . Snape instead of him. It was mortifying, and it hurt. He knew that if he left the dormitory and ran into her somewhere in the halls he would stand no chance at all of maintaining his composure. He let that look as if he'd just smelled something truly foul cover his face. It felt better to hate her. At least then he could pretend he had rejected her, and not the other way round.
He had, of course, considered writing to his father to ask advice, but had dismissed the idea the instant he thought of it. All Lucius would do was tell him he was whining - again - and then reprove him for letting her slip through his fingers.
Suddenly, he remembered the letter Lucius had sent him on a few days since. He had ignored it then, and to do so for any longer would only make it worse. How could he have forgotten?
There was no address, no term of affection for Lucius Malfoy's only child and heir: just his name, and then the letter. He could hear his father's voice nasally intoning every syllable.
"I have heard you have been spending a considerable amount of time with the youngest Briarwood. Well done; she certainly is a step up from that Parkinson girl you spoke of so often last year, if their mothers are any indication. She may not be Slytherin, but she comes from good stock, and pureblooded. Your mother is thrilled. I have taken the liberty of inviting her to this year's winter revel so that we may both get the chance to meet her."
And it closed, as abruptly as it had opened. How could Lucius have done this? He must really hate me.
He considered writing back and telling his father that Ophelia preferred the company of older men, but he knew that Lucius would be proud of his friend for acquiring such a youthful courtesan. There's not a wizard that went bad wasn't in Slytherin, but she'd be a good place to start.
He'd slept through breakfast; he'd slept through transfiguration; and he'd just barely woken in time for spells. It was quite an effort now to keep his careful strut going as he rushed to class, goons tight behind. There were Gryffindors everywhere in the halls, it seemed, and he had to put effort into avoiding physical contact with them.
Draco stepped into Flitwick's spells classroom, just barely in time. The paintings turned to look at him as he entered, though the students were too busy finding their seats. He gestured for the thugs to sit behind him - he was in no mood for their distraction - and sat next to Millicent Bulstrode, who immediately tried to flirt inanely.
"Hi, Draco," she said, in her irritatingly shrill voice. "I heard your project's going very well." He glared at her out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps the thugs would have been less annoying . "In fact, Flitwick told me at breakfast that you'll be presenting today. Won't it be nice to be done with those horrid Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs?"
"Sure, Millicent," he muttered, turning away. Stupid girl: she was hardly worthy of her house, or of the name of witch. Yet another brainless little girl trying to tack Malfoy on to the end of her name.
Flitwick came in: Draco could hear his voice even without turning around. The professor was responded to by a voice he knew just as well: Ophelia.
The little man climbed up to his podium and tapped his wand on the edge, quieting the class. Ophelia stood off to one side, trying to get Draco's attention. She had it, though he wouldn't for a moment let her know she did. "Miss Briarwood and her partner, Mr. Malfoy, have offered to present their assignment in today's class." He motioned for Draco to stand up in the front of the room. Feeling the class' eyes upon him, he obliged.
"Why didn't you ask me first?" he hissed furiously at Ophelia. He didn't even want to look at her, much less have to talk to her.
"I would have," she whispered back. "If you'd shown up at breakfast. Flitwick owled me last night looking for a volunteer."
"At least then we'll be done with this mess," he shot at her. "And we can get things back to normal."
Her black eyes darkened and she turned away from him without another word.
"Expelliarmus," she shouted, spinning on her heel, the spell cracking in the air as it flew in the haste she had sent it in. Draco blocked it, feeling his wand reverberate as it absorbed the force.
"Expelliarmus!" He returned the spell; she blocked it too, though not nearly so neatly.
"Expelliarmus!" and she returned it. His wand flew from his hand: he spun around, his robes billowing in a brilliant show, retrieving it.
"Expelliarmus!" The spell that poured from his wand was heavy, almost visible in the air. He put all of her embarrassment from the other night, all of his fury from her rejection, all of his rage at the one she preferred, into that spell, and not only did it disarm, but knocked Ophelia onto the floor. She sat there, panting and staring at him, her jet eyes filled with some unrecognizable emotion - fear, perhaps? Shock?
Unarmed, without even her quill, Ophelia was vulnerable. Draco's first reaction - his first desire - the first response - the one he had learned so well so long ago from his father began to take control of him. Avada . Avada .
It would be so easy, so simple, to destroy her now, and she would be punished for all the pain: those black eyes could plague him no more. Oh, what was the rest of it? Avada .
Flitwick's voice, and the reverie was gone. Ophelia, trembling, gathered up her wand and faced the class: she swept away before Draco even knew what was happening, and he alone could receive the professor's praise.
Though he knew he ought to be studying for the exams that were swiftly hastening nearer, Draco had sat in his room, curtain drawn, all afternoon. He'd hung his academic robes on their usual hook and was flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was enchanted to look like a quidditch pitch so he could work out plays, but he'd left it on auto-run for days. Now he watched the miniature Slytherins play against the other houses, over and over again, unable to pull his eyes away even to his book of sonnets.
All his thoughts were on Ophelia Briarwood, on how much he hated her in that moment. Not only had she refused him, but she had chosen . Snape instead of him. It was mortifying, and it hurt. He knew that if he left the dormitory and ran into her somewhere in the halls he would stand no chance at all of maintaining his composure. He let that look as if he'd just smelled something truly foul cover his face. It felt better to hate her. At least then he could pretend he had rejected her, and not the other way round.
He had, of course, considered writing to his father to ask advice, but had dismissed the idea the instant he thought of it. All Lucius would do was tell him he was whining - again - and then reprove him for letting her slip through his fingers.
Suddenly, he remembered the letter Lucius had sent him on a few days since. He had ignored it then, and to do so for any longer would only make it worse. How could he have forgotten?
There was no address, no term of affection for Lucius Malfoy's only child and heir: just his name, and then the letter. He could hear his father's voice nasally intoning every syllable.
"I have heard you have been spending a considerable amount of time with the youngest Briarwood. Well done; she certainly is a step up from that Parkinson girl you spoke of so often last year, if their mothers are any indication. She may not be Slytherin, but she comes from good stock, and pureblooded. Your mother is thrilled. I have taken the liberty of inviting her to this year's winter revel so that we may both get the chance to meet her."
And it closed, as abruptly as it had opened. How could Lucius have done this? He must really hate me.
He considered writing back and telling his father that Ophelia preferred the company of older men, but he knew that Lucius would be proud of his friend for acquiring such a youthful courtesan. There's not a wizard that went bad wasn't in Slytherin, but she'd be a good place to start.
He'd slept through breakfast; he'd slept through transfiguration; and he'd just barely woken in time for spells. It was quite an effort now to keep his careful strut going as he rushed to class, goons tight behind. There were Gryffindors everywhere in the halls, it seemed, and he had to put effort into avoiding physical contact with them.
Draco stepped into Flitwick's spells classroom, just barely in time. The paintings turned to look at him as he entered, though the students were too busy finding their seats. He gestured for the thugs to sit behind him - he was in no mood for their distraction - and sat next to Millicent Bulstrode, who immediately tried to flirt inanely.
"Hi, Draco," she said, in her irritatingly shrill voice. "I heard your project's going very well." He glared at her out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps the thugs would have been less annoying . "In fact, Flitwick told me at breakfast that you'll be presenting today. Won't it be nice to be done with those horrid Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs?"
"Sure, Millicent," he muttered, turning away. Stupid girl: she was hardly worthy of her house, or of the name of witch. Yet another brainless little girl trying to tack Malfoy on to the end of her name.
Flitwick came in: Draco could hear his voice even without turning around. The professor was responded to by a voice he knew just as well: Ophelia.
The little man climbed up to his podium and tapped his wand on the edge, quieting the class. Ophelia stood off to one side, trying to get Draco's attention. She had it, though he wouldn't for a moment let her know she did. "Miss Briarwood and her partner, Mr. Malfoy, have offered to present their assignment in today's class." He motioned for Draco to stand up in the front of the room. Feeling the class' eyes upon him, he obliged.
"Why didn't you ask me first?" he hissed furiously at Ophelia. He didn't even want to look at her, much less have to talk to her.
"I would have," she whispered back. "If you'd shown up at breakfast. Flitwick owled me last night looking for a volunteer."
"At least then we'll be done with this mess," he shot at her. "And we can get things back to normal."
Her black eyes darkened and she turned away from him without another word.
"Expelliarmus," she shouted, spinning on her heel, the spell cracking in the air as it flew in the haste she had sent it in. Draco blocked it, feeling his wand reverberate as it absorbed the force.
"Expelliarmus!" He returned the spell; she blocked it too, though not nearly so neatly.
"Expelliarmus!" and she returned it. His wand flew from his hand: he spun around, his robes billowing in a brilliant show, retrieving it.
"Expelliarmus!" The spell that poured from his wand was heavy, almost visible in the air. He put all of her embarrassment from the other night, all of his fury from her rejection, all of his rage at the one she preferred, into that spell, and not only did it disarm, but knocked Ophelia onto the floor. She sat there, panting and staring at him, her jet eyes filled with some unrecognizable emotion - fear, perhaps? Shock?
Unarmed, without even her quill, Ophelia was vulnerable. Draco's first reaction - his first desire - the first response - the one he had learned so well so long ago from his father began to take control of him. Avada . Avada .
It would be so easy, so simple, to destroy her now, and she would be punished for all the pain: those black eyes could plague him no more. Oh, what was the rest of it? Avada .
Flitwick's voice, and the reverie was gone. Ophelia, trembling, gathered up her wand and faced the class: she swept away before Draco even knew what was happening, and he alone could receive the professor's praise.