You'd Every Cause
"Imagine how soon this will all be yours, Draco," Lucius intoned, in his usual, heavy, arrogant voice. "When you'll be hosting these revels." Lucius rarely spoke of the inevitable day when Draco would have any power. Outside of Hogwarts, indeed, Draco had little power at all. "The war will begin, and that day may come sooner than any of us think."
He kept himself from cringing: that was the thought Draco wanted least in that moment. Not the death of his father, but the beginning of the war, for that could mean but one thing. "When you come home from school at the end of the year, Draco, it will be your day: you will receive your Dark Mark, and then you may begin to formally serve the Dark Lord."
Lucius said it like it was a good thing. But how could handing one's power over to another possibly be good? Emblem of purity or no, it wasn't right to subjugate his family name, or his own honor, to another. That spot on the inside of his forearm began to ache, and he rubbed it vaguely through his robes.
"Now, where is this young Briarwood we've heard so much about? Why, there's the young lady, I believe." Draco had been watching her, in fact, for several moments. She'd arrived with her cousin Snape and was now trying to mingle with people she'd obviously never spoken to in all her life. Draco had been trying to avoid her until she unattached from Snape. (He hated the thought of talking to him so soon after his thorough embarrassment. Snape had made sure Draco felt it again, subtly of course, in his midterm exams.) Now, however, facing that embarrassment seemed unavoidable.
"My, she is pretty. Nicely done, Draco." The boy could hardly believe that Lucius had no complaint about her: in fact, his father had been nothing but complimentary ever since Draco had some home for the holidays. "Just like a painting. She carries herself like a pureblood."
Draco wished he could gather himself enough to say that she was, but his voice failed him. All he could manage was a blink of agreement.
"Like a true Briarwood. Nicely done. Quite the conquest." Lucius' eyes were fixed on her. "Why don't you go and entertain your guest, Draco? Your mother and I can meet her later." Lucius gave Draco a shove with his walking stick, nearly pushing him down the stairs from the little dais they were on. Draco rounded about, one foot a step down below: his father gave a falsely apologetic sniff and waved for Draco to go forth.
Draco started toward the spot where he'd last seen her, touching her elbow. She was dressed in silk robes, exactly the same ebony as her eyes, with a gentle movement like her sable hair. She looked perfect: had he not been sure she was not, Draco would have believed her to be older than a sixth- year.
"Draco," she said, simply, letting the corner of her mouth twitch. She excused herself and let Draco lead her away from the main drawing room.
"I've never liked big gatherings," he growled. "And my parents' friends are dull as tombs, always telling me how tall I am." He was silent then for several moments then as they walked through a corridor. "You look . very nice, Ophelia."
She would never quite get over how different he looked when he did not appear to have just smelled something foul. Among his equals, he was even handsome, Ophelia thought; though that was not the first time it had passed through her head.
"Thank you, Draco. And thank you for rescuing me. Camilla isn't exactly the brightest bat in the belfry, is she?" He laughed: it sounded choked and rough, almost rusty.
"I have something to tell you," she muttered, taking his arm.
"We'll go in the library," he replied. Down a cool corridor, he swung open a door of heavy English oak.
"Oh, what a collection!" she said, looking about the round turret, filled with books higher than either of them could see. It was obviously one of the turrets, tall and narrow and round. It was dark and dusty, too, with ancient suits of armor guarding the door and a ladder that seemed to stretch into infinity. The floor had two simply chairs and a writing desk, interestingly devoid of quill and ink.
"I thought you might like it. No one ever comes in here, not even my father. He prefers a potions laboratory to a room full of books." She was barely paying attention. "What do you think of the party?"
She smiled, absently. "Oh, it's nice enough. I feel a bit out of place - I'm probably the only one not in Slytherin in the whole building."
"The only Ravenclaw through the Malfoy door in over a century," he informed. He couldn't help but smile at her. "Quite the occasion, as Narcissa would say."
Ophelia nodded. "Though I can find a few objections to the guest list," she said lightly, running a white finger through the dust on the center table. "I mean, Filch?"
"The Filches are a family as old as yours or mine," Draco said, protective for no reason at all.
"Yes, but Argus is a Squib," Ophelia countered, feelingly, with an edge of disgust. She almost shuddered.
"How did you know about that?"
"Oh, Draco, everybody knows about that." She waved her hand dismissively. "At least, anyone above his first year with half a brain. After all, what kind of wizard never uses his wand for anything?" She sighed. "Still, I can see it wise to stay on good terms with that lot. But there are others, of course. Neither the Crabbes nor Goyles have been worth the parchment their pedigrees are written on for generations. It's not the forms I mind so much as the particulars: stupider than house-elves they are - and uglier, too."
Suddenly, Draco was hit with a vision: wizards married young, and all he could think of was his father's wrath when Ophelia told him that neither family was invited to the wedding. She shook his head to clear it.
"Oh, but I've upset you. I'm sorry, Draco."
"You'll never change the way I am," Draco sneered, into the gentle silence of his father's library.
She burst into laughter, a soft laughter he had never heard from her before. "I don't want to change the way you are, Draco." His name again . how rarely he heard his own name . "Maybe the way you think, but I - I like the way you are. D'you know the Sonnets? Love is not love which alters where it alteration finds."
"Or bends with the remover to remove," he finished before he thought to check himself.
"Shakespeare was a mudblood, you know: both his parents were Muggles. All of his other work but one were more popular in their world than ours," she said absently as she overlooked a shelf of books.
"I'll never know how The Tempest got out," he agreed.
"I've always felt most comfortable around books. So much knowledge, so much collected learning ." She mounted a ladder and rose up the rungs with an effortless flick of her wrist. He let her poke about at the older works for a few minutes, until she returned with an ancient leather-bound volume. "Isn't this beautiful? I've read the latter editions of it in the Hogwarts library." Standing beside him, she leaned in to show him an illumination. He could smell the scent of her hair, she was so close. She always displayed such easy affection with him, which was something Draco was vastly unused to.
"You're not afraid of me?" he asked her, willing his voice not to break.
"Why would I be afraid of you? You're not a Death Eater yet."
"Would you fear me if I were?"
"Of course I would," she replied, her raven gaze penetrating into him. "Wouldn't you - fear yourself?"
"That not all what I'd fear, Ophelia." Unconsciously, he rubbed the inside of his arm.
She murmured his name - his given name - and stepped toward him. Placing her hands on the sides of her face, Ophelia kissed him.
Without really meaning to, his hands found her back. He quited her chastely at first, like a child, but her hair brushed the back of his hands as she wrapped her arms around his neck: the heat of her body was new to him, her contact foreign, and he could no longer resist her touch. His first kiss was like wine after a lifetime of water, intoxicating and purifying. Fear . that was as intoxicating as anything, making his head spin. It was a feeling as new as this thing that must be . affection . A sudden vision passed through his mind of his father throwing open the door and seeing him with a Ravenclaw . but she was as pureblooded as he . what harm could there be? He kissed her again, forcing his fear of his father into the recesses of his memory.
The quiet of the room was broken by a house elf. Draco pulled himself away from her and looked at it.
"Master has called Mr. Draco to the hall," it muttered, fear in its eyes.
"We'll be there in a minute," he growled. "And you didn't see anything."
"Franny saw nothing, Mr. Draco!" it howled, disappearing. Ophelia had crumpled against him, her head on his chest. She looked up at him again as soon as it was gone: he longed to kiss her again, but he knew it was best to do as he was told. As in everything.
"Imagine how soon this will all be yours, Draco," Lucius intoned, in his usual, heavy, arrogant voice. "When you'll be hosting these revels." Lucius rarely spoke of the inevitable day when Draco would have any power. Outside of Hogwarts, indeed, Draco had little power at all. "The war will begin, and that day may come sooner than any of us think."
He kept himself from cringing: that was the thought Draco wanted least in that moment. Not the death of his father, but the beginning of the war, for that could mean but one thing. "When you come home from school at the end of the year, Draco, it will be your day: you will receive your Dark Mark, and then you may begin to formally serve the Dark Lord."
Lucius said it like it was a good thing. But how could handing one's power over to another possibly be good? Emblem of purity or no, it wasn't right to subjugate his family name, or his own honor, to another. That spot on the inside of his forearm began to ache, and he rubbed it vaguely through his robes.
"Now, where is this young Briarwood we've heard so much about? Why, there's the young lady, I believe." Draco had been watching her, in fact, for several moments. She'd arrived with her cousin Snape and was now trying to mingle with people she'd obviously never spoken to in all her life. Draco had been trying to avoid her until she unattached from Snape. (He hated the thought of talking to him so soon after his thorough embarrassment. Snape had made sure Draco felt it again, subtly of course, in his midterm exams.) Now, however, facing that embarrassment seemed unavoidable.
"My, she is pretty. Nicely done, Draco." The boy could hardly believe that Lucius had no complaint about her: in fact, his father had been nothing but complimentary ever since Draco had some home for the holidays. "Just like a painting. She carries herself like a pureblood."
Draco wished he could gather himself enough to say that she was, but his voice failed him. All he could manage was a blink of agreement.
"Like a true Briarwood. Nicely done. Quite the conquest." Lucius' eyes were fixed on her. "Why don't you go and entertain your guest, Draco? Your mother and I can meet her later." Lucius gave Draco a shove with his walking stick, nearly pushing him down the stairs from the little dais they were on. Draco rounded about, one foot a step down below: his father gave a falsely apologetic sniff and waved for Draco to go forth.
Draco started toward the spot where he'd last seen her, touching her elbow. She was dressed in silk robes, exactly the same ebony as her eyes, with a gentle movement like her sable hair. She looked perfect: had he not been sure she was not, Draco would have believed her to be older than a sixth- year.
"Draco," she said, simply, letting the corner of her mouth twitch. She excused herself and let Draco lead her away from the main drawing room.
"I've never liked big gatherings," he growled. "And my parents' friends are dull as tombs, always telling me how tall I am." He was silent then for several moments then as they walked through a corridor. "You look . very nice, Ophelia."
She would never quite get over how different he looked when he did not appear to have just smelled something foul. Among his equals, he was even handsome, Ophelia thought; though that was not the first time it had passed through her head.
"Thank you, Draco. And thank you for rescuing me. Camilla isn't exactly the brightest bat in the belfry, is she?" He laughed: it sounded choked and rough, almost rusty.
"I have something to tell you," she muttered, taking his arm.
"We'll go in the library," he replied. Down a cool corridor, he swung open a door of heavy English oak.
"Oh, what a collection!" she said, looking about the round turret, filled with books higher than either of them could see. It was obviously one of the turrets, tall and narrow and round. It was dark and dusty, too, with ancient suits of armor guarding the door and a ladder that seemed to stretch into infinity. The floor had two simply chairs and a writing desk, interestingly devoid of quill and ink.
"I thought you might like it. No one ever comes in here, not even my father. He prefers a potions laboratory to a room full of books." She was barely paying attention. "What do you think of the party?"
She smiled, absently. "Oh, it's nice enough. I feel a bit out of place - I'm probably the only one not in Slytherin in the whole building."
"The only Ravenclaw through the Malfoy door in over a century," he informed. He couldn't help but smile at her. "Quite the occasion, as Narcissa would say."
Ophelia nodded. "Though I can find a few objections to the guest list," she said lightly, running a white finger through the dust on the center table. "I mean, Filch?"
"The Filches are a family as old as yours or mine," Draco said, protective for no reason at all.
"Yes, but Argus is a Squib," Ophelia countered, feelingly, with an edge of disgust. She almost shuddered.
"How did you know about that?"
"Oh, Draco, everybody knows about that." She waved her hand dismissively. "At least, anyone above his first year with half a brain. After all, what kind of wizard never uses his wand for anything?" She sighed. "Still, I can see it wise to stay on good terms with that lot. But there are others, of course. Neither the Crabbes nor Goyles have been worth the parchment their pedigrees are written on for generations. It's not the forms I mind so much as the particulars: stupider than house-elves they are - and uglier, too."
Suddenly, Draco was hit with a vision: wizards married young, and all he could think of was his father's wrath when Ophelia told him that neither family was invited to the wedding. She shook his head to clear it.
"Oh, but I've upset you. I'm sorry, Draco."
"You'll never change the way I am," Draco sneered, into the gentle silence of his father's library.
She burst into laughter, a soft laughter he had never heard from her before. "I don't want to change the way you are, Draco." His name again . how rarely he heard his own name . "Maybe the way you think, but I - I like the way you are. D'you know the Sonnets? Love is not love which alters where it alteration finds."
"Or bends with the remover to remove," he finished before he thought to check himself.
"Shakespeare was a mudblood, you know: both his parents were Muggles. All of his other work but one were more popular in their world than ours," she said absently as she overlooked a shelf of books.
"I'll never know how The Tempest got out," he agreed.
"I've always felt most comfortable around books. So much knowledge, so much collected learning ." She mounted a ladder and rose up the rungs with an effortless flick of her wrist. He let her poke about at the older works for a few minutes, until she returned with an ancient leather-bound volume. "Isn't this beautiful? I've read the latter editions of it in the Hogwarts library." Standing beside him, she leaned in to show him an illumination. He could smell the scent of her hair, she was so close. She always displayed such easy affection with him, which was something Draco was vastly unused to.
"You're not afraid of me?" he asked her, willing his voice not to break.
"Why would I be afraid of you? You're not a Death Eater yet."
"Would you fear me if I were?"
"Of course I would," she replied, her raven gaze penetrating into him. "Wouldn't you - fear yourself?"
"That not all what I'd fear, Ophelia." Unconsciously, he rubbed the inside of his arm.
She murmured his name - his given name - and stepped toward him. Placing her hands on the sides of her face, Ophelia kissed him.
Without really meaning to, his hands found her back. He quited her chastely at first, like a child, but her hair brushed the back of his hands as she wrapped her arms around his neck: the heat of her body was new to him, her contact foreign, and he could no longer resist her touch. His first kiss was like wine after a lifetime of water, intoxicating and purifying. Fear . that was as intoxicating as anything, making his head spin. It was a feeling as new as this thing that must be . affection . A sudden vision passed through his mind of his father throwing open the door and seeing him with a Ravenclaw . but she was as pureblooded as he . what harm could there be? He kissed her again, forcing his fear of his father into the recesses of his memory.
The quiet of the room was broken by a house elf. Draco pulled himself away from her and looked at it.
"Master has called Mr. Draco to the hall," it muttered, fear in its eyes.
"We'll be there in a minute," he growled. "And you didn't see anything."
"Franny saw nothing, Mr. Draco!" it howled, disappearing. Ophelia had crumpled against him, her head on his chest. She looked up at him again as soon as it was gone: he longed to kiss her again, but he knew it was best to do as he was told. As in everything.