The gleaming red Hogwarts Express pulled into the station. All around in
the crowd, students were jabbering to their friends, loading their bags,
and calling cheerful good-byes to the teachers. I saw him in the midst,
looking tired but glad to be in the company of Weasley and Granger. No
doubt he was not ready to depart: it was all around the school how horrible
the Muggles he lived with treated him.
I, on the other hand, would be at home in the Manor before the sun sank below the horizon, stuffed with mother's treats and under my father's ever- watchful gaze. Our eyes are the same, Lucius' and mine: steel grey, flashing silver when provoked. So too is my platinum blonde hair, unmistakably his.
No question I am a Malfoy. The very blood of Salazar Slytherin pours through my veins.
Perhaps something erred in the translation of my father into me, however, for strange feelings strike me when least expected. This very moment it happens: I can not look away. He turns, feeling my shining gaze upon him. I sneer automatically, a well-trained reflex.
My father, the voice in my head, smirks contemptuously: 'That hair. One would think with all that gold Potter could afford a hairbrush.'
My own reply comes dimly, like a feeble Patronus: 'That hair. Wild and playful, quite endearing.' I would love to run my hands through it, tangling the ebony strands around my ivory fingers.
His own eyes, bright jade, narrow in response to my expression. Weasely gives me an evil look and mutters something in his ear; Granger ignores me completely. Such is how it must be, for both our sakes. His friends would never approve, given the treatment they receive from me. I merely do it because they do not deserve to be in his company. He is wasted on the likes of them.
On the other hand, Father would surely never approve of him, either. The ghost of a smile invades my features, quickly disguises itself as a smirk. Imagine, bringing home Lord Voldemort's chief enemy for some dinner and perhaps a board game?
My father expects that I will become a Death Eater. I look down at my forearm, creamy skin exposed under the rolled up sleeves of my robes. Trying to imagine the Dark Mark there, skull and serpent, darkening with a summons. A brand, a scar, like the one on the forehead of my rival.
He has turned away now, headed for the steps of the train. Looking over his shoulder, no doubt for a last glance of the castle that he seems to love so dearly, he catches sight of me.
I am quite alone; aware that my pale form stands out in a crowd. He gives me an odd look, not contempt but curiosity, as if noticing me for the first time. I arch a silvery brow, then reward him with something rare and precious: a genuine smile. Nobody else notices, which is well, since it is only for the Boy-Who-Lived. The shock evident in those luminous eyes of his is amusing, well worth the effort it took. After all, the expression is rather alien to my features. A hot second passes, then two. Finally, he breaks my spell by looking away (blushing slightly, I note), climbs the metal steps and vanishes into the train car.
I allow my lips to relax into their practiced smirk, but can do nothing for the glee that must be turning my eyes to sterling. Watch out, Potter. I am coming for you next year. and I always get what I want. Always.
~ Fin ~
I, on the other hand, would be at home in the Manor before the sun sank below the horizon, stuffed with mother's treats and under my father's ever- watchful gaze. Our eyes are the same, Lucius' and mine: steel grey, flashing silver when provoked. So too is my platinum blonde hair, unmistakably his.
No question I am a Malfoy. The very blood of Salazar Slytherin pours through my veins.
Perhaps something erred in the translation of my father into me, however, for strange feelings strike me when least expected. This very moment it happens: I can not look away. He turns, feeling my shining gaze upon him. I sneer automatically, a well-trained reflex.
My father, the voice in my head, smirks contemptuously: 'That hair. One would think with all that gold Potter could afford a hairbrush.'
My own reply comes dimly, like a feeble Patronus: 'That hair. Wild and playful, quite endearing.' I would love to run my hands through it, tangling the ebony strands around my ivory fingers.
His own eyes, bright jade, narrow in response to my expression. Weasely gives me an evil look and mutters something in his ear; Granger ignores me completely. Such is how it must be, for both our sakes. His friends would never approve, given the treatment they receive from me. I merely do it because they do not deserve to be in his company. He is wasted on the likes of them.
On the other hand, Father would surely never approve of him, either. The ghost of a smile invades my features, quickly disguises itself as a smirk. Imagine, bringing home Lord Voldemort's chief enemy for some dinner and perhaps a board game?
My father expects that I will become a Death Eater. I look down at my forearm, creamy skin exposed under the rolled up sleeves of my robes. Trying to imagine the Dark Mark there, skull and serpent, darkening with a summons. A brand, a scar, like the one on the forehead of my rival.
He has turned away now, headed for the steps of the train. Looking over his shoulder, no doubt for a last glance of the castle that he seems to love so dearly, he catches sight of me.
I am quite alone; aware that my pale form stands out in a crowd. He gives me an odd look, not contempt but curiosity, as if noticing me for the first time. I arch a silvery brow, then reward him with something rare and precious: a genuine smile. Nobody else notices, which is well, since it is only for the Boy-Who-Lived. The shock evident in those luminous eyes of his is amusing, well worth the effort it took. After all, the expression is rather alien to my features. A hot second passes, then two. Finally, he breaks my spell by looking away (blushing slightly, I note), climbs the metal steps and vanishes into the train car.
I allow my lips to relax into their practiced smirk, but can do nothing for the glee that must be turning my eyes to sterling. Watch out, Potter. I am coming for you next year. and I always get what I want. Always.
~ Fin ~