Disclaimer: I don't intend to infringe on any copyrights laws, I just want to exercise my freedom of speech.
Wild Goose Chase
The library that evening was chilled as it had not been in months. It was as if every crack in the drafty castle had opened as wide as it could and was sucking the cold air in. Blaise did not join him in the library leaving him to what she called "his work" and had stared liberally at the Weasley girl throughout all three meals. Somehow, he felt that she was enjoying her stares and wasn't doing it only to prove a point. He had felt oddly protective, even though he knew Blaise was a perfectly wonderful girl. Last night, he had dreamt of the Weasley girl again, this time he was chasing her through the topiary garden at Malfoy Manor, and he shrugged the emotion off on that. The memory the dream had built off of ended with Draco's arm nearly eaten by the giant Venus flytrap.
The Weasley girl had also been alone, her friends having left to seek the comforting fire in their common room, but she worked on, shivering. Used to the natural chill of the dungeons, the cold didn't bother him much, but he shut his books and shoved them into his bag, hopefully catching the Weasley girl's attention. He moved maybe ten feet away to the library fire and began to work there, sinking into the worn, overstuffed armchair and spreading his books on the small coffee table. A few minutes later, she followed and sat, faltering slightly before sitting and working again. He smiled and pulled a book into his lap.
After waiting a few minutes, he looked up. On the mantle was a large hourglass, the gentle pouring of the sand soothing him as he watched it. It was more empty on the top than the bottom, and would automatically flip itself at the hour. He noted her glance up, then return to her work and he turned to study her.
She was red-haired, as was to be expected for a Weasley, with glimmering green eyes. They were not like Potter's which were a shocking emerald, but more of a pale green, like faded grass, and he thought he could detect hints of gold and brown, but that might just be the firelight. Her hair was illuminated, gold flecks sparkling amongst the red. Her hair seemed a rainbow of colors, from strawberry blond to carroty orange to dark auburn. If they ever went on a date, he would make sure there was firelight for she looked best in it, although he thought she might do well at around sunset. He tucked this information away in his mind like she would often tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
His eyes traveled down the edge of the open robe, taking in her small breasts, her flat tummy, and the ribs that he knew were slightly visible. She was tall enough and thin enough to be a model, like one of those moving manikins in Madam Malkin's. Her legs were mostly covered by knee-high socks, her skirt hitched up a quite a bit and he fancied if he were sitting two feet to the left he would be able to see her knickers. She clasped a quill between her index and middle fingers, resting the back on the fleshy bit of her hand between her thumb and index fingers. He had noticed the inkstains on this fleshy bit because of how she held the quill. The black smears mapped out how she wrote: the ink on the edge of her pinky and the side of her hand from occasionally smudging the ink, the tip of her ring finger from the ink dripping from the unblotted quill tip. He took in as much as he could; knowing that he had seen more, or would have if he had kept his eyes open. Her other hand played with a gold chain around her neck. It had not been there the night in the corridor.
It was said the Malfoy family began with the mating of a vampire and a veela. The union of two beautiful but evil creatures had married a half-human, half-demon. Thus, four humanesque and magical creatures were combined. It was because of the demon blood that Malfoys never wore gold, the vampires gave them pale skin, veelas gave beauty, and the human, who had been a wizard, gave magic.
The gold around her throat captured his attention. It was the forbidden metal not because it hurt him to touch it but because it was tradition. There was a charm at the end of it; he didn't know what it was but it glinted in the firelight, drawing him in like a beam of light from a lighthouse drew a stranded ship to port. She stopped fiddling with the necklace and his eyes met hers. She stared at him and he was embarrassed he was caught but he kept looking; Malfoys never backed down. After a few moments and with a small sigh of dismissal, she moved the paperweights that ensured the parchment wouldn't roll and stacked her parchment on top before rolling them all and stuffing them into a tube where she usually kept her homework so that the rolls wouldn't be dented. She stood, straightening her skirt, then disappeared between the shelves of books. She had left her things there so he knew she'd come back.
It was strange, he thought, not being worth the effort of retaliation.
She returned a few minutes later with a well-worn, cloth bound book in an alarming shade of red. The color gave the contents away; he knew exactly where those kinds of books were found and what was between the covers. He caught her eye as she sat and stared pointedly at the book. She shrugged slightly before opening the book, staring for a moment at the illustration in the inside cover before turning the page and settling comfortably into the chair.
Again, he wasn't worth the effort.
Lord, if Weasley knew what his sister was reading he'd have a fit. He glanced at the title. Lessons on a Broomstick it read, conjuring images of himself and Ginny on the quidditch pitch swooping around each other while naked. His own broomstick readied itself for action, but Draco had to deny its wish. His Ancient Runes homework that he had been neglecting seemed a lot less interesting than this sudden fantasy, but he returned to it anyways.
On the mantle, the hourglass turned for the 21st time that day.
The sandy beach had dunes along the back where the ocean couldn't reach it and where wizards didn't go before a solid wall of stone rose, standing guard impassively. He lay sprawled across the sand where he had fallen, amazed that he wasn't hurt. His body had simply bounced like a rubber ball. The ocean's waves tickled his feet. He was seven years old.
She was there, this time wearing a dress of pale green. She was younger too, but still older than him. She looked like she had in his second year and the dress made her look like a flower girl escaped from a wedding. She even had a yellow plastic bucket instead of a basket filled with flowers.
"Fun, wasn't it?" Draco rolled onto his back and looked up at her. She splashed him with her foot. Draco sat up, spitting out the mouthful of sea water. Not concerned, she walked up to her knees in the water so the dress just went under the water; she didn't seem to mind that the dress was wetting and filled her bucket with water. She came up beside him and dumped some sand in the bucket. Then she took a handful of dribbly sand and moved her hand over him, dribbling over his stomach. He wanted to protest, but he was fascinated by the cool flow of the sand that left clumps on his clothes. He lay back and she dribbled again. And again. She took his hand and plunged it into the icy water and grasped his hand in hers, making him take a fistful of drippy sand. She held his hand still over the dribbly pile and the sand escaped his fingers. She helped him take the sand again, and dribbled it, the sand slipping through both their fingers. The next time, he was eager and plunged his hand into the bucket without her assistance. To his surprise, his hand closed over a hard object, not over the sort sand he expected. He opened his hand to find a piece of violet glass in his palm, too blunt to cut him.
He woke to find the room tinged gray with the dawning of the sun. He flipped back the covers and went to his trunk. There he found a small, wooden box, decorated with silver Celtic patterns. Inside he kept odd things that were special to him. An old, rusted skeleton key, an empty bottle that still held traces of the scent he knew to be "mother", a few pictures he didn't want to show to anyone, and amongst them a piece of violet glass.
He had found it after splashing and playing in the ocean, having thrown all caution to the wind. His father had rented a cottage near the edge of the ocean and Draco had wandered off, chasing a baby unicorn that had appeared out of the woods. It was so beautiful, the gold color like a beacon of sunlight, all he had wanted was to touch it, and he had ran and ran. The unicorn left a clear path for him to follow and had led him to the other side of the forest, to the cliff. The unicorn had turned sharply to the right, but Draco had run right over the edge. After falling and waking, he thought himself free, and as a seven-year-old, he didn't think that freedom would end. That was the best day of his life, which turned into the worst day of his life when he was whipped until he bled for "being disobedient and making your mother worry". It had been the first time he was whipped.
Slowly, he dressed and woke Crabbe and Goyle before heading down to breakfast. The Great Hall was alive and busy, the tables mostly filled. After seating himself next to Marcus Flint, he grabbed a raspberry scone and buttered it. Pansy moved over to him.
"Good morning," he said affably. It was a good morning, the sky above the hall, and therefore the ceiling of the hall, blazed a brilliant blue, almost as brilliant as the ocean had been in his dream.
"Where have you been lately? I feel like I haven't seen enough of you." She smiled owningly at him and he felt no inclination to tell her that her elbow was a half an inch away from the butter dish.
"The library," he told her simply, biting into the scone delicately.
"You seem to always be there. Tell me, Draco," she smiled at his name, "What sort of mischief do you get up to there…"
"Homework mischief."
"Oh." She cast about for a new thread of discussion.
"En guarde," Draco thought.
"Well," he said, standing and shouldering his bag, "I'm off."
"But," she sputtered, "Classes don't start for another hour."
"I know," he said, not bothering to look over his shoulder as he left. He had seen Ginny Weasley leave just moments before and was determined to catch up with her. Sure enough, she was walking up the stairs and Draco followed. He bumped into her, pushing her into the wall, but she caught her footing and continued on her way, not even bothering to reprimand him.
The third time she had ignored him.
He made his way to Potions, fuming. How dare she simply brush him away as if he were a speck of ash that wasn't big enough to cause notice. Was he simply not worth the effort? Or maybe her reaction wasn't simply because of him.
Perhaps she was used to this sort of thing. Was she used to being jostled? Maybe she was just as used to being overlooked as he was used to being the center of attention. He didn't have any siblings so he didn't have anyone to share his parent's attention with and didn't know what it felt like. He was the best off out of all his friends, being the richest, the smartest, and the most beautiful. The only one who had given him any sort of competition in his house was Blaise and that had made her attractive to him. But Ginny was the youngest. He would think that would make her stand out. But her desires might have gotten lost in the rough and tumble of 6 brothers that had come before her. And she was the only girl. Another distinction. He didn't know what to make of her.
After potions, he hurried back to the Defense Against the Dark Arts corridor. He had Care of Magical Creatures next, but he followed her anyways, hoping to catch her alone again. To his dismay, she walked and chatted animatedly with Creevey. He was too far away to hear her or what they were saying, but followed them to Muggle Studies before rushing to Care of Magical Creatures. He was nearly late, saying he had needed to use the bathroom as an excuse to the other Slytherins.
Luckily, she had Arithmancy and was alone when she walked. He made a snide comment in passing about threadbare robes that were constantly redyed with ink, but received not more than a blink. He turned to go to Ancient Runes, his head buzzing with ideas to make her react. He would not take lightly to being ignored.
He followed her to Charms next, followed by a pack of Slytherins on their way to Transfiguration. He pinched his nose and said he thought he smelled a rat, no a Weasel. The Slytherins had laughed but she didn't even reward him with a blink, like she was a turtle withdrawing further and further into her shell and couldn't be hurt.
He spent all of lunch glaring at her, reassessing her. He thought that her red hair and Ron Weasley's fire-cracker temper were sure signs that she too would have that temper. In fact, he had seen it once or twice used on her brother when he was being overprotective. Where had it gone? He saw her rise and rose with her, leaving Blaise behind, smiling her knowing smile.
Ginny stepped into the Transfiguration corridor and he hurried, bumping her in the process. Her books nearly flew out of her arms at his shove but she caught them. It was as soon as she caught her footing that she tripped and her books flew out quite thoroughly out of her arms and her bag, slipped off her shoulder falling and spilling its contents. Had it been Draco's bag, there would be a sea of parchment, quills, gags from the joke shop, books, sweets and empty wrappers, but Ginny's was surprisingly neat. The roll in which she kept her homework bounced merrily, a few ink-stained quills flew as if they were still attached a bird (Draco winced as one nib hit the stone floor and broke the quill beyond repair) and 3 books, a red, tatty novel on top, slid part-way out of the bag. Her ink bottle was on the red novel and he scooped it up before it could fall; he didn't want anything else to break. She stood, stunned, before joining him on the floor. He reached for the novel, and she slapped his hand away.
"I don't need your help." Her voice wrapped around the biting words, giving them teeth before they sunk into him. He didn't stop and left the roll and ink bottle by her bag. Her hand reached out for the quills and it stilled.
"My quill…" The look on her face made his chest constrict. Sometimes he had teased people until they cried or tried to beat him but the look of remorse on her face was something he had never seen before. It was probably her favorite.
"I didn't mean to," he apologized weakly. Suddenly, he unbuckled his bag and found his favorite quill. It was a black eagle feather that glinted gold as if the feather had gold woven into it. He held it out to her. She stared, open-mouthed, at his hand, then glared at him, her eyes squinting with malice.
"I don't need your things." She stuffed the quills in her bag and shouldered it, preparing to leave.
"Please, take it." He gestured again, holding the quill out to her. She reached out to take it, their fingers brushing as she did. His little self stiffened at her touch. She smiled.
"Thanks."
She wasn't sitting in her normal spot in the library, but he knew that she was there. Skipping the table where he usually sat, he moved to the fire where they had sat the day before. She was there, her robe draped over the back of the chair, writing with the quill he had given her that day. She smiled at him as he sat and he was caught in a vision of gold: in her hair, around her neck, in her eyes and in the quill. He smiled back.
His homework seemed to go by in record time. And he finished before her. Sometimes he would glance up and see her trailing the tip of the feather along her neck as she thought. He thought of kissing her neck like that, gliding his lips up and down lightly.
He stacked his books on the table and leaned back, watching her. Because of all her little habits, she was a very beautiful person to watch. Twisting her mouth when thinking, tucking her hair behind her ears, rolling the nib of her quill between her fingers, and of course, tickling herself with the feather. She looked up.
"What?" she asked and he smirked. "Do I have an ink smudge on my face?"
"Are you ticklish?"
"What?"
"Are you ticklish?"
"I-" he took the quill from her fingers and traced it along her neck. She shuddered.
"Yes, yes I am." Now he was close enough to her to see the charm on the end of her necklace. Unfortunately, it was tucked inside her shirt. He looked down at the parchment spread across her lap, balanced on a thick book.
"What are you working on?"
"Magical Healing. It's an essay on forms of anesthesia."
"I heard that class was horribly boring."
"Well, it is. Madam Pomphrey may know what she's talking about, but she lectures horribly. It's when there's patients that the classes become interesting. She'll place an Unidentifiable Spell on the patient so we don't know who it is and we can watch as she performs treatment. In seventh year we'll be able to do hands on practice." She said this all with great excitement, and he wondered where she found it.
"If it's a boring class than why take it?" She looked at him with superiority.
"Because it's the subject that's fascinating. Discovering what's wrong, and finding an answer to the problem. Sometimes you have to find the answer without knowing the problem. It's like a crossword puzzle, you get the clues to the word, and you think of the word except you only get the letters and you have to rearrange the letters in order to fill it in."
"So you'd like to be a Healer."
"Yes, I would. I suppose I'm a bit young to know what I want to do but…I just love it. Do you know what you'll do?"
"No." He looked down at his hands. He had filed his nails last night before he went to bed so they were even and smooth. He looked at hers, examining her bitten nails and the ink-mapped skin, slightly chapped from the cold. "I'm good at potions," he offered, finally.
"Looking to be the next Professor Snape," she teased.
"Well, the man has always had my full admiration," he teased back. But it was true. The man had managed to be on the good side of both Voldemort and Dumbledore. The Dark Lord had been convinced of Snape's loyalty when Snape said he passed on one bit of true information mixed in a bunch of lies to Dumbledore to assure that his skin would be safe. And He needed someone at the school to keep an eye on the students and the Headmaster. The Dark Lord had thought it very cunning. Dumbledore obviously believed the man because he kept him employed.
"If the rumors are true, I know exactly what you'll be."
"What rumors?" He felt sick.
"The ones about who you'll be at the end of school. About who you'll be working for." He felt sicker.
"Well, are they?"
"Are they what?" He waited with baited breath for her next word.
"True."
"I…I can't tell you."
He was a coward, a completely moronic coward, shoving his books and parchment into his bag haphazardly and standing to leave. Damn her for looking concerned. Damn her for wanting to know. Damn her. He blurted out what he had been wanting to ask, his voice sounding oddly strained.
"Would you like to come to Hogsmeade with me next week? I mean, we won't be able to do the other stuff people do together like going to Madam Puddifoot's or the Three Broonsticks but I've got an invisibility cloak and we could slip off and have a picnic or something…it wouldn't be a date, I mean, you're friends with Creevey and I'm friends with Blaise and–" He felt he would ramble on forever if she didn't stop him.
"I'll think about it." She said calmly, as if his erratic behavior was nothing wrong at all.
He didn't wait any longer for her response. He didn't want to admit to her his almost certain future with the Dark Lord. He didn't want her to know about his past, afraid she would be ashamed of him, or ashamed for him. He would just get Blaise's question out Ginny and be done with her. The girl would question him, making his loyalty waver. That would be dangerous for him, and for her.
Back in the library, tucked into a corner were a clutch of observers. 4 shadows were cast by the fire: 3 huddled together, whispering, and 1 in silent fury.
~~~~~
Adie: I don't mind that you brought up the first chapter, in fact it's very flattering that you could keep reading and not be bored.
SicDreamsInc: Thanks for being honest ::wink::. And you got what you asked for, I hope.
Ennui: Thank ye, me girl.
To all others who read this: I like to know what you think so please review. It really boosts my ego to have lots of reviews and motivates me to write faster. But thanks for barreling through this with me, and don't worry, I've still got plenty of ideas floating around in me 'ead. Shieh Shieh. (Chinese for Thank You)