Voyeur
By
Aeriel Ravenna
Rating: PG-13(for slight sensual mention)
Summary: Voyeur: Definition 2 - An obsessive observer of sordid or sensational subjects. Draco watches a lazy evening of one Hermione Granger. One-shot.
A / N : This just popped out in me, really. I know, I should be working on Turning Draco's Coat, but what can I say? I don't really like this, but figured some feedback would be nice. Tell me what you think, please, and don't hold back!
Her feet dangle into the shallow depths of the water as she scribbles furiously on a sheet of parchment. They are tiny, I note—her feet, that is. Fine boned and small. I see her wriggling her toes playfully, allowing the water to skim over and under them.
What is this? That I, destined for higher things, dote on the toes of a creature of filth? Why would I, I who should be with people who will pamper and exult in my power and beauty, watch a mere plebian? I have better things to do, more worthy people to see. Yet, I am transfixed.
She blows a brown lock of hair out of her eyes. Brown, a color that no aristocratic woman would have grace her fine locks. No, brown was unacceptable, dull. They opt for rich blacks, light golden colors, deep reds, using any means possible to rid themselves of dullness.
Funny, how the brown doesn't look dull in the evening light. It seems almost three dimensional, with auburn and honey strands lacing their way through the wild, tangled (bushy, I remind myself,) mass of hair. Her curls are in disarray, as usual. They are puffy, frizzy, unkempt, but strangely refreshing. They look oddly soft, for their wildness.
She moves her face, as if looking up for inspiration. Her features fall into light. They are normal, even features. Her nose is straight and almost comically small, her lips rosy, the upper slightly too small for the fullness of the bottom lip. Her eyes are not large, but lashed darkly. The painted irises are the same rich cinnamon-honey mix as her hair. Her jaw line is strong, her cheekbones distinct—but that, of course, was her lack of nutrition, I assured myself. A thin scar threads its way under the prominent bone, no doubt from the battle a few months previous.
No, not beautiful. Merely—merely imperfect, and striking in being so. Her eyebrows furrow in thought and she sucks in her lower lip pensively. Attractively normal, as usual.
I see comprehension dawning upon her as if it was as tangible as a veil. Her face lights up, not in joy, but understanding, and she once more scribbles upon the thick paper. I suddenly have the urge to see what is on this paper, that it can give her such vibrancy. It is unfair that a scrap of paper should bring such light into such a being.
Whipping my wand out of my pocket, I mutter, "Accio Omnioculars," and hear the promising whoosh of wind as they soar into my outstretched hand. I put them to my eyes and fiddle with the knobs expertly—I have had many years of practice, what with all the Quidditch matches I've attended—until she comes into focus.
I can see her more closely than ever. I can see the gentle in-dip of her cupid's bow and the ragged line her lashes make. I can almost see the air that escapes her lips in a gentle sigh.
Oddly, I feel intrusive, somehow. Quickly I avert my attention to the paper. It is blotchily written in ruby-red ink, the letters carefully formed but smudged in her haste to force them out of her quill, which is a long, snow white feather, I note. On the paper is written botched lines of verse.
'I see you before me, a man and yet not.
You tenderly kiss my lips, a kiss that once made me
Drunk as wine. And yet, as a lush now accustomed
To the bottle, you fail to ignite the passion once
Initiated by only a glance.
World-weary, I enter the fray alone.
Even you know, and are chilled to the bone.
Who could have known the king would
Hang himself upon his own gilded throne-step?
You've seen too much and done too little.
Somehow, indeterminately, you've changed.
And not for the better, no.
Somehow, I loved you better for your naivety.
And so, alone I thread my own path.
It is better than to stay, and fear your new-found wrath.'
I admit, I never had pegged her for a poet. She seemed too logical, too earth-bound. Now, however, a lazy smile gracing her lips, perhaps I can believe.
Who is this poem about? I find myself wondering. Who? It was a well known fact that the two boys—not men, never men—were otherwise occupied with other children of their fancy. Could it be her sensational Quidditch player-cum-lover? I snort at my own sad pun.
But, no, it well established fact that he was shagging that snooty French Veela, Fleur. They suited each other perfectly.
Unbidden, my mind draws its own conclusions. 'Her ex is dating your ex. You must be compatible.' Of course, this is utter rubbish. My logical side tells me that this means we would dislike each other even more intensely—we had broken up with the other, had we not?
Banishing these thoughts from my head, I survey her again. She has put the parchment down and is biting her lip, as if trying to decide upon something. She gives a little shrug, which is lost on the still, solitary evening—except to me, of course. Squirming out of her robes, she deposits the bulky garment onto the rock on which she is perched. Underneath she is wearing the Hogwarts standard uniform—white button down blouse, striped tie, navy, pleated skirt. Almost shyly, she wriggles until she slips down the rock and into the cool lake.
I am most shocked. Little miss perfect, out for an evening swim in a dangerous lake? My, there were worse things in that lake than giant squids. I fight the urge to join her.
She dives down into the water, staying there a little too long. I begin to hold my breath. One, two, three. And she surfaces, face shimmering with water, hair slicked back and dripping. Her expression is exuberant and I realize she has been waiting to do this all afternoon. She splashes about tentatively, and reluctantly rises out of the dark depths.
I wonder why, if she is so happy there?
But then she lays herself onto the rock, and I am drawn to other details. Such as, the bulge her breasts make as they strain against the saturated fabric of her shirt when she leans over to grasp her hand. Or how her legs shine in the dim light, like wintry cream. Or how her hair, impossible long and tangled, trails behind her in a wild train.
Closing my eyes, I try to remind myself she is filth. But what is subtle beauty, if there is no one to admire it? Raised to observe aesthetical beauty, is it my fault that I see such things?
Her face as she lays on the rock is pristine. If most girls—women—were to rise from such a dip, makeup would be smeared most grossly down and across their faces. But then, I suppose she has never been most females.
For a minute, I entertain the idea of what would occur had she not have been dirty, tainted. Would I confront her? Court her? Despise her?
For a second, I contemplate going up to her anyway.
My whim is quickly dashed, however, and thank Salazar for that. A boy, with dark hair and a lightning bolt scar marring his forehead, arrives promptly behind her, and says something, as obvious by the moving of his lips, but I cannot hear. She jumps, startled, and then smiles, half-heartedly. More discourse, until he extends his hand to help her up and they leave, coolly.
I gaze at the rock, and note that the parchment is still there. She will probably want it—but why not? I aim my wand and whisper, "Accio Parchment." It flies into my hand.
It is not until I have reread her poetry that I notice that there is the slight, tell-tale bleeding of ink on the paper that indicates that something is written on the other side. Flipping over the parchment, strangely anxious, I see a single line of red writing.
'I know you see me.'
My heart plummets. Perhaps it is some artistic platitude?
-
However, hours later, when I sit at my dinner table, I know I am wrong when she turns slightly, and, almost imperceptibly, she winks at me.
Finis.