His eyes are on me. They never leave. I can feel them, even though I'm too scared to look back. They're tense. Emotionless. Beautiful. Yet I can't help wonder why he is looking at me. Why are his eyes following me? Why, when Isabella has so enthusiastically owled him every one of my fake love letters to him once a week? I try to breathe, but his gaze seems to take all movement away.
Ambrose is talking, waving his hands around wildly, but I can't seem to pay attention. I can't focus. Ambrose doesn't mind – he is the same. He puts his arm around my shoulders, leading me to the back of the train. I finally look at him and his grey eyes have narrowed. He's staring at Ambrose now, but he's not emotionless anymore. He's angry. He looks like he's tearing Ambrose apart mentally. And then they're on me again. Locked. I choke, but I don't notice. I can't blink. How can grey be such a beautiful shade?
"Lillian?" Ambrose worriedly passed his hand in front of her face. She blinked and looked up to him. Her expression was unreadable, a stark change from her usually expressive eyes. Ambrose frowned.
"Yes?" She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. The compartment door that Lillian was previously looking through snapped shut.
"Nothing. You just zoned out for a minute, that's all," he replied airily. The frown didn't leave his face, though. He knew Marcus Malfoy was in the compartment, with his friend Francis Zabini next to him. Ambrose didn't want to believe it, but he consciously knew that Lillian has not overlooked the other 6th year's handsome aristocratic looks and lean body. He had seen many girls from all the years look at Malfoy and swoon, but none have had their stares returned. And Malfoy was definitely returning Lillian's look. Malfoy was notoriously known for treating his girlfriends coldly and Ambrose did not want her to go through the same pain that he saw almost every new month.
They entered a compartment, the two Gryffindor chasers already in an enthusiastic discussion about the new Irish keeper, Janis Thomas. She had yet to let a goal past her and Ambrose plastered a dreamy grin on, trying to loosen up. He had plenty of time to worry about Lillian later.
My mother told me once that people believed Isaac Newton was the last magician. It seemed odd to me at the time – calling him a magician. I suppose wizard was too broad, since he was only concerned by alchemy. People stopped believing in magic after that.
She talks about Isaac Newton in her diary. It began July 24, 1997. It ended December 30, 1999. My father had given me the worn, leather bound book the day before I entered Hogwarts for my fourth year. He had told me I would understand everything and I won't hate my mother anymore after I read it. I haven't touched it since he gave it to me, but it is now the fifth day of school and it every minute makes the frail pages more appealing than Hogwarts: A History. My mother had pressed that into my hands before my father and I left. It was brand new and boring.
I stare at the diary, almost willing it to open and spill its secrets to me. A gust of wind blew into the room and the pages fluttered open. I blink and stand. I suppose if there was a god, that was their sign.
Hogwarts, 1997
Draco Malfoy leaned casually against the North window of the owlery, a folded piece of parchment hung loosely between his fingers. Despite his casual stance and disregard of the cold December winds, he looked spectacularly out of place amongst the feathered birds of night. Glassy eyes peered at him from all corners of the tall tower, curious as to why he was just standing there.
The calming silence was suddenly and rudely interrupted by the loud creak of the door opening.
"You're late, Potter," Draco drawled. He hardly looked agitated, but there was a certain amount of tenseness in his eyes.
"Apologies, Malfoy. Ginny needed some help with her Defense homework," Harry threw offhandedly, pulling his robes closer. He stared at Draco with wide eyes, wondering how the other boy could stand there with only a sweater and slacks to keep him warm.
"That's abso-fucking wonderful," Malfoy deadpanned. He really could care less about any plight, academic or not, that any Weasley was going through. He tossed the parchment to Harry. "I don't like waiting with a bunch of shitting owls – at all. Don't think I'll do it again."
Harry bit his tongue. Draco sneered and brushed past him, disappearing from sight. A moment later, Harry took a Hogwarts owl – Hedwig was hunting – and tied the parchment to its leg.
"Give it to Hermione in her room, okay? I'd rather not be there when she reads it." He let it go and watched it flutter into the darkness. He was too preoccupied with his thoughts to read what his former enemy had penned in his name.
Hogwarts, 1997
Hermione pet Crookshanks absently and eyed the letter sitting peacefully on her desk. It was unopened, untouched, and unwanted. A frown marred her face as she studied the ninth letter that a certain Harry Potter had sent her in the past two months. It was almost Christmas break and Hermione could hardly wait to leave the awkward situation that these amorous letters produced.
Perhaps it was in the back of her brain – the knowledge that Harry had not written the letters. She did not want to question him, nor did she have to. It was common knowledge that Harry was atrocious with words and could hardly string together a letter longer than a foot. Besides, the neat script handwriting was not something that could come from the all-action, adrenaline-seeking Harry she knew. To perfect such a penmanship required time and patience, something he sorely lacked.
Hermione frowned even more as the portrait to her room swung open. In stepped Ginny Weasley, sister of Ron Weasley, girlfriend to Blaise Zabini the Head Boy and advice giver extraordinaire. Perfect timing, Hermione mused. Ginny was the only other person besides the Head Boy who knew the password to her private Head Girl rooms.
"Don't frown, it causes wrinkles," was the first thing out of Ginny's mouth. "What's the problem?" Crookshanks stood and moved across the room to an armchair, conveniently taking up the space that she was about to sit in. Ginny glared at the cat and moved to the bed.
"It's the ninth one, Ginny," Hermione stated. She picked up the parchment and all but threw it at the other girl. "Doesn't he understand after I didn't reply to the other eight?" Ginny remained neutral, torn between her friendships to the two 7th years.
"Maybe he thinks you didn't get them," she offered lamely, knowing that Harry knew Hermione was receiving his letters but not replying.
"Maybe." Hermione buried herself into her pillows, clutching her old stuffed penguin to herself. She had never wanted Harry's romantic love, but perhaps it was not something that she had control over. It didn't help that a certain Draco Malfoy was haunting her steps for the past two months and the fact that she didn't mind. In all rights, she should've turned to face him after the first week and yelled at him until her voice was sore, but she didn't. She simply pretended to ignore him and went on her merry way.
Ginny stroked her friend's hair soothingly and watched as Hermione fought a losing war against sleep. She had dark bags under her eyes and her figure was entirely too skinny to be healthy. Something was wrong with Hermione and Ginny felt powerless.
My breath catches – my pulse quickens. Is this what happens to little girls that fancy themselves in love? I'm tempted to turn to Isabella and question her, but she is too busy staring at him to notice me. She has a smile on her lips that scares me and I keep still in my chair. The lights darken dramatically and the Great Hall is enshrouded with black. Several younger students scream and I clutch the edge of my chair.
I have never liked the darkness. A light reflects off his white blond hair and his face is the only thing visible. Looking at me. I begin to tremble, my knuckles glow white in the ethereal light coming from the charmed ceiling. I can't look away. He speaks and I can't pay attention to his words. I fold over in my seat but no one notices. No one is looking. All eyes are on him. And his eyes are on me. I feel like I'm dying.
Lillian hurried out of the Great Hall, pushing her way through the throngs of students discussing the production they just saw. She didn't want to hear anymore about it. Something about that play was off to her, but she had no right to criticize it. Perhaps it was the fact that it was a play about Lord Voldemort – the very man that practically sent both of her parents into insanity. Why would Professor Snape allow such a horrid story to be retold so soon?
Lillian burst outside and took deep breaths, trying to block out the scent of sweat and the feeling of so many people pressed against her. Hagrid's hut was visible from where she stood, but there were no lights shining from the small windows. He had gone to see the play as well. Lillian turned and made her way to the Quidditch pitch. She climbed the many stairs to the top of a tower, paying no mind to which one it was: it didn't matter to her.
She rested her head in her hands. Through her tumultuous, she tried to figure out why that play had bothered her so much. Rationally, there was no real answer to her questions. Lillian realized she simply wasn't strong enough to handle such a dark play. Obviously the first years could laugh and giggle at the appropriate parts and gasp at the scary parts and in the end, enjoy the production, but her – a fourth year – could not.
Strangely, water leaked out of her eyes, creating a foreign sensation. She sat up quickly and gasped. She was crying and the attempts to wipe away the traitorous tears were proving futile. She roughly pushed back some of her hair that was sticking to her cheeks from the tears. A sob broke through her lips and she closed her eyes. A deep breath and another sob, she couldn't take it anymore. She folded over and allowed herself to cry – for what? She didn't know.
"I'm sorry," a voice broke through her sobs. She jumped and spun around, falling off the bench in the process. She wiped her eyes and looked up from her position on the dirty floor. Standing above her was perhaps the reason why she was sitting in a Quidditch tower in the middle of November in only her uniform, no jacket, and crying. His grey eyes bore into hers.
"What?" Lillian stuttered, not bothering to get up. She was too scared to move – his presence was too strong, beautiful.
"I'm sorry if the show made you cry," he elaborated. A calloused hand reached down to help her up. She bit her lip and sniffed, the tears still refusing to stay inside. She accepted and allowed him to lead her to sit next to him.
"It wasn't the show," she mumbled, moving as far as possible without him noticing. He did notice, though, but he didn't show it. She couldn't look at him. She couldn't move. Why did he have to see her this way? So weak. Another bout of tears rushed through the gates. She angrily wiped them away as he remained silent for a moment.
"Yes it was. I saw you during the performance." He looked at his clasped hands, feeling slightly silly for chasing this girl out her. She obviously wanted nothing to do with him, but he couldn't stop. He had to see what was troubling her. He told himself he followed her outside because he was concerned about his performance – it was the first one – but he knew that wasn't true.
Truthfully, Marcus Malfoy didn't know why he followed her outside. He didn't know why he sought her out in the halls during the school days. He didn't know why he liked to watch her eat during the meals, his position at the Slytherin table giving him a perfect view of her. He didn't know anymore, but he knew he had to see her before the night ended. He knew this and Malfoys were not people that denied themselves things they needed or wanted. And subconsciously, Marcus knew he wanted her.
"It's nothing," Lillian replied. She looked around and realized that she was sitting in the Slytherin tower, sitting with the Slytherin team Seeker, sitting there crying and at a loss as to what to do.
"It's obviously something," he pressed. He tried to catch her eye but she refused to look at him.
"Why don't you mind your own business?" she breathed. He stiffened, but remained silent. She sniffed loudly and stood. "Please don't pretend you care." She had meant the last sentence to be for her ears only, but the silence of the Quidditch pitch carried the soft words to his.
"Who says I don't?" he demanded, anger flaring at her words. Why was he even bothering with a self-righteous girl like her?
"I..." she faltered and bit her lip. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that." She stood and tried to push past him, but he caught her arm.
"You're beautiful Lillian Potter," he whispered, his eyes widening. He hadn't expected to say that, but it was too late to take back his words. Besides, Malfoys never took back words. Everything they said they meant and he meant those words with his whole heart.
"Please stop," she choked out before wrenching her arm out of his grasp. He watched sadly as she stumbled towards the stairs and disappeared from his sight. With a sigh, Marcus Malfoy leaned back against the bench behind him and stared at the night sky. The stars were bright and mocking.
Sorry it took so long, but I was having a major blockage of creativeness. Well, anyway, here's an emotionally baggaged chapter for all the angst lovers.