Anthracite

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"So, you and Samson Cohen," Miranda says dreamily.

"I wouldn't say that we're an item yet."

Her heart-shaped face is buried in a book, preventing me from seeing her expression. I can only imagine the curve of her far-apart eyes. She is painting her nails while reading for History of Magic, splayed out on her bed. Miranda is only person I've ever met that takes an interest in history. She flips a page absently and hums to herself, all while blowing on her nails.

"He is quite good looking though," my other roommate, Daisy Harkiss, supplies from her corner of the room. "I hear he plays in a band."

"He does," I confirm, unhappy at being the subject of discussion. The headboard is stiff and uncomfortable, and I sit up to relieve my aching back. Daisy pushes her thick glasses up and bends closer to her essay. I love her to pieces, but Daisy is one of those bookworms that is never going to realize there's more to life than homework.

"What's their name?" she asks.

"Lake Effect Lad," Miranda answers almost immediately. She is the center of Hogwarts gossip and never fails to lets us know of her superior reserves of useless trivia.

Daisy spins around from her desk with a disbelieving look.

"Like a Fat Lad? What kind of name is that?" she exclaims.

Miranda explodes in giggles and nearly topples her vial of red nail lacquer. She buries her head in her pillow in an attempt to stop laughing. To her defense, I'm laughing too. Daisy's long face is scrunched as she tries to figure out why we are both hysterical. "What?" she asks, wanting in on the joke.

"It's Lake Effect," Miranda enunciates clearly in-between giggles, "as in, the lake makes the winter deathly cold."

I hold a hand over my mouth to prevent further outbursts. Bella breaks out in laughter often, and I can safely say that it looks very undignified.

"Oh," Daisy says as she rolls her eyes. "That's a terrible name. You really ought to tell him to change it." She turns to me.

"I know," I concede.

We all go back to our studies, but are suddenly interrupted by a muffled splashing from the wall. All three of us simultaneously turn to see what has made the noise. Being underwater, nothing had every been to our window before. I look to Miranda, who then looks at Daisy, who in turn, looks back at me. We're at a loss for words. I shake my head as Daisy shuffles over to the dark window for a better look. She does not heed my warning as she raises her wand to the glass and whispers, "Lumos."

Miranda and I both hold our breaths as Daisy presses her face to the glass.

"Blimey, it's a fish," she finally announces.

"A fish?" Miranda says incredulously. The window taps again, and Daisy tilts her head to one side curiously.

"It's got a package. I think it's for you, Narcissa," she adds.

"What?" I stumble out of bed to see for myself. In the frosty window pane was, no doubt about it, a large grey fish. It's flat lips were opening and closing as it struggled to support a small black box. In small, glittering silver script was the note: "to N.B."

"Unbelievable," Miranda murmurs behind us.

I start gliding my hands over the window frame, looking for a way to let the fish in the room. I hoist myself onto Daisy's nightstand to feel the top the window. Sure enough, at the very top of the pane was a knob. "I'm going to open it," I say resolutely.

"But the water!" Daisy protests, clearing away her precious books from the stand.

Miranda shoves her aside and takes out her wand. "We're witches, aren't we?"

"Not yet. If it leaks, you can do whatever you'd like," I say. Everyone pauses before they each give me a nod. I twist the knob to the right and the metal frame creaks out an inch. So far so good, no water. I pull on the knob a bit and the glass suddenly crashes down with a thud. Daisy and Miranda both shriek as the pane falls toward them. Expecting rushing water, I jump down from the nightstand and toward the door.

To our surprise, water flooded in a prism above the window, but no more. Clear waves sloshed in the middle of the room. The big grey fish swam forward into the invisible tank. It's fins twitched as it reached the end of the water prism. It reminds me of the enchanted aquarium my father gave to Regulus for his birthday. Regulus was very excited, as he should have been; it was very expensive. His no good brother, on the other hand, made some snide comments about throwing things through the floating water.

"You've got to be kidding me," Daisy says as she touches the water in midair.

"Narcissa, take the package!"

I tentatively inch forward and reach into the water. It is painfully cold. I grab the box, and the fish swims backwards, releasing itself from its parcel. With a frantic tail wave, it slips back into the night water of the lake. I pull the box out of the water; it is no bigger than my palm.

"Step aside," Miranda commands as she levitates the window pane back into the wall, pushing water back out.

We're all silent for a few moments after the window has closed.

"Well, open it!"

I take the wet little box and strip off its silver ribbon. It springs open with a pop, and my eyes widen at its contents. Inside, on puffy white velvet, sat a silver ring with two square blue topaz stones, the ring from Witch Moda. It sparkles elegantly in the candle light.

Miranda gasps as she peers over at it. Daisy is similarly surprised and adjusts her glasses to see it clearer.

I take out a little note from the top and unfold it.

"Consider us even? — Lucius Malfoy."

The girls make scandalized noises. I instantly feel sick. He must have thought that I was looking at the ring in the magazine because I wanted it. My brow furrows and snap the box shut. I hand it over to Miranda for her to hold and move to my desk.

The bastard think he can buy me, as if I were some destitute commoner easily swayed by fortune. His wealth is neither impressive nor unique. This type of bribery is vulgar. It is the same intolerable arrogance with which my father had tried to arrange a marriage. I won't have this blatant disrespect. I sit at my desk and prepare to draft a reply.

"Narcissa, don't you want it? Put it on! It's beautiful!"

"No, I'm sending it back," I snap.

Miranda looks at the ring longingly and asks, "Can I keep it then? Ah, Lucius, the way he sent it was so romantic! A fish!"

"No!" I shout, "I'm sending it back!"

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I let my owl take the gift back to Malfoy in the morning and did not linger at breakfast to see him receive it. It's rude to gloat, and I won't stoop to his level. The event has left me in a rather foul mood. I was hardly present in class and Flitwick called me several times before I responded.

Everyone is leaving the classroom now, filing out while gossiping amongst themselves. Samson lingers at the door to wait for me. His long hair is blocking his eyes as usual.

"Hi," he says simply.

I give him a small smile and walk out of the door frame.

Samson's deep sandy voice is filled with concern. "You seem upset."

"It's a trifle." I shake my head to try to stop the subject.

He pulls my arm to steer me against the wall. "Meet me tonight by the kitchens. Eleven," he whispers.

"That's way past curfew."

"Trust me. Don't be late."

He gives a goofy smile and salutes before he leaves.

My heart pounds with every step he takes.

The rest of the day is a blur as I wait for eleven. I count down the minutes while sitting in the common room, writing my papers. I catch a glimpse of Malfoy walking past the couches but he avoids my eyes. Nine, ten, ten thirty, the hours seem to slow as I inch toward eleven. Never have I done something like this. I feel anxious that I am being so reckless, like I've stolen something and am waiting to be caught. But I can't say I'm not mad at myself for indulging in this impulse.

I meet Samson by the kitchens just as he ask, and he pulls me to a tiny painting, a still life. Using his wand, he taps the upper corner of the frame and the painting swings ajar. He pries the picture from the wall and gestures for me to go through it. The path behind the painting is narrow and dark.

Our silvery wandlight is barely enough to see the path ahead. Sensing my hesitation, Samson grabs my hand from behind and squeezes. It makes me feel better. The hall seems to shrink more and more until we are walking hunched over. Finally, at the end, we meet a small door that is no taller than waist height. Yellow light bleeds from its frame.

I look back at Samson, unsettled by the absurdity of such a small door. He merely grins back at me and encourages me to open it. I push the door open and step through it, careful not to hit my head.

Somehow, we've managed to get into the kitchens.

My chest holds my breath as I look out at the vast rows upon rows of ornate stone sinks and ovens.

"How did you find this?"

He emerges from the tiny door and shrugs. "Just tried every painting and door in the castle. Come on, let me make you something."

"You cook?" I ask, thoroughly surprised. I haven't the foggiest clue about how any food is made.

"Of course," he replies proudly. "And I will make us some crepes."

Pushing his hair out of his face, he inspects the kitchens and makes his way toward a large metal box against the wall. He opens it with his wand and levitates a cup of white powder out. Then, he proceeds to hunt around the large chamber for other ingredients.

I can only stand and watch as he mixes everything and pours it into a round skillet. The mixture is a slightly yellow concoction with a consistency similar to Draught of Hysteria. In the skillet, it instantly changes from opaque to translucent with a soft glow. I've never seen a crepe like this. It feels as though it could light up the dark.

It's fascinating how something so simple can be so complex. I'd never really taken a thought to the fact that our house-elf must do this every meal. Samson is accommodating and explains every step and every ingredient to me. I found the change of a clear and yellow egg into solid white over a fire to be especially fascinating magic. By his expression, I can tell his is amused that I know nothing about the culinary arts.

We sit on the numerous metallic carts while we eat. Samson is quite good at cooking. I could barely tell the difference between his dish and the ones the house-elves serve.

"I think I shall like to learn to cook," I tell him once I've finished my plate.

"Oh really."

"Yes."

I move to throw my plate away and he jumps off his cart to stop me.

"What are you doing! Don't throw that away!"

"But it's dirty, and there aren't supposed to be any dirty plates here. They'll know," I explain myself, feeling quite confident it was the right thing to do.

"But you can't just throw them away! We'll wash them. That's throwing money away. I'm a Jew; I care about these things!" he pulls the plate back with exaggerated outrage.

I look at him dumbly, confused at the notion of washing dishes and his strange words.

"What's a Jew?"

Samson looks mildly hesitant then sets both his plate and mine in one of the sinks and turns the water on. He raises the dishes with his wand so they can be rinsed under the running stream. Giving me the strangest look, he says, "A Jew, you know, of Jewish descent."

I shake my head, not comprehending.

"My great-grandad was a Muggleborn. In the Muggle world, his family was Jewish, a type of people. Sort of like how people have different color skin, but different."

I try my best to not show my disappointment that he was practically a half-blood. My father would be heartbroken, if he acknowledged me. "But you don't look any different," I venture.

Samson laughs and jumps back onto a cart.

"Well, I don't know too much about it. No one in my family does anymore, but my dad always says that it's something to be proud of—being a Jew. All I know is that regular Muggles don't like them very much, and Jews are very shrewed with their money, and we have very peculiar noses."

I laugh. What strange features to define people with!

He rolls himself around the sink by kicking the counters.

"I guess my family could be Jews too then. We don't like Muggles," I say. "And all we do is deal with money. And our noses," I pointed to my slightly up-turned nose, "are very distinct."

Samson smiled from ear to ear, his sunken eyes crinkling. With the dishes washed, he set everything back to its original place. We went through the miniature door back out to the castle halls and he insists on walking me back to the dungeons. On the way down, we narrowly missed Peeves who hurled just above us on the staircase.

Outside the Common Room, he casually gives me a kiss. I am so flustered that I can barely feel it.

"We'll make a fantastic cook out of you, just wait!" he whispers in my ear before he turns to leave.

I watch him go into the darkness, wishing he would run back and kiss me again so I can remember this time.

I yawn as I tread quieting into the Common Room.

To my alarm, the fire is still burning strong in the corner and Malfoy is passed out with his blond head on a pile of scattered parchment. So he does study, after all. Feeling daring and brave, I tip toe over and glance at the papers. They seem all be correspondences and not homework. I slide a small sheet out from under his pale hand.

"Mr. Nott, Please allow me the remainder of the school year to campaign for our Lord..."

Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Everyone speaks of them in hushed whispers, but no one dares to openly pledge themselves. He has good ideas, but there is something strange about this Dark Lord. It is very strategically brilliant, though, that Malfoy is working under him already.

I drop the parchment as my Prefect stirs. He looks haggard and worn.

Taking pity, I shake him awake so he may go to sleep in his bed. Malfoy blinks away his dream and frantically tries to conceal his papers from me.

"Breaking curfew, are we?" he reprimands bitterly as he puts on a tough face.

I extend a hand to him, and he eyes me suspiciously.

"Even?"

He stares at me for a minute before shaking my hand slowly. It is an awkward gesture made only more awkward by the lack of grace from his tired arms.

"Goodnight, Lucius."

"Goodnight, Narcissa."

His normally bright voice is frail and almost sad.

I briefly wonder if something has happened. But then again, I can't say I really care.

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Footnotes: From lake effect lad to Jews, all things once said by real people.