Predators of the Night

Predators of the Night

No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose

To wage against the enmity o'th'air;

To be a comrade with the wolf and owl -

King Lear

Act 2 Scene 4

The light is golden around the door, flickering firelight and tiny twinkling fairies creating a welcoming haze that spreads out onto the veranda. Several guests stand there, dressed in rich and gorgeous fabrics: silk, satins, and velvets swirling around their rich and gorgeous bodies. Champagne glasses clink and voices rise in laughter. Somewhere in the background music plays, drifting through the air like a tantalising hint of perfection. We are beautiful it whispers, come be beautiful too. The strains of the melody float out across the dark lawn, away from the people, away from the smiles that say we belong, away and out into the garden.

The light is silver here. Cold, moonlight silver. Tall pines and monkey puzzle trees loom over the grass, sinister and dark. Curving topiary stags and cockerels guard the edge of the lawn, lurking, watching, alone. But none of the guests look out beyond the white, stone balustrade. Their energy in concentrated inward, beyond the heavy ivory and scarlet drapes of the French windows that form a frame around the view of the magnificent hall, the roaring fire, the talented musicians and the gracious, beautiful hostess.

Narcissa Malfoy is wearing a floor length champagne-golden gown which accents her slender waist and long legs. She is, in Millicent's mind, the picture of elegance, the picture of everything Millicent herself is not. Rich, successful, happy, beautiful, married to one of the most notorious and handsome wizards of current times, everything Millicent wished she herself could be. Narcissa is standing with her back to the fire, the rosy flames dancing behind her, making her white-blonde hair gleam. She has a smile on her perfect face, her claret lips are parted to show her pearly teeth. From where she stands, Millicent watches Narcissa cross the oriental rug and link her arm with that of her son drawing him into her conversation with two elegantly tall witches and a grey-haired wizard with a narrow, curling moustache. Draco is wearing black dress robes, fastened with a silver cord at his throat. He looks bored, but he is being charming. Only someone who knows his moods as well as Millicent does, would know what emotion is being concealed behind that flawless, charismatic façade. But Millicent knows, it is in the way he has his hands clasped in front of him, the tilt of his head that appears to be intent fascination with the words of the titian-haired beauty in front of him, she doesn't even have to see his eyes, smooth grey stones, to know. Narcissa knows too, she is afraid he will say something improper, to shock the guests, simply for his amusement. She is standing with her husband now, but watching Draco out of the corner of her eyes.

It pleases Millicent immensely to see that Narcissa is not perfect. That she has worries. That Draco is the cause of those worries is only the sweeter pleasure. Draco. Perfect, beautiful, infuriating Draco. Untouchable Draco. Untouchable even to his mother it appears. Narcissa can take his arm and introduce him to the high society of Voldemort's cause, but she cannot control his words and actions. Through his years at Hogwarts he has become his own person, not the puppetshe wanted him to be. Now, in the spring of his final year, he has been initiated into the company of Death Eaters. The Dark Mark branded into his forearm, and now the celebratory party. Millicent knows that her father, one of Lucius's strongest supporters, is thrilled with young Malfoy's spirit. Lucius himself has encouraged his son's independent thought at the same time as cultivating his charm. Narcissa though, fears for her son. Fears his independence will make him rebellious and disobedient: which would mean death. Millicent understands both sentiments. Draco would not be half as interesting if he was the obedient Death Eater that Narcissa has wished for; his appeal would be diminished to that of Marcus Nott and Blaise Zabini: handsome, charismatic and evil, but bland.

With Draco, the appeal is danger, unpredictability. It is also why he is so highly favoured by the Dark Lord. He has more than intelligence; he has imagination and initiative. Like his father.

Millicent cannot see Lucius from where she is standing. She can only see his sleeve, his arm draped casually but possessively around his glamorous wife, but the sweep of curtain blocks the rest of him from her view. It is a pity. Millicent likes to watch Lucius, the way the Dark Wizards cluster around him like paltry moths to a gleaming flame, allowed to flourish before they are scorched. And scorched they will be. Lucius is possessively proud of his position at Voldemort's right hand. A position he will selfishly guard for his son, when he is eventually ready to relinquish it.

Millicent shivers. The air is cold where she is standing. The hall looks warm and she could cross the damp lawn and climb the marble steps into that golden light. She could belong too. For a moment it is tempting. Pansy and Blaise are standing on the veranda near the door, his brown curls mixing with her black tresses. Millicent could join them. But it is more interesting to remain where she is, in the shadow of the trees, watching the endless flow of people, the groups forming and reforming like coalescing amoebae. She can see the lines of politics being spun, can see the hidden agendas that each one of these beautiful guests has. Millicent likes wicked people, not only has she grown up among them, but she has discovered that they are more interesting. They are out for themselves - ambition and self-promotion are everything. Millicent is not confident, she knows that she does not shine. She is not beautiful like Pansy, or clever like Blaise. She keeps to the fringe of the group and she watches, as she is doing now. And she learns by observing. She knows that the powerful ebony-haired wizard in the forest green robes, who is talking to her father, is sleeping with the red head, who is still engaging Draco's feigned interest. She knows that Goyle Sr. is about to be promoted to a higher position, the position that Pansy's father wants. She also knows that this will cause friction between Pansy and Blaise, as it is Mr Zabini who made this decision. Millicent looks back at the couple on the veranda. They look so cosy, it gives Millicent a thrill in her veins to know their happiness will not last. It is a selfish feeling, she realises this. But why should they have what she does not have?

As Draco walks out onto the veranda, Blaise and Pansy move slowly apart and Millicent eases herself further back into the shadow. His hair gleams in the light from the door and casts angular shadows on his face, accenting his high cheekbones. He looks like he could have been cast in silver, flawless and stunning. He greets several witches and wizards with his charming smile as he crosses over to his schoolmates.

"Oh, Blaise," he drawls with a sardonic smile. "I'm sorry to have interrupted such a poignant moment, but I'm going to steal Pansy away from you for just a little while." Blaise opens his mouth, perhaps to object, but Pansy is already walking away from him, holding onto Draco's arm, an adoring smile on her face.

Millicent feels sick. She can't watch the tender way Draco puts his arm around Pansy's slender waist, his hand sliding inside the emerald silk of her dress to touch her skin. As they pass through the French doors and disappear from sight beyond the heavy curtains, Blaise's hands ball into fists and he aggressively pounds the marble balustrade, glaring out into the garden. Millicent wills him to go after the couple. Why is he just standing there letting Draco take what he wants? She feels like screaming.

Blaise turns his back to her and crosses the veranda to where some other guests are standing, a false smile adorning his face. They have all seen what happened but it is not spoken of. In this society it never is. It is understood: The Malfoys take what they want and walk away.

Millicent cannot stand and watch much longer. It seems pointless now that Draco is gone, politics between the other ruling houses lose their appeal when there is no chance that Draco might join a conversation to argue his view. She turns her back on the room bathed in the golden light that spills out into the night, and walks into the trees.

Strangely it is not cold. Her arms are bare in the deep red velvet gown she chose to wear. She wonders miserably why she bothered to dress in it, it only reveals the white flab of her upper arms. It's not as if Draco would ever give her a second glance, not with all the stunningly beautiful witches in his house desperate to get into his trousers. It's not as if she would even have stayed in the party long enough even for him to see her - earlier, as soon as she had got the chance, she had slipped away through the curtains and into the Malfoys' familiar garden. She wonders how many parties she has spent in these grounds, away from the crowd.

Her feet have taken her along a familiar route through the mauve rhododendrons and sculptural privet. Over her head arch oak and sycamore, black against the midnight sky. Tiny silver stars are sprinkled like glitter across an indigo canvas and there is a low moon, dark and shrouded in wispy clouds.

"Lumos," Millicent whispers, careful not to disturb the heavy silence. Where she walks the trees are becoming more dense, more frequently evergreen and consequently it is getting darker. Somewhere ahead, there is a clearing with a pool and this is where Millicent heads. Her feet, in their slipper-like shoes, hardly make a sound on the soft, rotten leaves. The moon emerges from its swathes, bathing the trees in silver. Ahead Millicent can see something moving among the purple shadows. She pauses, her breath catching in her throat. From between two pines emerges an ugly, smooth figure, like a hairless, deformed badger. Millicent remains where she is, watching. It is said to be lucky to catch a Mooncalf dancing. The ungainly creature in front of Millicent swings its head from side to side, peering around with its bulbous eyes as if to check that it is alone. It doesn't see the girl where she stands on the path. In one fluid movement it pulls itself erect on its oversized hind feet and after a moments pause begins to sway as if to silent music. Its ungainly movement on all fours is forgotten as it swirls and spins in an intricate pattern between the trees, its spindly legs curled then extended then curled again. Millicent finds a smile growing on her face. Unconscious of its audience, the Mooncalf celebrates the full moon in its own graceful way. It is only after her legs begin to go stiff from remaining still so long that Millicent notices that she is not the only spectator to this elegant pre-mating ritual. Sitting on a fallen branch across the clearing from her, as motionless as she is, sits another, sturdier Mooncalf. Almost at the same moment Millicent sees it, so does the dancer. It pauses, the drops to all fours and vanishes into a nearby fern. Almost instantaneously the moon goes behind a cloud and the garden is plunged into darkness. The light from Millicent's wand had faded after she stopped maintaining the spell, so she casts the charm again. White light floods around her, but the mooncalves are gone.

She is barely ten feet from her original destination. The grassy clearing is a favourite picnic spot in the summer, the shallow pool is large enough to swim in but too small to be a proper lake. Tonight it stretches away like black glass, reflecting the stars like glitter cast across navy velvet. A worn path winds its way around the pool and back into the trees on the other side, passing by a small, moss-covered bench and a hammock slung between two of the larger trees. Millicent sits on the bench, propping her wand, which is still radiating light, against one of the legs. She has never really examined the bench before, although it is a regular haunt of hers. Carved into the stone is the sinuous form of a serpent. Of course, she thinks, what else would it be?

She lies down inelegantly on the stone seat, propping her chin on her hand so that her head is raised high enough to see her reflection in the still water. She sees Millicent looking back at her.

She looks as she always does. The same round cheeks that her mother tells her is still puppy fat. The same lank, straw-coloured hair, falling out of the elegant top-knot she has tried to charm it into. The same big, moist, brown eyes. Millicent would give anything to have distinctive eyes, searing blue like Blaise, sparkling emerald like Harry, dark and mysterious like Pansy or intense grey like Draco; but her eyes remained bland brown. Not even attractively hazel.

And her skin is too white, with a splattering of freckles across her nose and shoulders like dirt that she could never quite wash off. At least I have a full bosom, she thought, seeing where her breasts pressed against her arm in her reflection. And an equally huge bottom to mirror them, she sighs . She doesn't want to be thin - not skeletal like those Patil girls, but slender like Pansy or Hermione would have been nice.

Chunky describes her best. Ample. I'm not fat, she tells herself. Not like Carol Moon or Amy Best. I'm just bigger than I would ideally chose to be. But even if she was slim as Ginny Weasley, she would never be pretty. Her nose is flat and her eyes too wide spaced. She frowns at her reflection. Then smiles. I have nice lips.

The moon comes back out again and something in Millicent snaps. Some wild and irrational part of her says who cares if you don't like the way you look - nobody else is looking at you anyway - you might as well enjoy yourself. She pushes herself onto her feet and runs across the grass waving her arms. Moonlight madness she thinks, allowing herself to twirl with her arms outstretched, absorbing the moonbeams. I am mooncalf, dancing in the trees. Spin and skip and twist and leap. There is no music but Millicent doesn't need it. She feels amazingly light on her feet. She feels graceful. She feels beautiful. For a fleeting second she wishes she could do this on the dance floor in that great, golden hall. The thought makes her laugh out loud, breaking the silence. It sounds wonderful. She begins to sing to herself, half humming, half whispering the words. She moves to the sound, unconsciously throwing aside her timidity and letting herself be free. I can fly. I can be beautiful too. Finally she collapses forward, and rests her arms on the bench, her breath coming in ragged gasps interspersed with laughter. I cant believe I did that! The face of her reflection now looks pink and healthy.

"I didn't know you could dance."

The face of her reflection drains of all colour and becomes a pale orb, a grey reflection of the silver moon.

She knows that dry voice. She wants to curl up and die. "Draco." She turns to face him with her chin held high, to face down his taunting. It doesn't come.

They stand facing one another for an endless second. His mouth twists into a sardonic smile. "I meant it, Bulstrode, You actually looked graceful."

He crosses the grass. "What are you doing out here anyway? Why did you leave the fun?"

"I was having fun out here."

He holds up his hands in mock innocence. "Hey. I wasn't criticizing. After all I'm out here too aren't I? We all need to get away sometimes. All those people demanding attention." He laughs, but it has a hollow ring which she thinks he did not intend

"Not a problem I have." She replies coldly.

His eyebrows raise with a smile and he flings himself carelessly into the hammock. How did he know that was there? If that had been me I would have missed and ended up in a pile on the floor. I suppose it is his garden.

As if in answer he speaks. "This is my favourite part of the grounds. So peaceful." He links his fingers behind his head, his eyes still intent on Millicent. She cannot bear his scrutiny and turns away to sit on the bench facing the water. Walk away her mind tells her. Don't stay and let him poke fun at you. But she stays. How often did she get the chance to be alone with Draco Malfoy? And besides he hasn't started poking fun yet...

Now that she is no longer dancing the air felt cold and she wraps her arms around herself, feeling her skin pimple under her fingers. Somewhere in the grounds a fox screeches. Neither of the people comment. I won't speak until he does Millicent promised herself. I won't let him make a fool of me.

Draco lies in silence. So silent that Millicent wonders if he is still there. After a few minutes she turns slightly so that she can see him out of the corner of her eye. He is still watching her, his perfect face intent, but unreadable. His eyes travel down over her body and Millicent is painfully aware of every inch as if he is touching her. Her hair, now mostly loose and unkempt; her eyes, pretending to look away; her wide, pale shoulders where they rise from her crimson gown; her chin casting mauve shadows into the valley between her breasts; her arms, crossed across her chest; her waist, not slender; her ample thighs; her white ankles; her slippered feet.

"Are you cold?" There is no concern in his voice, but no malice either. Unsure if he is taunting her for wearing a sleeveless dress in April, she nods cautiously. "Come here."

She crosses the cold grass and looks down at him. He is all black and silver, from his well-groomed hair and his expressionless eyes down his black clad body to his black and silver boots. His robes have parted, probably when he flung himself into the hammock and she can see his black, silk shirt and tailored trousers underneath.

He eases himself over and watches her. An impish thought dances into her head. I wonder if he wears black, silk underwear too?

He frowns at the smile she cannot suppress. "I'm inviting you to lie down," he says. "Laughter is not a reaction I'm used to."

Millicent is shocked. The invitation has passed her completely. Never in her wildest dreams... well, never in any realistic kind of dream...

"Do you not find me attractive?" he asks.

Millicent is amazed to hear the hurt in his voice. "No, no...I... Of course, I find you attractive..."

His warm smile ignites something inside her. Amazed at her own poise, she settles herself beside him. He wraps his arm comfortably around her, including her in the warmth of his black, wool cloak. "That's better," he murmurs into her hair with a sigh. "For an instant there I thought you were going to reject me."

She ignores the arrogance of this statement. Oh God! Draco Malfoy has his arm around me. I am alone and in Draco's arms. Oh my God! She shuts her eyes and wills her body to stop trembling. Maybe he will think she is shivering from the cold.

Shutting her eyes makes it worse. She feels less in control of the situation, and daydreams begin to haunt her. She can feel her body responding to the feel of his chest against her shoulder, his hips against her back, his arm around her waist, his lips on her neck. His lips on her neck.

Oh God! Her body, disengaged from her brain, reacts without orders. She turns her head and his lips are on hers.

Surprisingly, there are no fireworks. Heavenly hosts do not begin to sing. But Millicent thinks they ought to. Teasingly, Draco runs the tip of his tongue across her lower lip, before sliding it between her teeth and into her mouth. At first Millicent can't even react, but as his tongue begins to caress hers she responds automatically, catching his tongue and following it back into his mouth.

Draco shifts his weight to pull her against him, easing both his arms around her, without breaking the kiss. If anything he deepens the kiss. I'm kissing Draco Malfoy. More than that - Draco Malfoy is kissing ME! He pulls away a tiny bit, so that his lips are barely grazing hers. "No," she whimpers before she can stop herself. Shit. Now he's going to laugh at me. But instead he seals his mouth back over hers, pulling her even closer to him, his hands resting on her behind, holding her hips pressed against his.

Millicent cannot breathe and when Draco pulls his lips away for the second time she gasps for air, feeling suddenly bereft again. His warm lips trace the line of her jaw and touch the soft skin below her ear. She lets out a soft moan and feels Draco smile, his lips brushing her neck.

He tilts his head back to look at her. The moon has gone, and any light from her wand had faded long ago as she had hardly been concentrating on maintaining the spell. She can make out the planes of his face, white against his dark clothes, and his pale, silver eyes, meeting hers. Gingerly, she leans forward to bridge the gap between them and kisses him. She knows this was different, she was the one initiating it and he might push her away. Please... For a split second she is afraid he will not respond, and then he parts his lips and allows her tongue to find his once more.

At once she is aware that the balance has been subtly changed. This kiss is more intense, more urgent than before. Draco had been casually exploring her mouth, now he is forcing his lips against hers, his breathing deepening as hers does. Millicent is amazed. He appears to want this as desperately as she does. He makes no effort to stop her as she slides her hands inside his robes, feeling his warm skin through the thin black silk of his shirt. One of his hands slides up to support the back of her neck as he kisses her. The other rests on her hip, holding her against him. Suddenly it is important to have less clothing between them and Millicent's fingers struggle with the buttons of his shirt as he unfastens the back of her dress and pushes it down to her waist so her bare chest rests against his, ripping the fabric in the process.

By rights his hands should be cold, it is only April, but Millicent is glad they are not. What the hell are we doing? Her mind seems disconnected from her body and is floating somewhere above in the purple and grey trees. This is Draco. I can't believe this. Before a casual touch of the hand was enough to send shivers down her spine, and now those same hands were exploring her body, his lips caressing her breasts, his breathing heavy because of her. He actually wants me. She finds it difficult to believe that she has permission to touch Draco, to twine her fingers in his hair, to run her hands across his chest. And that her touch can cause such a reaction. He wants me as much as I want him. Draco's hand has dropped below her waist and is resting between her legs, touching her through the heavy velvet. This is it - I pull away now or I go through with this.

Briefly she presses herself against him in an agony of indecision. She can feel his erection pressing into her thigh and unconsciously her hand reaches for his belt. He sighs in relief, as if he had known her indecision, then the sigh becomes a moan as her hand slides inside his boxers. She smiles at the discovery that he does wear silk underwear.

"Are you laughing?" he murmurs against her throat.

"No......" she catches his tongue with her lips, stopping him from talking.

When he frees himself enough to speak he continues, "I'll teach you to laugh at me." His voice is deep and threateningly sexy. Millicent cannot suppress another snort which he echoes, laughing against her mouth. Then he shifts his weight, setting the hammock swinging and pinning her under him. Her body responds to his touch and she gasps as he pushes up her long skirt and removes her underwear with an experienced flick. "Now you are mine," he whispers.

Yes, Oh my God...

Somewhere in the trees an owl screeches to its mate, swooping low to catch a shrew.

The moon resurfaces from behind the clouds, bathing the garden in molten silver. Neither Draco nor Millicent notice.

A fox returns to its den carrying the carcass of a thrush.

Millicent sighs, warm in Draco's encircling arms and on the verge of sleep. She has never been more comfortable she tells herself. That is a lie. Her legs are dead where he is lying on them. I hurt all over. She moves gently, trying not to swing the hammock, to disturb Draco. His words, the imprint of his body against hers, inside hers, is seared into her memory. She breathes his name silently, and as if he hears he lifts his head. He is not asleep. His eyes lock with hers and she shudders. There is none of the gentle kindness, nor the ardent passion now. He has closed the door to his emotions again and his expression is unreadable. Oh Draco.......

He disentangles himself from her without a word, rising and rebuttoning his shirt, gathering his robes from where they have fallen. He still looks prefect. How are his clothes not even rumpled? He looks down at her, but does not even move to recover the breasts that his head had rested on. He looks away, out across the dark pond; pulls on his boots and walks up the path.

At her call he pauses at the fringe of the trees.

He looks back briefly. Oh Draco...... please don't just walk away. At least acknowledge me, acknowledge the time we have spent together. No Draco....

"Why did you do that?" She is amazed at the control in her voice. He is a Malfoy. Malfoys take what they want and walk away.

"Because I can."

He walks away towards his perfect house, his perfectly tailored clothes embracing his perfect body, the moonlight on his perfect hair; leaving her with a torn dress and shattered dreams.