Broken Shards of Draco

Chapter Two: Intertwine

They who love and hate to extreme

Roses thorns grey between

01/08/96

Draco Malfoy

And that was the last thing Draco could remember.

The mirror the boy had grabbed from the girl - even from his height, Draco could see clearly what it was. The silver engravings of roses and thorns, rusted at the tips, with a thorn broken off...it was his mirror: even Draco, Draco Lucius Xavier Dracognius-Desailly Malfoy, -had reeled both from the girl's death and the boy's nonchalance and the reality of such that he was stuck in someone's memory. Stuck in someone else's memory. The girl lay like a distorted oversized rag doll on the black marble floor, blond hair limply cushioning her head, slowing soaking up the blood - so much fresh fluid red blood- causing the strands to turn an unnatural burnished colour; but her blood-red robes seemed to welcome her blood in some morbid, sickening way...then it struck Draco that the robes were actually the uniform for Durmstrang...he had heard of killing but had never seen it...

And then the black closed in again, once again engulfing Draco, swallowing him into its uncomforting embrace...Draco could only think of the bile rising high up his throat closing his eyes, he thought he heard his father's voice not too far away ...

When Draco woke up the next morning, at 10.00 am, the mirror was no longer there.

~

01/08/96

Harry Potter

Harry stared at the plain white ceiling for the 149^th time that morning. He was quite sure that he could now memorise by heart each and every crack, and how each one led to another and another and another...

It was more than a year, and yet he was still hung up over Cedric's death. Obviously, he never talked about it to anyone; Ron, if anything, would only know to be superficially comforting, if not tactless, and Hermione would have probably given him a stack of self-help books and lectured him. Anyway, it wasn't quite the weepy, guilt-ridden kind of torture which Harry inflicted on Harry because of Cedric. In fact Harry wasn't quite sure that it was because of Cedric that he had become like this; it was just that after Cedric he had noticed this change in himself, and he had automatically linked it back to Cedric as the root source of the problem. After all, that happened in all the Muggle movies. Chronic depression because of overwhelming of guilt. So he acted (like all of them in the movies) as if Cedric's death no longer affected him, laughing and acting like he had all the time. It was easier, admittedly, when there were Ron and Hermione and Fred and George and Seamus and Dean and everyone else around; even the Dursleys had provided a certain comfort as with them he could channel his thoughts and feelings into anger. It created some kind of surreal and false but comfortably normal environment. But now Ron and Hermione were more interested with each other - as much as they would never admit it - and Fred and George were busily running their joke-shop business and Seamus was visiting Dean who was showing off West Ham and the rest of the EPL to him and the Dursleys were away on holiday. Even Sirius was off somewhere with Remus Lupin, and Hagrid had went to visit Charlie in Romania. Everyone else but he had a life, so now Harry was forced to confront his own self.

Actually, Harry did have a life. Used to, anyway. A life of chasing after Voldemort's various nefarious schemes and saving the world. And look what that life brought him into.

It was laughable, if Harry could remember to laugh on his own.

Harry turned over in bed, idly flipping a pencil, eyes flicking over to the Potions essay, only one sentence long so far. He admired, somewhat half-conscious, the slow swinging of the rope ladder to a tree house, belonging to the kid next door. Somehow when time passed as slowly and as sluggishly as this your brain slowed down as well and revelled in anything to waste time.

He tried to think of someone else. Cho. How was she?

Then Harry realised that the only reason why he would ask himself how Cho Chang was was because he had almost entirely tried to block her out from his mind in the first place. Harry couldn't meet her gaze, so he didn't try to. Every glimpse of her would remind himself of Cedric, and the loss of a person with perhaps the most illustrious future ahead of him. All because Harry, in a moment of stupid, thoughtless show of sportsmanship, had insisted they hold the fake trophy together.

Harry tried not to think that there had been a kind of vanity in his having wanted the both of them to hold the trophy together.

Harry tried not to think how his life was simply slipping through his fingers, and how thankful he was that Voldemort had chosen to virtually disappear after his comeback, because, had he returned in full force, Harry wouldn't have been able to put up much of a fight.

So this was how it felt like, to die slowly. Watching, waiting, and allowing yourself to turn cold.

So this was how it felt like, to feel bloody self-piteous.

Harry winced, as that thought swept harshly through his mind. He didn't want, somehow for some reason, to break this, anyway. Watching the world in a kind of mind-numbing grey had a certain sort of calming property to your nerves. Harry's nerves were always much too raw. Sixteen years of living in the same house as Petunia Evans did that to you.

He had heard that having raw nerves could get your heart to fail on you sooner than you think.

Harry turned over again, upsetting a bottle of ink accidentally. A stream of black flowed down the white bedspread. Normally Harry would have felt a jolt of something, anything, but today he just watched the ink dip itself into each thread.

One more month to Hogwarts.

~

Draco Malfoy and Idiot the Talking Diary

So. There. I. Knew. It. You. Were. Pulling. A FAST ONE ON ME AGAIN WEREN'T YOU??!!

I really...wrote in here at 2.00 am?

No, no...your ghost from the future did, and he told me to tell you that he was resigning from being your spirit.

He was getting sick of all that gel 'cos cobwebs got stuck to it too often.

OBVIOUSLY you wrote in here at 2.00 am!

But...I couldn't have possibly been...the mirror's gone.

Sure. And it disappeared in the silver goop from last night, I suppose?

I'll never believe a single word out of that falcon-feather quill of yours again. To think of the audacity of actually *gasp* lying to your own confidante! Me! Me, who you had so colloquially named Idiot! Me, who has so consistently and patiently and laboriously borne the brunt of such an idiotic name! I am insulted to the core essence of the fibres that make my spine.

Hmph.

I proceed to pout lusciously.

With what? The 'core essence of the fibres' that make your spine?

I deign not to answer or respond to such a low paraphrasing retort.

You did just 'deign to answer or respond to such' - an ingenious - 'paraphrasing retort'. And now I shall 'deign' to tell you that the mirror is freaking gone!

And so?

*raises eyebrow in eloquent and sophisticated manner to express this diary's very justified condescending stance towards this mundane and uninteresting topic*

*glances out of the window to remind this diary how the incinerator is very conveniently situated directly four or five storeys down*

Perhaps I should impress upon you the seriousness of this. Apparently, on the count that I had not actually went mad, which is virtually impossible considering, after all, that I am Draco Malfoy and am too perfect to go mad, when I got swallowed by that 'silver goop', as you so very eloquently put it, I witnessed a murder.

*dry disbelieving tone*

And the plot thickens, does it not?

I suppose there was this one cold, calculative killer - tall, dark and handsome for good measure - and the curvaceous, beautiful, unsuspecting victim, who put up a valiant fight, but, alas! Got stabbed by an elaborately decorated sword and fell to the floor, whilst her blood flowed like the Ganges River.

How did you know that that happened?

Oh, err...I don't know. Perhaps because I am so very smart?

Or perhaps because your lies are so perfectly see-through?

*rolls eyes*

Why can't you believe me for once?

Give me one good reason why I should.

Because you're my diary?

That's exploitation of my occupational status.

I can sue, you know.

I'll like to see you trying to sue when you're hundred feet down from here burning in the incinerator.

Besides, I entrusted you with all my schemes about Saint Potter, didn't I?

You mean, all the schemes that never worked?

Well...thinking about it, yes. *Checks archives* Actually, a grand total of 1568 mentions of Harry Potter in two years. You know, Draco, going off on this tangent for a while...

What?

Why don't you just admit that you like that poor boy?

Whaaat?!

You should be honest to yourself. Sexuality is something which you have to come clean with one of these days, should you find yourself and the Potter boy in a compromising situation...

...

All I want to say is, Draco, that no matter what (puffs up chest in an up-welling of choked-back emotion) I will always be there for you!

Even if the Potter boy rejects you! (Which is quite likely)...

I will always be there to provide a page for you to cry on!

I will always be there to understand...

To sympathise...

To commemorate...

To advise...

To -

Shut up.

You admit it! You are finally true to your own feelings and emotions! I have succeeded in my life-changing decisions-making assistance quota! You understand that you have been acting strangely and hallucinating (*darkly*although, even in the wizarding world, hallucinating is not a good thing) because of your innate longing for emotional and *blush* physical fulfilment in the Potter boy!

...

You are so off your rocker.

Of course I am! I am elated at my - and yours, too, of course - achievement! We have finally reached the pinnacle of understanding!

*Swoons and sighs in happiness* Can't you hear the birds chirping merrily outside? Can't you see the roses bloom? Can you not sense the violins playing in the distance? Isn't being in love a beautiful feeling, Drakey?

There are only crows cawing outside waiting for their own deaths when the falcons go out shortly.

But Drakey...

You know what? Never mind. I'll assume I'm going mad and so's the rest of the world.

Of course the world seems to go mad when you're in love! Love is what -

<At this point Idiot is slammed shut. >

~

15/08/96

Draco Malfoy

"Draco?" Lucius's voice came from across the length of the dining table - a good twenty feet away. Draco looked up from his plate, where he had been entertaining himself by charming each pea red (with splashes of gold here and there), pretending that they were Saint Potter in Quidditch robes and stabbing each and every one of them.

It provided a kind of psychological consolation.

"Yes Father?"

"Letter from Hogwarts for you. Came today." Replied Lucius Malfoy, himself not looking up to properly glanced at his son. He raised up a letter in one hand, at which Bounds the butler slid silently to his side, retrieved the letter, than slid silently down to Draco, who received the letter, and proceeded to open it.

Dear Mr. Draco Malfoy,

It is our pleasure to name you our new Head Boy for the next two years. You will receive the necessary instructions (and badge) regarding your promotion shortly.

Please be assured that this will not jeopardise your positions already as Seeker and Captain for the Slytherin Quidditch Team. Professor Snape has already vouched for your ability to keep in focus, amongst other things.

Have a nice holiday.

Yours faithfully,

Albus Dumbledore

Draco grinned.

Obviously, some people were still sane enough to recognise his talent.

~

01/09/96

Alexei Sergiovitch Romanov

Alexei followed Andreyev as they arrived by carriage at the looming castle of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, dragging her trunk along with her. Andreyev, the chatty, flirtatious and annoying youngish Charms professor at Durmstrang, was as usual already hooking up (or trying to) with the stern looking, ramrod straight woman ("Professor Minerva McGonagall. Professor Andreyev, Miss Philippe Morceau, I presume?"), whose deep-lined face turned to reveal an unsurprisingly severe tight bun of greying dark hair.

Alexei could already see the words Typical Very Strict Disciplinarian who Actually has a Heart of Gold and will Melt at the sight of Labrador Puppies forming across her scrunched up forehead. But as usual all Prof Andreyev could see was the fact that she was Female, Above Twenty.

Alexei decided that it was best to act as if she couldn't understand a word of English (or at least not the heavily accented kind that Andreyev was speaking in), and look absolutely besotted with the laces of her shoes. Poor McGonagall was starting to look absolutely fascinated with the cracks in the stone walls.

Alexei was more than thankful when McGonagall stopped, announcing their arrival at the Headmaster's office. At least she was thankful until McGonagall said, in her sharp, precise voice, the very secretive and very scandalous password of...

"Chocolate Frogs."

Chocolate. Frogs. Alexei decided that raising an eyebrow, at this point, was a far cry from being irrelevant.

So what were the houses' mascots called? Gryffindor Gumdrop? Hufflepuff Herring? Slytherin Strawberry? Ravenclaw Root Beer?

Sometimes, thought Alexei, as McGonagall led Andreyev and her up a spiral staircase that had risen from under a statue of a phoenix when McGonagall had muttered the password (Chocolate Frogs. Chocolate Frogs. Alexei couldn't get over it), it does not at all help that you have a very bored mind.

~

"Miss Morceau, if you will?" asked Dumbledore, the Headmaster - Alexei had long decided that she could see the words I am Santa Claus without a potbelly but I'm no blithering old Fool - I just act like one 'cos otherwise people will say that I'm a Show-off. Anyway, it's popular among the kids across his equally scrunched up forehead. They had already went through the vaguely-familiar length of formalities and such: school rules, school policies, about her portfolio, which apparently boasted that she was "absolutely excellent" in Potions, "very talented" in Arithmacy, "a Charm herself" in Charms - as usual, Andreyev was his corny self, "brilliant" at the Dark Arts, and "a wonder" as a Keeper for Quidditch.

Alexei had been trying very hard to keep her face straight. You would have thought that when the Durmstrang profs were so obviously and earnestly lying through the skin of their teeth, they would have at least have had the courtesy of warning her first. She felt very much like the back of a Muggle paperback, squashed across with charming reviews full of positive superlatives from all sorts of sources (whether heard or unheard of).

Anyway, it was apparently time for her to get "sorted". Alexei managed a polite smile to Dumbledore, nodding, and followed him with her eyes as he got up from his chair, walking across the room to rummage in a cobweb-covered cupboard.

Alexei wondered what he would excavate out of the relic. A moth-eaten stuffed howler monkey? A bag of mould-encrusted lemon sherbets? A human skull?

Ah. A floppy old cheesy-smelling leather hat. Alexei could hardly wait to see how it had anything to do with her sorting. What was Dumbledore going to do? Ask her to speak to it, and try to contact the spirit of the cow that had contributed its skin for its manufacture in the Netherworld?

"Why don't you try putting it on, Miss Morceau?" asked Dumbledore irrelevantly; irrelevantly considering that he dumped the disgusting crusted flaking thing onto Alexei's head just as he asked the question.

Alexei decided that the raising of both your eyebrows to your newest Headmaster wasn't exactly the best thing to do.

Hmm. Most intriguing, most intriguing. A voice sounded in her head. Alexei looked up, startled for a moment, but subsided in an unsurprised manner when she realized it was the hat speaking. Typical. She had for a while forgotten that every other magical thing around you probably was alive, although no one would ever explain how they managed to stay that way. Oh, actually, they do. They tell you that it's because it's enchanted.

And Alexei supposed she wouldn't have figured that out in a million years.

A rather cynical person, aren't you, Miss Morceau? Intelligent, yes. But most cynical.]Something against everyone, Miss Morceau?

Something against the disgusting crusted flaking thing on my head, thought Alexei.

Er...yes, Miss Morceau? Oh, so the blasted thing could hear what she was thinking. And why was Alexei not surprised?

Well. But you are a rather brave person, erm...Miss Morceau? Gryffindor could do you good. What do you think? Or perhaps Ravenclaw. Or maybe Slytherin...

That would be convenient.

Convenient, Miss Morceau? The hat queried. Well then...and what of Hufflepuff? Loyal, trusting...

Over-sensitive, crybaby-ish, immature, incompetent...

PERHAPS Hufflepuff would do you good, Miss Morceau, the hat had a sharp edge to its voice. Sound. Tone. Alexei decided that it did not quite matter.

Yes. Hufflepuff would do you good. What say you, Miss Mor -

Alexei at this point found it appropriate to send across some rather gruesome ways and scenarios of hat-torture in her mind, all of which basically wound up with the hat in a million gazillion tiny pieces, and mixed in goop given to pigs, among a variety of other animals, to feed on, should it have the audacity to sort her into Hufflepuff.

The hat hurriedly proceeded to announce, "Slytherin!"

~

01/09/96

Draco Malfoy

Draco walked up the stairs leading to the Great Hall as the Hogwarts house-elves took his things, albeit with a little difficulty - he had (or rather Bounds had, while Draco sat on his bed directing him) packed a good six trunks of belongings: one trunk for Hogwarts' required starched white shirts, one trunk for his suede and leather pants in black, dark green or grey, one trunk for his robes and scarves, one trunk for shoes, one trunk for T-shirts and any other clothes, and one trunk for his books.

He couldn't quite wear the same outfit within the same week after all, could he?

Professor Snape was waiting at the wings, as usual in his black robes and black shirt and black pants and black shoes with his black hair hanging greasily at the sides of his face. But Draco liked him. After all, he disliked Saint Pottyhead with equal vehemence, and that was reason enough to like anyone, in Draco's book.

"Professor Snape," Draco said in greeting, then, a smirk coming up his face, he pulled at his robes, which at the lapel, was pinned the Head Boy badge. Professor Snape sneered benignly (or at least as benignly as one could whilst smirking) in return.

"I see you've quite appreciated your promotion, Draco," he replied, then continued to add, "although as much as I would like to accompany you in soaking up the moment for all it is worth, I have to say that I require your meeting a new student amongst our ranks."

"A new student? First-year?"

"No, sixth-year. Transfer student, from Durmstrang." Snape frowned in an irritable manner. "Another with a less-than-consoling background. As if Potter wasn't enough."

Draco's eyebrows raised in question, "What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean that I am quite sure that she..." Snape paused, then shook his head, as if clearing the air. "Never mind that. Follow me." Then he turned abruptly, gliding off in another direction before Draco could ask any more questions.

"Her name," renewed Snape, as Draco caught up with him, "is Morceau. Philippe Morceau. Something about her parents wanting a boy, but don't ask me about such things; I never really listen. Half French, half-Russian, apparently. And also supposedly coming from a very powerful family."

"But I've never heard of that name."

"Precisely. But there always were those obscure old rich who disappeared somewhere during our Dark Lord's reign..." Snape trailed off, distractedly, quite unlike his characteristic manner.

"You are suspicious of her?" remarked Draco shrewdly.

"Perhaps." Snape answered obscurely, then dismissing the topic of conversation by turning the corner suddenly without any warning.

It was Draco's turn to frown - Snape rarely kept his thoughts regarding people away from him, or at least that was what Draco thought. Draco had always known that Snape was something of a double agent for Voldemort; still, he had always trusted Snape, and had taken it for granted that the trust was returned vice versa.

But now he wasn't quite so sure.

Following Snape, they rounded another corner as they approached Snape's office. The door was open; Draco could see a girl's silhouette in the corner, facing a bookshelf, her shadow bouncing off the walls, flickering in the light from the magical fire in the corner of the room. She turned around as Snape and Draco entered.

"Miss Philippe Morceau, please meet Draco Malfoy, Hogwart's newly-appointed Head Boy, and also our Quidditch team Seeker and Captain. Draco, Miss Philippe Morceau, from Durmstrang."

The girl was nothing spectacular; she had the typical straight slender frame and well-defined, delicate features of any near-aristocracy worth her salt, but other than that, she was not anything of a beauty. Besides her stark colouring - black hair, white skin - there was nothing vaguely arresting. When she looked up to acknowledge Draco, he was even more convinced of her normalcy and unimpressiveness - her grey eyes were dull and more concrete-coloured than anything, and the skin around her eyes were a powdery-looking grey, as if she never had enough sleep. Rather, she looked ready to collapse any moment.

Then before Draco could open his mouth in greeting, the grey eyes widened - from fear? But it couldn't possibly; why should she be fearful of Draco? But it wasn't from awe or admiration or anything vaguely like that (though Draco wouldn't have been surprised if it had been), it was more from surprise...

Then her eyes went back to its boring, half-lidded selves again, and she raised a hand to shake his.

"Nice to meet you." Her voice was curt, flat.

"Very nice to meet you too," replied Draco dryly, as he shook her hand, which was cold and hard.

"Well. Why don't you bring Miss Morceau around the school grounds, Draco? The train's not about to arrive until an hour later." Suggested Snape, who had an expression on his face which said clearly that he was fast losing patience with both teenagers and wanted them out so he could have the office to himself. Draco nodded, and turned on his heel, not bothering to check if the girl followed. He had already decided that he did not quite care.

Although when her eyes had widened - Draco pushed that uncompleted though aside; he very well wanted the façade that the world was still sane and mundane in his head.

~

Alexei Sergiovitch Romanov

Alexei followed the Malfoy boy, nodding as he showed off parts of Hogwarts to her - "And this," he pronounced in his prissy, snobbish manner, "is the Great Hall. We have our meals here; rather second-rate, most of time, except for the first dinner today, which is the only time the food will possibly do your stomach justice."

Draco. Malfoy. Mal foi; Dragon bad faith. Alexei would have decided that he was a poor kid, had not his attitude.

The resemblance was uncanny, although now that Alexei was walking next to him, she could tell that this boy was only around her height: Philippe Desailly had been a good head and a half taller than she had been. Two years ago, anyway. And the boy also had an annoying habit of smirking or sneering regardless of what he was talking about (must be a serious personality flaw)- and when he talked he rather had the tendency to add a few choice criticisms and personal gripes against whatever he was talking about.

Spoilt rich brat.

Alexei wondered how someone like him had managed to con his way into being Head Boy of this supposedly prestigious school, but then she remembered the old dingbat of a Headmaster, and decided that it couldn't have been too difficult on Malfoy's part.

But the white-blond hair, silver eyes, beautiful (although she gagged to think in such an adjective for Malfoy) white lashes...it was too much like Desailly. Somewhere inside her still reacted in an unexplainable way when she thought about Desailly, and Malfoy wasn't helping it. Alexei turned away.

Think. Think about how this Malfoy hick kid could possibly have access to data about all the other bums in this forsaken place. Think about how this Malfoy person would probably help her out for kicks, considering that he struck her to be someone who occasionally destroyed someone else's property just for the fun of doing so.

He was definitely going to be useful. Which meant that Alexei would have to play it his way - to get him on her side, so she would be able to use him later; and the best way to go about it would be as on the offensive as he was.

Because she suspected he would not respect someone otherwise.

"So, do you play Quidditch?" came Malfoy's voice from next to her, cutting her strategising, as they strolled into a huge Quidditch pitch, colourfully bannered stands in the various house colours surrounding the area.

"Yes...some, anyway." Replied Alexei, pulling herself back together.

"What position?"

"Keeper. 'Was reserve Seeker, as well, back at Durmstrang."

"Really? That's..." Malfoy's lip curled. "interesting."

"How so?"

"Our team needs a new Keeper. How convenient your arrival," came Malfoy's answer, a nasty smirk on his face, "if, of course, you can keep up with our team."

"Hasn't the Slytherin team been losing the Quidditch Cup these past years?" Alexei took the liberty to smirk back. Malfoy's ears turned a slight pink. "I should doubt that there will be much to keep up in the first place," Alexei paused significantly, "considering your standard."

Malfoy tilted his head to the side, as his eyes narrowed, studying Alexei with a decided amount of dislike. Alexei was beginning to enjoy this little conversation.

"Fancy yourself to be a professional, Morceau?" he said, quietly, sibilantly, "I never give chances, even for a fellow Slytherin."

"I wouldn't doubt that." Alexei stared back at him, retaining her laughter at his defensive reaction, keeping her face straight, not backing down. "Though I dare say you'll need more chances from me."

Malfoy started to open his mouth in retort, then shut it again, breaking her gaze, glancing down at his watch. Looking up but not looking at her, he said, "It's time to go. The feast's starting soon; I wouldn't want to miss the Sorting - certainly not for you."

"How friendly," returned Alexei, deciding that Malfoy definitely was not at all like Desailly.

~

Draco Malfoy

Draco lead Morceau to the Great Hall, where some students had already began filing in; he took his place at the end of the Slytherin Table, gesturing, in an impatient afterthought, to Morceau to take the place next to him, pasting another choice harsh expression on his face. Just to remind her that she had not rubbed him the right way.

"How come no one else from our table has arrived yet?" Morceau asked, ignoring the look on his face, as she started twiddling with a candle in front of her.

"Train's just arrived. I've been taking the family's flying horses for the past two years; they're faster and I wouldn't have to go to that Muggle station to get on the train."

"Someone has a thing against Muggles?" Morceau turned, looking somewhat amused.

"They're vermin." Draco said, "Along with the Mudbloods that are part of the other houses. Father says that they are the ruination of the school. I agree with him."

"And I suppose there must be some Mudbloods that our darling Malfoy is second to, considering how against them he is; why, Malfoy, do you have some insecurity problems with them?" Morceau's smile was innocent, but her eyes had lit up with a kind of sardonic pleasure, finally showing some sort of life inside them.

Draco wondered, angrily, whether it was just his brain which was overly transparent, or whether it was that everyone else had developed psychic abilities.

But at least he was spared answering Morceau as Blaise Zabini, Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy Parkinson, Adrian Pucey, Tracey Davis and the rest of the Slytherins arrived, and Morceau's attention was diverted.

~

24/01/89

Alexei, aged nine and attending her third year at her school, had never been much to bother about the "sideliners", so to speak, amongst her peers. If anything, she did not know much about them besides general information like their names; at the most the colour of their hair she could provide.

The day had started like any other, and was ending like any other. Alexei packed her books, dumping them carelessly into her backpack, waving and nodding and smiling goodbyes to the respective people who mattered around her, ignoring the others who didn't, unless they themselves bothered to make the first move of acknowledging her, at which Alexei found she should at least have the courtesy to force a polite smile. Not that she wanted to, but societal norms were things ingrained into children of the supposedly civilized world until it seemed blasphemous not to abide. Although Alexei, of course, wouldn't have been at that time thinking of it in such a profound sense. All she knew that you jolly well do so.

Anyway the sky was threatening: overcast with thick clouds, and unlike most of her luckier classmates whose families were well-off enough for them to have chauffeured rides home, or whom at least had mothers responsible enough to bother, Alexei had to walk home herself, and she had forgotten both raincoat and umbrella. Added on to the fact that she was far from in the mood for the mindless chatter about ridiculous television cartoons which weren't real. Cartoons with cartoon characters who didn't have to worry that their mothers had somehow crashed in the wrong bedroom with yet another man.

The darkened foretelling of a late rainy afternoon struck onto the dull wood and concrete of the corridors, reflecting her state of mind, as the last of the students trickled away, Alexei amongst them. Somehow the bobbing cheeriness of the rest of the pack, elated at being released from the captivity of school, eluded her, and she found that she was suddenly irritated by the high pitched laughter and petty arguments about identical barrettes which would be smoothed over in a matter of seconds, after which would never be remembered again until the next petty argument cropped up. The bubbling blur of clean, neatly pressed uniforms fitted on pretty young girls with perfectly-coiffed or pigtailed hair and perpetually bright smiles accompanied with shining innocent eyes ready to sparkle or fill with tears at the slightest provocation felt like an insult, as Alexei was sorely reminded of her own messily ironed pinafore, plain, undecorated straight black hair, over-aged grey eyes and closed, rested lips. Even if she had to face this seemingly alien community every school day and had already gotten somehow used to it, at the moment all Alexei could only think was that such qualities of her own, compared to theirs, screamed of negligence from the rest of the world.

She felt as if she were some kind of scab, a forgotten weed somehow uprooted and trapped in the midst of colourful, tender, greenhouse-bred flowers. It was an uncomfortable thought, and Alexei's nine-year-old mind didn't quite want to grasp it. Brows furrowed, she slipped her way out of the mass, deciding instead to use another passage down out of the school. Being surrounded with the positives of herself was fast becoming more stifling by the second. Alexei felt as if her breath was getting stuck in her throat.

Walking alone, alas, was still somehow small comfort. In an impulsive urge, all Alexei wanted to do was to break into a run and escape, though from what she wasn't quite sure. The nine-year-old vaguely guessed that she wanted to escape from having to be herself: only daughter of a nightmare of a beautiful, brainless want-wit of a mother; thief of almost-stale bread from the nearest bakeries - she had resorted to stealing for her food ever since it had occurred to her that she could, and would, as well, considering her mother did not seem to realize her daughter's presence, much less know enough to feed her; liar to the companies providing whatever electricity and other necessities, because her mother had a tendency to spend the extravagant relief checks from a faceless father solely on the purposes of updating her own closet; sore-thumb in a prestigious school full of peers who lived in dreamy womb-like luxuriance. Alexei wondered, sometimes, how she had even been sent there in the first place; she doubted there was any doing on her mother's part.

Alexei sighed, as she heard a small groan coming from not too far ahead of her. She continued walking, at present much too fatigued, for some reason, to head off in another direction. Besides, the low rumble of thunder in the distance reminded her of her need to rush home. Turning the corner, she came across a fellow classmate, one of those 'sideliners' - a Philippe Desailly. He was cowering in the corner, shaking, coughing with a vehemence which caught a fraction of Alexei's interest.

Then Alexei noticed that he was coughing out blood. Only then did she remember that Desailly had some sort of heart problem, something about having something missing somewhere in his heart. Something like that. Alexei never bothered to ask. Nobody did; even if they did, it was out of politeness, and whatever his reply would have been would have floated over their heads, and after his mouth stopped opening and closing in speech, the people he had been speaking to would paste a considerately sympathetic look on their face and convey some useless sentence of pretended care. Or at least that was what Alexei thought.

Desailly looked up, turning around and seeing Alexei. His eyes - they were blue-grey, noted Alexei, who had never bothered to realize that until now - were pleading, obviously asking for her help.

The sound of thunder crashed through the building. Alexei looked at her watch; 4.30 pm. She looked at Desailly, who had returned to coughing like a sick dog. She looked at her watch again - now 4.31. Desailly looked up. Alexei turned away, quickly, before Desailly could speak, near running down in the opposite direction. Down the stairs, round the corner. The main gate was still open; Alexei hurried towards it - and then the first drops of rain started staining the pale blue of her pinafore.

Stopping, a nagging voice, quite unknown to her, reminded her of Desailly. Alexei frowned harshly, then looked at her watch, tapping her foot. 4.34 pm. The rain started coming down in pellets. 4.35 pm. An unwelcome picture of Desailly flashed through her mind. 4.35 pm, 37 seconds.

Alexei turned around, back to the main building. Desailly had better been grateful.

~