Unforgivable

It's much more interesting watching someone when they don't know you're there. People are so unrestrained, so uninhibited when they are alone; especially the people with something to prove and a reputation to honour. The freedom of solace can be quite comforting. Studying that solace can tell you more about a person than all the years gone before.

The youngest Malfoy studies himself in his mirror, that look of concentration on his face which makes him look less like Lucius' pride and joy and more like a constipated rabbit. He doesn't see me yet.

So I watch. I watch as he tries to tie his now jaw-length hair into a black ribbon: A beautiful attempt to imitate his father. He fails miserably. Frustrated, he crushes it in the palm of his small hands.

"You really do look quite like him, Draco," I murmur sweetly. Startled, he jumps up and spins around. His face is ashen, almost grey; almost as grey as his father's eyes. He clearly did not expect to see me here.

"Granger," he says unevenly, revealing thick layers of panic and anxiety in his voice. He eyes the door, checking if anyone else was accompanying me. Or perhaps that is what he hoped. He feels around his waist for his wand holster and, to his great dismay, finds it empty.

"Hermione will do just fine," I tell him, sweeping forward and standing close to him. He does look quite beautiful for a male; his dress robes accentuate his figure nicely. They make him appear grander than he is.

His entire body is covered, leaving it all to the imagination. My imagination, however, is recalling where those curse scars are placed. My curse scars. I can not see any of the souvenirs I left on his flesh from years ago. It bothers me slightly, I have to say.

Re-clothing him in my mind, I notice a startling omission from his formal attire. One piece of the jigsaw remains unplaced; his bow tie lies around his shoulder untended to. "Draco, Draco," I sigh. He is so close to me I can feel his body involuntarily shudder.

I can smell the fear seeping through his pores.

I pull his bow tie tight around his neck and set about remedying this fault in his almost immaculate appearance. He swallows thickly, clearly not happy having me in such close proximity.

"What are you doing here?" he asks me in strangled voice.

"Don't worry, I'll play nicely," I reassure him, looping the tie through. My fingertips graze his neck and I can feel the blood simmering below the surface. Blood twice spilled by magic. I look into his cold, grey eyes, trying to discover if there is, in fact, a soul buried underneath all that silk and flesh.

I pull the tie tightly and admire my finesse.

"You have your father's eyes Draco. Not your mothers. I expected that you would have hers, for some reason," I tell him simply, brushing a long strand of white blond hair from his face.

"Why? Because he does" he snorts, separating the tie from his throat with two fingers.

"His eyes will soon be colder than yours," I smirk at him. I push him down to sit in the chair in front of his mirror. Unsurprisingly, he obeys. Fear and blood can do things to a man. "Now let's see what we can do about your hair. Can't have you being a disgrace to your mother and father. Not with all those important people down there. They've been asking where you were, Draco."

He sulks at his reflection as I tease my fingers through his soft, thick hair.

"Beautiful, beautiful," I murmur, staring back at him in the mirror, gently scraping his scalp. I don't know if it's their pure blood that allows the Malfoys their innate beauty or if it's the years of wealthy comfort. "Like Narcissa," I hiss in his ear. A shiver travels down in neck to the base of his being.

This boy in front of me, twenty four years old and not yet a man. I would like to dismantle this boy. Pull him down to his parts and discover him. Draco Malfoy; so much promise but still wound tight to his mothers apron strings. His love for her is palpable every time I mention her. He does want to be his father more than I think he realises. He is jealous of Lucius; Jealous of his place amongst the Death Eaters, jealous of his easy charm, jealous of the fact that Lucius so completely owns his mother.

One day Draco will kill Lucius, or die trying. This I am sure of.

"How did you even get here?" he asks my reflection moodily. "I know of everything you've done. But still... My father wouldn't allow a Mudblood--"

I pull his hair back sharply, forced his neck to bend over the chair. He shrieks and holds his head. Tears prick the corners of his eyes. He looks up at me, imploring for his release.

"That, Draco, is something I just won't tolerate," I tell him calmly. "You should be quite aware about my feelings on that word. Do you wish your pretty, pure blood spilled again or shall we continue this reunion of ours?"

"Sorry," he mutters, gritting his teeth through the pain. I yank his head back harder this time. "Sorry!" he yelps.

I smile. I believe he understands me. I slowly ease his head back up to position and resume fingering his locks with the same gentleness as before.

"Just so you are aware, Voldemort asked me here." I feel him shudder at the mere mention. I lean over him; aware his eyes would travel down my corset, and gently take the black ribbon from his fist. I smooth it out, trying to remove the creases. "I've spoken to him at great length recently. He seems very pleased with my efforts, or shall I say successes?" I smirk, rubbing the ribbon through my fingers.

"Great," Draco mutters, rolling his eyes discreetly.

"He is less so impressed with your effort. To clarify, that's your lack of effort."

I loop the black ribbon under his hair, admiring the beautiful contrast of the colours.

"Doesn't seem like I need to," Draco responds sullenly. "You're picking off your old friends one by one. Not much to do then, eh?"

I am amused at this. "My friends, yes."

"You killed my friend, so there doesn't seem any reason why you wouldn't start on your own lot," he mutters under his breath.

"Gregory Goyle." I let the memory of that day flow back to me. My first kill. The day I gave in and stopped pretending what and who I really was. "Come now, Draco, you and I know perfectly well that you don't have any friends: Goons, henchmen, but not friends. I don't know why you feel you need the brute strength of others as it doesn't seem like you're doing too badly."

He draws a deep breath as my hand travels down his bicep to his forearm where I know the Dark Mark is inked. He allows me to roll up his cuff to reveal this stain on his flesh. Just below it, I see my mark. One of the many curse scars that blemish his milky skin. I scrape my fingernail over the now shiny bump and dig in deep.

A strangled noise escapes his throat. He bites his lip and turns away. I ease my nail away as he sighs. I have reason to believe he quite enjoyed that.

"You know, you and my Aunt Bellatrix would get on well." He tries to be casual but his flesh is still stinging. At great pain, he avoids rubbing it knowing I'll assume it as a sign of weakness. That is something I know Draco fears: For his weaknesses to be publicly exposed.

"I believe we've met. I did like her. Passionate woman."

I lightly trace the outline of the skull and the serpent.

"Isn't it funny, Draco? You've never really had friends. Just subordinates. You were too good for them. Never fit in, just stood above them. And you get this Mark. And you think you finally belong. But you don't really. Because you're not good enough," I chuckle and show him my forearm. His brow furrows as he studies my blank skin.

"Where is it? How'd you get rid of it? Is there a spell?" he turns around and looks up at me seriously, firing these questions at me in rapid succession. "Can you show me?"

"I never got one, Draco," I say softly, looking at this boy curiously. Another stitch of Draco Malfoy comes undone. He's finally opened his eyes and seen what he is in the middle of. He knows what is expected of him on our side of this War. His conscience is either tugging at him or he is too weak to do what he must. He doesn't want to be Voldemort's puppet but he's too cowardly to tell his father. There is no where for him to turn so he continues to fall. Now this boy is groping desperately for a parachute inches from the ground, still tumbling down.

He can't go to Harry and his merry band of fools: They hate him and he has done nothing to deserve redemption. I know that some part of them would try to fix me. I suspect that I would even be welcomed back to 'rehabilitation' with open arms and a trusting heart. Ridiculous. Draco hasn't really done anything of note. He hasn't killed anyone. He certainly isn't the one striking down members of the Order like the hand of God. I have killed people they love; that I once loved. But still they would take me back gratefully. It is this that will be the death of Harry. He will never understand that he can not 'save' me.

They would accept me but turn away a confused, white haired child who hasn't even dreamt of the things I've done, let alone performed the acts himself. There is no inherent Dark in Draco. That Mark on his arm couldn't make it so.

"I haven't got one," I tell him, stroking his hair. "And not just because it's hardly the most aesthetically pleasing thing to smear on your skin. Understand: I don't need one. I had friends. I did fit in. And I was better than them. And look where it got me."

His face registers everything that I am saying and I know he hates me for it. I command respect from those so Dark he hasn't even heard of it. This white blond, Pureblood whipping boy.

I return my attention back to his ribbon, tying it neatly in a drooping bow. "There, beautiful," I purr, coming close to his ear. I look at us both in the mirror and smile at him. "I've changed my mind. You look more like your mother," I whisper, drawing my fingernail along his jaw. "She is beautiful... I wonder if you taste like her," I hiss, brushing my lips across his cheek. I smirk at his shocked reflection and turn towards the door, and to the party below.

"Come now, Draco," I taunt him, knowing the expression on his face before looking. "People are waiting."