The Dragon In Winter

i.

November 14.

The grounds are frozen. Anyone with an ounce of sense, or a sense of self-preservation, is inside next to a roaring fire. He gave up on both a long time ago. And the quiet out here is so inviting.

The cold earth crunches beneath his expensive boots. It sounds like bones breaking. Only, it echoes. Perturbed, he glances about, wondering who dares disturb his sanctuary.

At first he thinks he is hallucinating. This is far too beautiful to be real. A small, slight figure spins around in circles, snowflakes clinging to her hair an black cloak like confetti. She doesn't smile, from what he can see between the blurred movements. Her face is a picture of serenity, and he is jealous that someone is able to find that at a time like this.

He shakes his head and spits on the ground, marking it as his, and prepares to walk away.

But when he looks back, the spinning has stopped. Brown eyes are trained on him, widened as if in fear. And he cannot understand the feeling that wells within his chest.

ii.

December 1

She is here again. He recognizes her scent, like a werewolf following prey. Cinnamon and fresh air and something else he cannot place. Something darker. Three yards away, at most. He decided in an instant that tonight is the night he sets things straight.

But he doesn't find what he expects. The youngest blood traitor is laying on her side, legs curled into herself, and fast asleep. Her skirt has risen up, showing black tights stretched over milky skin, and her lips are beginning to tinge with blue. He knows she must be cold, and wonders what it is that brought her here, when she moves just slightly, and he catches sight of an angry red scar, running straight from her wrist to the crook of her elbow.

Maybe tonight isn't the night, after all, he thinks. And, without thinking, he removes his own cloak, not feeling the biting cold, and tosses it over her sleeping form.

As he walks away, he wonders with a smirk what she will think when she sees the Slytherin emblem on the breast.

iii.

March 1.

Today is the trip to Hogsmeade village, but nothing could interest him less. He walks, back straight, to the library, to do some "research". He wants to know exactly what it is he is looking forward to. He wonders how much Morsmordre hurts.

Madame Pince is not being cooperative. He finds that policy on the Restricted Section absolutely absurd. He is about to tell her so, and feels anger pulsing through his veins like molten lava. But then a flash of red catches his eye, and staying put seems very important.

He sighs with feigned remorse and apologizes in a flat voice, leaving the librarian stunned as he paces determinedly away. He knows exactly what aisle she went into. He has been watching her every move since the last night by the lake. She hadn't been outside again, and much to his chagrin, he found himself disappointed.

She is deeply absorbed in a book about counterjinxes, but he could fix that. Quick as a fox, he snatches the tome out of her hands and spins her around. Just as her eyes widen, he places a hand over her mouth. He is almost afraid she will bite him, but she doesn't.

He wants to scream at her. Make her beg and cry and plead. He is sure she has cast some sort of spell on him. There can be no other reason he would find such interest in someone of her status.

But he chokes on the words, and does the next best thing.

He removes his hand and replaces it with his mouth, kissing her with brutal, bruising force. He catches both her wrists in one of his hands, amazed at how small and fragile they feel. He is sure he could break them in one quick movement.

He pried apart her lips with his tongue, tasting the dark recesses of her mouth and drowning in them. His other hand snaked up her leg, to the hem of her skirt.

She makes a noise like a whimper, and he opens his eyes to see that hers are filled with tears. Suddenly he feels like vomiting, and he jumps back, pushing her roughly into the bookcase.

"Fucking disgusting," he spits as he walks away. Not sure if he means him or her.

iv.

May 23.

The grounds are bloodied. Broken bodies lay everywhere, puddles of dark crimson life spilling onto the neat grass.

Something crunches beneath his feet. The sound of bones breaking. Blue eyes staring blankly, accusingly, up at him. He spits on the face and moves on.

The screams are deafening, but nothing next to the white buzz of adrenaline inside his brain. He shouts out killing curse after killing curse as body after body falls lifeless to the hallowed earth.

He has but one task left to complete. If these fools stopped getting in his way, maybe they would stop dying.Where has bravery gotten them so far? It is going to lead them to an early grave.

It is hard to tell, under the dying sun, but he is almost certain that he has spotted her. On her knees, crying over the broken form of a former friend. The sound is pitiful, heartbreaking, pathetic. She has never understood the strength he saw in her, the darkness.

As the grass bends beneath his feet, as he steps up behind her, she turns to face him, her red eyes narrowed in fury.

The tears that cling to her eyelashes are the only things he sees as his mind flashes back to that day inside the library, and the sound she had made deep in her throat. Not a day has gone by since then that he hasn't watched her, dreamed of her, been haunted by her.

Ghosts are merely spirits that have yet to cross over. It is time for her to move on.

The curse hits her square in the chest and she slumps forward to the ground, her hair fanning out behind her as the sun sinks into the blackened sky. The battle and the screams continue, but he hears nothing. Nothing but the white buzz of adrenaline in his mind and the dull, black, inexplicable scream of loss from in his heart.