A Plague of Legends

Chapter Two: A Subtle Shade of Hatred

Or, The Moon

"Regarding the latest batch of rumors- the ones which claim that the Silver is proof of close ties between the Veela and my family: nothing could be further from, or closer to, the truth."

- Demetrius Malfoy, 1097 A.D.

***

To those not knowing any better, Draco Malfoy's eyes were nothing more or less than that, in spite of their rare shade. Even his detractors (numerous as they were) would admit, only under pressure of course, that the color was slightly unusual. However, they were always quick to add that pretty eyes do not a git unmake.

Draco Malfoy's eyes were most noteworthy when he was caught up in some rare emotion; the light grey darkening almost to pitch, silver rings detailing the boundaries of his irises and offsetting the paleness of his lips, his hair. Yet other than their unique color there was nothing obviously different or special about them- certainly their charm did not begin to compare to the shades of Avada Kedavra that rested in Harry Potter's eyes. There were even those who argued that the Weasley blue was a harder to come by hue than Malfoy's marbled stare. Then again, one can rarely expect much of the ignorant.

To those who did know better, the color of Malfoy's eyes was the stuff of legends- real-life legends. Truthfully, those of high wizarding ancestry would at times become so invested in his eye color that he could hardly claim it as his own. But more than anything else, his eyes marked him as a Malfoy- stripped him of individuality and forced him in line behind his forebears. The color even had its own name among the wizarding elite: Malfoy Silver. The Silver's Rumor Mill churned in cycles: each time a child was born in the Malfoy clan the rumors would crackle up into life until the child had been revealed, then sputter into faded embers until the birth of the next Malfoy.

This pattern had endured without change for longer than the oldest witch or wizard could remember, and through the years had become worn and familiar, finally transforming into something ritualistic, almost sacred. The birth of a new Malfoy would be proudly announced and the privileged few would wait, tongues searching out dusty myths to pass the time until the child had been revealed. The unveiling itself was always the same- the same for every young Malfoy and the same for the audience; a tradition stretching in an unbroken line that cast hundreds of years. Stepping out into some ornate ballroom, or perhaps standing unseen and almost overlooked in the shadows cast by an oversized candelabra, the Malfoy child would look up and out into the morass of waiting eyes. The passage of time interrupted, even something as natural as breathing became blasphemy. Like the quiet that pervades a religious service, scattered silence would ripple over everyone present in clusters and waves until it sat unbroken- a thick blanket that, for a few infinite seconds, displaced air and thought. Yet despite the pressure of expectations unaired, the weight of a lineage unbroken, there was never any fear or hesitation as the small, tilted, narrow, long, huge, wide, unmistakably Malfoy eyes stared luminously back at their audience. And that was that. Air and thought restored, the legend upheld, people's attention would turn, gnat-like, to other gossip and affairs.

As far as anyone could tell, the Malfoy Silver had been and would be around forever, but only if one defined 'forever' as lasting until the last Malfoy took his final breath. It was a shade that could not be altered by time, genetics, or the personal persuasions and preferences of the individual Malfoy. Nothing could change the hue of a Malfoy's eyes, no magic could reproduce it, and no true Malfoy was born without it. One had only to look at Malfoy Manor's portrait collection to be sure of this; although the Malfoys had mixed with wizards and witches from all places and cultures (provided the pedigrees matched Malfoy standards, of course) there was not a single Malfoy whose eyes did not glow silver from behind masks of chocolate, bronze, yellow, or pale pale white. The halls of Malfoy Manor were said to be cluttered with those ancestral portraits, all of them griping, laughing, pouting, and posturing, lighting blackened corridors and rooms with the reflection of their gazes. Somehow the faded magic of their eyes overcame the limitations imposed by brush and paint. To those unused to it, the experience could be more than a bit unsettling.

If it was to be considered a puzzle, the final piece to the Malfoy legend was that no one outside of the Malfoy family knew when or how the Silver came into existence; it was even sometimes breathed about that the Malfoys themselves did not know. Whatever the Malfoys did know about it was kept close; closer than what took place behind the closed gates of Malfoy Manor, closer than their politics, and certainly closer than their friends. However, there was one thing that had not been kept close, at least not well: as prolific as the Malfoy clan had once been, at the time of our story there were only two people alive who could claim to be true Malfoys.

***

The whole thing began with Blaise Zabini, all of the sheets in Slytherin's sixth year boys' dormitory, and the key to the Quidditch storage shed. Although most of Slytherin house would later argue that the real feuding started when Bulstrode the Buffalo (Millicent Bulstrode's unfortunate, if appropriate, nickname since her first year, grafted permanently to her sizable self by her loving dorm-mates) assumed control, the real culprit was never fingered, her name never mentioned in any way other than rueful admiration. After all, she had somehow managed to filch those keys, undetected, from Hooch. It had been the act of a true Slytherin. Not to mention the fact that she had actually managed to get one increasingly reclusive Draco Malfoy to agree to the caper. And while Blaise took great care to puff out her chest when complimented, lips curving slightly as her brilliance was acknowledged, inside. . . inside she raged.

A carefully constructed plan is much like a well crafted potion: slightly unstable fingers, the twitch of a wrist, even too heavy a breath could cause failure in a seemingly perfect enterprise. In this case, Blaise supposed that Bulstrode had been the mistake, as perfect for the main role as she had seemed to be during Blaise's casting calls. These try-outs had taken place in the dead of night as Blaise sat at her desk, hunched over a foot of parchment listing the names of all of the girls -it had to be a girl- in Slytherin house. And aside from the impossibility of herself, Bulstrode was the perfect choice. The only choice, really. Everything about her was perfect: her family's not-so-lofty social status, the oversized boulder that she carried around on her oversized shoulder, her hatred of Draco Malfoy, her tendency to charge into things, her pervasive pettiness, and again- her unreasoning, unknowing, and brute-like rage towards one Draco Malfoy. It was this last one which made Bulstrode perfect for the job; perfectly easy to manipulate and predict- after all, Blaise knew exactly how the other girl felt.

Of course, their reasons for hatred were completely different. Bulstrode hated Malfoy with the blind clarity that can only come from class differences, social boundaries, and the enforced walls between the wizarding world's living gods and those who were bound to serve them. Bulstrode hated Draco Malfoy the noble, the elite, the snob who looked down upon everyone who did not rate him. She hated the fact that there even was a difference between them, be it monetary, social, or otherwise; after all, what had he done to deserve his luck? Nothing, except for his crime of having been born; and Millicent did count that as a crime. In Millicent's eyes, Draco Malfoy was nothing more than something to be torn down and ground piecemeal. The result? A void of power that Millicent was determined to one day claim for her own. That was her dream. As such, one could argue that Draco Malfoy was the most important person in her life, the object of her Slytherin ambition.

Blaise Zabini's hatred had nothing in common with that of Millicent Bulstrode except for the emotion itself. As far as Blaise could remember, her hatred had been with her all of her life; not a day went by that she did not feel its hands upon her, stoking past bitterness with new injustices, newly recalled reasons for hatred. She felt it with Draco always: as he tutored her in Transfiguration (always her weak point), as they clashed good humouredly at the dinner table, even as they clashed, late at night, under the sheets in Draco's bed. She hated him eternally, absolutely. It was a hatred born of familiarity, the familiarity that comes from shared tea parties, socials, and flying steps over ballroom floors. The familiarity that comes when silver eyes stare out at you and your world for the first time, silver eyes that are worshipped for their very existence. The familiarity that comes from hearing a legend so often that there is no point in even hearing it anymore. The familiarity of ivory lips fastening to breast, white fingers pressing between parted legs, those same legendary shades of grey burning holes through flesh and bone.

Although few people knew about it, Draco Malfoy was as much of a symbol as Harry Potter; and just as Potter was a target for those who sought to break something beautiful, hurt something wonderful, so too was Draco. Draco simply didn't walk around with giant gold and red rings painted on his belly and a sign saying, "Hero for Hire." Not that Potter did either, but Blaise doubted that the Boy Wonder's life would be much different even if he did decide to take up the practice. The only real difference between Malfoy and Potter as symbols was the fact that Malfoy's fame was a much better kept secret. And, as every Slytherin knows, a kept secret is a safe secret, if perhaps only temporarily. Blaise could count on one hand the number of people currently at Hogwarts who knew of Draco's fame: a couple of Ravenclaws, their characters drawn with finer lines than even simple existence as a Ravenclaw merits; one lone Hufflepuff, his family's dedication and loyalty something of a legend in its own right; she and Draco. There were other people to whom Draco was something of a demigod- Vince and Greg for example. Draco, Vince, and Greg had been a unit for as long as Blaise could remember, close friends since before Blaise had even met Draco. Yet when all was said and done, when the doors to the Manor closed in on some intimate gathering, it was always Blaise on the inside, Vince and Greg on the out. After all, just as every prince needs his princess, so too does he need his loyal retainers.

Even so, Blaise hated Draco, hated his father, hated the entire family line. Hated all of them and their damned eyes; anyway, what was so special about their eyes? Sometimes all Blaise wanted to do was claw Draco's eyes out of his sockets, crushing them like frog eggs, ripping them like they ripped at her.

They were only eyes.

Blaise knew this as an objective fact, had known it since that wet summer day four years ago when she had been confined to the attic for some minor pettiness. Coughing as mold spores flooded her lungs, desperate for some relief from what was certain to be several hours of stifled breathing and boredom, she fingered through the worn notebooks and papers scattered around her for something even slightly occupying.

Then, lying half hidden between a series of investigative reports on the snake phenomenon (or lack thereof) in Ireland, Blaise found a small diary, lock rusted away and binding unraveling in clumps. It was a work that had doubtless been born of a lifetime of obsession, and was the sole legacy of an otherwise unremarkable Zabini. His only worthwhile achievement was recorded in that same diary: a secret dissection of one set of Malfoy Silvers, complete with a detailed account of the events leading up to the dissection. The journal was her prized possession. She sometimes still read the lab reports before going to sleep- a gruesome bedtime story that was all the more comforting for its meticulous descriptions of brutalized cornea, eye stems, and irises. Apparently the Malfoy Silver only shined in life; in death it was nothing more than rotting flesh.

They were only eyes.

So she hated the fact that Draco had been cast in the role of prince of their little world before he had even been conceived; hated the fact that only when dying would he relinquish his rule, handing over silver scepter and crown to the next Malfoy, hated the fact that she almost seemed destined to be his, but never he hers- and all because of his damned eyes. She hated him because Draco Malfoy would never be claimed by anything or anyone but his eyes. And more than anything else, she hated the fact that the spark in Draco's eyes was something she would never command.

***

"You are sitting in my chair," muttered Draco distractedly, fingers rubbing the back of his neck as he studied the board in front of him.

"Draco, darling," Blaise loved alliteration. "You are sitting over there. This chair was empty, thus providing me with the opportunity to gaze at your magnificent ey-," Draco's glaring response was enough to make Blaise retract and change tactics, "Self. Draco, what are you doing here, musting about with chess? Vince and Greg are off harassing Gryffindors, why not go have some fun with them?"

While she spoke Blaise surveyed the common room's inhabitants, nodding slightly as she conducted a tally of her audience. Perfect.

"Because there's no challenge in it anymore, especially after Potter suffered a sudden death of personality at the beginning of last year. It would be like torturing small animals: ridiculously easy and not exactly exciting. However, if you think yourself capable you make take up white's play. It's your move."

Blaise made her move.

"Well, if it's excitement you are looking for I have a challenge to offer you. That is, if you think that you're capable."

"And what," Draco did not look up from his study of the chess board, "would this challenge entail?"

"Quidditch."

The word, Blaise observed, was like a catalyst; whereas before the common room had been filled with the low-level buzz of muted voices, all conversation was now being held in suspension. Their audience waited, wondering at Blaise's brass and Draco's possible replies.

"Blaise, I find it impossible that you of all people do not know about my Quidditch. . . situation," His eyes ripped at her, "Now unless you want me to become upset, I suggest that you explain. You have my full attention."

A black knight sent shards of a white pawn scattering across the room.

Calmness, remain calm. . .

"Oh, Draco, we all know how utterly impossible your father is being. No one really believes that tripe about you being sick and such- why just look at you! Unless, of course, there really is something wrong with you?" voice and eyes full of patently false sincerity, Blaise sent a bishop flying.

There was something wrong with him, and Blaise knew it, even if Draco himself did not. Not that she knew much- eavesdropping while hiding under tables was not the most effective way to secure information- only that he had apparently been comatose for the first two weeks of summer break. Supposed cause of collapse? Sudden breakdown of the body due to physical stress. How pathetic. Apparently she was not the only one to feel this way; unbeknownst to Draco, he was currently on probation. . .

"I should hope not, darling. After all, sicknesses can be transferred so easily, and in so many ways- don't you agree?"

Smiling, he reached over the chess board and pulled her wrist towards his face, pressed his smirk into her pulse.

"But as my father's mandate has been upheld by Dumbledore, unexpected as that may have been, there is little for me to do but follow it."

"Follow the letter of the law, yes. But the spirit? Didn't your father say that you could not be on the Quidditch team this year? He said nothing about playing the game itself. What I have in mind is a simple game- a simple in-house game. No danger there, right?"

If Draco had been anyone else, he probably would have rolled his eyes at that. As it was, he simply quirked one lip, his eyes never leaving the chessboard. Blaise itched to have his balls on her salad fork for his rudeness, his damned intentional rudeness.

"Of course, there will be restrictions. What do you say?"

She wondered if she had him. As indifferent as he seemed to be about his forced hiatus from Quidditch, Blaise had to assume that Draco missed flying. Or at least that he was bored enough to not care anymore. If he did not or was not, there was no hope for her plan. When had she lost her queen?

"What exactly do you mean by 'restrictions'? And how will this game be set up? I don't really think that a game against first years would be very stimulating, if a bit of friendly hazing is what you have in mind."

His attention on the board between them, Draco waited for her response.

"The game runs as such: only the positions of Seeker and Keeper will be reserved for those of us in sixth year. The remaining ones may be filled however each team wishes. It will be girls versus boys," she raised an eyebrow at Draco when he choked at this, "and because the ability spread will be slightly uneven-"

Someone in the back of the room laughed.

"The boys' team should play with a penalty. . . something suitably distracting. . . yes. All of the players for the boys' team will wear nothing -and I do mean nothing, boys- but their bed sheets. And no one," Blaise made sure to emphasize this, "will use anything but school brooms. To ensure this, I- let's call it 'borrowed,' shall we? I borrowed the key to the Quidditch storage shed from Hooch and made myself a copy."

Blaise withdrew the key from her pocket and held it up several moments before putting it away. "Brooms will be chosen the day of the game to prevent undue unfair play,"

Several Slytherins grinned at that.

"And we'll all have a bit of much needed fun. What do you say?"

Was her king in danger of check?

"Bed linens, you say?" Draco tilted an eyebrow at her, obviously amused at her imagination. He bent back towards the table, hands skimming over chess pieces, fingers thinking out moves. Thinking, thinking, "And if I say yes, what reward do I receive for my efforts? What is my compensation?"

A wry look shot at her from under blonde fringe, "You will give me compensation?"

As if he had ever asked before. Blaise sent a pawn scurrying forward.

Remember the importance of measured breathing, the value of a composed exterior.

"What if I suggested that the game itself is enough compensation? It would be anything but boring, and certainly challenging."

Her real questions hung in the air between them and their audience: Are you really sick? Can you do this? Can you still lead us? Blaise could not have asked for a better set-up, everything was perfect. Draco's knight protectors, Vince and Greg, off on some inane quest of persecution, away from post, not here to diffuse the situation. It was beyond perfection.

Draco looked up at her, smiled. Whispered something to his chess pieces, and then leaned back to watch as his queen knocked the head off of Blaise's king.

"Checkmate."

Blaise fought against shivering. He knew what she was doing and obviously thought it was really quite amusing. However, he was the only one who seemed to feel that way; everyone else was taking this power struggle very seriously. So it was really too bad that the rest of the room could not see past the hair shading his eyes. Too bad Draco had made the rare decision not to gel his hair that day. Too bad the audience wouldn't understand Draco, not even if they had been able to see his eyes. Demons, even if he had scrawled out a guide to himself (complete with footnotes and appendices for the truly brilliant) across the ceiling with unicorn's blood, Blaise doubted that anyone would have noticed until the message was long unreadable and the rot had begun to drip onto their heads. As it was, only she knew that Draco had already accepted her offer.

Which made what Millicent next did utterly perfect.