Scarred Roses and Blood Filled Chocolates

Chapter One: Contorted Cupids From Afar

It wasn't so much that opposites attract, because he knew that was a bunch of Muggle-loaded bull. It was more wanting what, or whom, he could not have.

And he couldn't have her, ever. She was forbidden territory, across the boundaries already stretched by a newfound trust. A trust that had saved lives. Despite recent revelations she was a foreign prize, protected by her knights and admirers, completely unattainable to his moonlit hands.

It didn't seem to matter that he had saved her life. Or that they had been there together in the finale battle, watching together, and when she had spiraled downward he had saved her yet again. She'd shown her thanks though, one night right after Potter had done his thing. Totally meaningless, everybody had been slammed to no end, high on celebration, relief, happiness. Emotions pushed aside and stifled during the war.

She had wound her way to him through a drunken crowed, eyes and limb movements sober of all intoxication, and when she had presented herself to him all feeling, positive or negative, had abandoned her irises. She had "come to pay her debt."

Debt paid. Meaningless, empty.

He didn't recall exactly when he'd become fixated on her, it certainly hadn't been those times he'd rescued her. That had been impulse, reflex derived from survival necessity. She wasn't the only one he'd saved, but she was the only one he vividly remembered. It had even been after that night of the party. Obsession had taken hold sometime after their return.

Return...

Their generation had stopped Voldemort and his Death Eaters, saved both worlds, Magic and Muggle alike, from almost certain destruction, and they were still in school. War over, daily grind once again grinding away, and he still had a Transfiguration quiz to take after lunch.

Sparing her one last glance he pushed off the bench and left the Great Hall. Eyes looking straight ahead, back turned, he mounted the sweeping staircase, never once looking back. Away to conquer a quiz...

Her eyes trailed him up the stairs, his black-clad back retreating. The younger students quickly clearing a path for him and then silently filling in his wake. Scared, intimidated by who he was and what he had done, the stereotypes he had vaulted, the people he had proven wrong with the casual arch of an eyebrow.

Unlatching her eyes from his progressively shrinking figure she gathered her bulging bag and walked toward Charms. A class that had once held the doors open to deep wells of interest and challenge was no a subject of immense dislike. For she had seen, experienced, cast those simple and seemingly innocent words that now caused shivers climbing up her spine.

Traveling down the corridor people parted for her too, though in respect, not fear. She nodded at friends, grinning quietly to herself, her subtle gestures were returned by Slytherins and Gryffindors simultaneously. Mostly though it was her year-mates greeting her.

In reality it made sense that the younger students didn't go out of their way to say hello, they barley knew her. It also made the same sense that the upperclassmen were so inseparably tight.

They, the seventh years, had bridged old prejudices to form woven bonds. Some had deep jagged knife wounds in their backs, and from these injuries a raw motivation was drawn.

A motivation that had premised them to gather a wall against past hatreds and fight a brutal, grueling, taxing war and .......win.

As with every war there were casualties, too many to name. Triumphant souls who had given their lives for a cause, only to be forgotten in the pages of yellowing obituaries.

Other names would be printed on paper too, but they would not be forgotten. Their stories would be glossed onto the pages of a history book, given to prosperity.

She knew Harry's name would be there, the story of a tragic hero; Ron's tale would be there too, a saga of rages to riches. Neville, Dean, Seamus, Ginny... the list of atypical war stories to tell the grandchildren went on and on. But his story would be that of legend: He had turned when his mother had died in a traumatic 'accident'. The authorities had known nothing, but he knew his mother despised flying. Gone spy, silently observing the Death Eaters with a shadow-like grace. And in the end the figurative knife in Lucius's back moved to his heart, plunged by the hand of his only son.

Musing soundlessly at the back of Charms, Ron on her left, his face in tatters, Harry on her right, face thin and pale, shoulder sagging a bit, his wand arm in a sling. She figured her name would too be a part of history.

Her name hung in the air of the dry dusty open chamber. Wordlessly he cursed her, this was the last thing he wanted, a project to fuel this unwelcomed, unbeckoned obsession.

She came to him from her safe haven between Weasley and Potter. Battle had morphed her from quiet and impatient. Footsteps no longer shuffled, now they bounced off the walls with a grace and confidence acquired in long hours of training. He had quietly observed her when she traveled with her court down the halls, footfalls echoing, sure and even, in perfect syncopation as a buzzing energy connected them.

Sliding into her new seat next to him, he took in her clear skin tanned from a days spent on hard campaign, her hair bleached from days in the harsh sun entwined with unharmed strands of brown, tumbling all the way down her back.

She gave him a curt nod, "Malfoy."

"Granger." Their eyes met and he could see his cold metallic eyes reflecting in hers, mirrored image only broken by the blinking of her lids.