The Ichor and the Blood

Sixteen, young, and dead. Each moment he examined each bruise, he’d begun to add to them. He’d hold the blade, let it ever so gently graze the flesh of his arm. Death was the depth of life. Life was a drug, it kept going so that he stayed transfixed to a never moving turn of an event-less wheel. Sometimes it seemed he felt nothing at all, just a deep shame hidden in him. Sometimes, he didn’t know where it came from, he just felt in a certain way; like he had lost his memory. He simply lay in the sands of stationary existence. He was labored and tired, the reason almost irrelevant then. He would simply move upon another hollow step. His mind filled with an uncaused uncertainty and then he’d breathe the air of confusion and unknowing being. He’d step another step; another hollow step to a another hollow moment for him and another hollow meaningless time that was indistinguishable from any other time that was his belabored uncaused sleeping self. Life was hollow and then he would reach a corridor and the reason would appear. Out of nowhere, and it sent him so that he knew the truth, a truth unspoken unknown to all but him. They were like he was just then if they knew he was pained. They were blind to cause and meaning. He knew the meaning after having his own peculiar state. It was more meaningful than anything in the world, as if alone and abandoned, so that it lifted him to where he cried once in a while as if he could hope it would cure sadness beyond tears, beyond logic, so that it was known, it was safe, it made sense. And he wished with his entire of his whole what was or is his being that he didn’t know. He wished he had never known. Eyes had seen, a mouth had tasted, ears listened to the reason strength and will to shed tears were snatched from all hope. He lived in a place that he was bound to. He was damned to an eternal hell and wrapped in the arms of divine punishment. Had HE something against him? How did he make sense of it all?

Imagine a flower, a rich wine to taste in color. Imagine petals drunken in a deep unthinkable obscene beauty. Allowing the color to enter, let it be welcome as you welcome the dead. In through its waves of drunken splendor, let its magic consume and devour purity and life. Every man, every fool has that goblet of wine; a man who is wise is off it only for a moment. What observations could one make in a moment? So we are back to the flower again. Look it lies in intoxicated slumber. Never moving but drunken just the same. Tell the wise men I will pick the flower myself, only I know what it is, so only I know the case of my condition. It is the condition that gives me knowledge of the drunk and the dogs. I have lived with dogs. They lie ready to pounce. The tame dog has at last bared its teeth. The dog has at last taken me ...? There is no need, I will get the flower myself and tell of how the whole of humanity lies in resemblance to it, do not question you do not know I speak. You are like the wolves. You are not even like the wolves, you are not loyal to anything, instead you are like a dog, You are like a dog that bares it teeth to snarl before a death. Kill me again. Kill me again. I’m dead and you still murder with the knives of your piercing teeth. Rip away what flesh I have that is worldly to me.

A dog is a creature. A dog is a creature endearing in appearance. A dog is endearing, you think. A dog does not bite, you say. A dog does not have teeth like knives, you say. A dog does not kill you say. A dog is good to you. And then in the night. It stares. It bares fangs. It lounges into the night, it pounces and kills. You are born again and there is another dog waiting . There is another dog waiting to bite!

 

*            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

Ambition, humility, lust, betrayal, hell, despair, and need, they all know, find it sink them, as they discover, as they know. Look at Draco as he falls in love, look at him, as he knows more than ever that demanding want. He shall not want, nor shall he anger, for they only make a hell of life that he should turn blindly to a knowing Sisyphean existence. Fulgent eyes embrace the sun embarking it’s life for the day, rising in the east; those eyes fulgurate looking to his sun that he thinks has forever set.

Savage strangling grips, wrestles, and bites, and rough caresses filled the hell that was that night. Struggling to no possible avail, she was stupid when it came to love, stupid, and naive, how could she love such wrong and with choice?

Orchids are in season; they breathe through their petals, much in the same way Lucius did now, breathing through skin from skin being forced upon it.

Crooked men, never live well, they spend their lives afraid of the dark, she would become that dark.

 

*          *          *          *          *

Snape sat at his desk, long fingers twiddling on the wood, which caused the two students to be awfully jumpy. "You are of course wondering why you are here, and what interest I could possibly have in you." He stood up, smirking." I'm afraid you will have to do a lot more walking," the professor said.

Indeed, they had a much greater distance to walk.

Darkening around the area, the sky made the use of a lamp necessary. Severus Snape trampled the ground, taking heavy deafening quakes of steps. The professor, in doing this, startled the silent pair of students that treaded the ground lightly while following in his lead. Severus halted suddenly, as if a hand had just grabbed him. The reason

shortly became apparent. They reached a clearing, it was a wide lush stretch of verdant earth, the green shining as if unaware of the night, beckoning them to sit in its lap. "Come now my students, matters of importance are rarely patient, knowing their qualification,” Snape said.

The students quickly situated themselves, trying in vain to ignore the cold his presence alone could send. Indeed, his eyes betrayed a cruelty that was so imbedded into his persona, that a person should have guessed that to be the only character trait perceived. There must have been a reason behind his dark unforgiving eyes, noone could have surpassed the position of a reasonable guess. The truth lay hidden somewhere they could never have reached. The first of the two youths, the blond that hurt with unbearable pain mental, and even physical at times; but guarded it with every aspect of his demeanor, broke the elongated silence, he was brave, and he showed it."Why have you brought us here?" he questioned.

"You and Granger have much in common, similarities much too intriguing to be called mere coincidence. I believe your condition to be of extreme usefulness in it's rarity."

*            *            *            *            *            *            *

Turning into day, did not turn back the shadow of that night, in shame she looked at her body. Lucius had made her struggle as the world went blank and she died.

Black staring at any point in the midst of her virgin wholeness. Only it wasn't virgin anymore. She was used, and ashamed. Tears were the only bit of dignity she had left and she held onto them. White as fresh snow, her face remained beautiful.

She could ask her sister, the plainer Lestrange, (she was plainer than her husband, Rudolphus, from noble blood himself was), for how to satisfy Lucius's appetites. Bellatrix would know. She knew him better, she of course knew the appetites of any willing man, which were most of them, especially in his house.

Narcissa herself was a part of the house set aside for those that lived by their wit, and she was intelligent and thought herself mistakenly omniscient. That made her belong to where she was, as if there was no other place she could possibly be. She thought those meant to be like her, rather stupid and ordinary, and she was probably right.

She had lived her life in pursuit of dignity, and virginity that had been clasped hand in hand; now gone, had made her ask whether life was worth the work. Was it worth the fall into the fires of perpetual shame, that was what she had left now?

Still radiant with a beauty that surpassed all objects and people around her, there was now depth in where once it was shallow, as if that lifeless beauty had been snatched, and replaced with a beauty more fit for reality; she could not convince herself it had not been sullied.

She sat there, a person who had once sat and looked back at the plebeian mentality with righteous disdain. She had thought them common and vulgar, and she watched them like a hawk as it watches its prey, she’d now become one; now that her skin wasn’t as white, and skin no longer untouched.

The truth was there was no way of knowing. She simply had to deal with it. The question was how, and in what way. What would give her the strength to carry on with a sullied life, now marked with a wrinkle that made her used baggage to him. Who she had loved now, like a moon loves its shadow, and she loved him despite herself, and what he did to her. And yet she still loved another.

Severus,

Severus, do not ask I shall not tell you. Do not find out, you will not love me, or do I love you, after this I cannot it is not safe, and duty tells me to love him and duty is love as I have never loved you.

Narcissa Black

*            *            *            *            *            *            *

"The two of you have the ability to do wandless magic-" he said.

"Well loads of people can do that, anyone who has any talent can," Hermione interjected.

"Well, you shouldn't jump to conclusions, Granger, you have the ability to do the entirety of the magical areas, necromancy, metamorphagry, animagry, hydrimagry, etherimagry, glamyre, augury, gaemagis, alchemy,

and of course, lucenmagis (using the dead to find the future, transformation magic, animal transformation magic, water magic, fire magic, faerie magic, using birds to discover omens, earth magic, divine magic, and light magic respectively).” The professor looked in awed fascination. " Basically, you can do any sort of magic, and what's more, you can do it without a wand, which means you can do more than the simple magic you have been taught until now, you can gain control of the elements." Draco began to go back into his past

Snape continued. "I know because of something I will not tell you. I brought you here, to this place because this would be a good place to practice. There will be a lot of work to do, you will need to know Aramaic, Hebrew, and Gaelic, to control what you have in your blood." If ever there was an unworthy explanation that was it, but they dare not argue, somehow they knew that they would not get any better of one. What happened in that clearing shall be revealed later.

*            *            *            *            *            *            *

Life is lived with zeal, for life is lived but once. Draco pondered the meaning of his life and every moment of it, so that every moment was wrapped in death. Yet he didn't choose death, instead sacrifice. He would never stop feeling; he would keep loving without question to save the others. Yet he still kept within him the bearing down of these feelings, the alternative ones, like there was a wall separating them. Each moment, he practiced a cold indifferent face, with his healing being aided by the occasional smoke, he found the addictive effect to be quite

calming. His pain extended to any writing he did, Cimmerian prose flowing like a fall into a point. They were words growing and building into a period, where all of life’s sweet illusions end; or in retrospect its haunting truths are

forever closed up. One should say nothing, it has all been said.

The season’s roses lie dying now, true beauty has lived and swiftly died, yet the thorns still live on. It is the season of now of death; autumn is my favorite season, it marks the only time I have known any trace of happiness. Ironic, isn’t it that the time I find myself happiest should mark a time of grief among all others? I find a new environment now, one in which to escape the dread of present, and let my being get swallowed away from the painful existence that I live. My heart has forced me to live and instead know those rare ecstasies that dwell for a moment in this solid veil of Stygian gloom. And hope reasonably for another. I look to the start of winter and I am perhaps happy again. I am happy, it never shows. You shall never know if I am sad, though, only I shall know; these thoughts have no order, only given meaning. Separate the real from the fake, it is all real to me.

*            *            *            *

They made the time she would meet with him from noon to six o’clock. She arrived angry and confused, to think what that greasy haired professor had made them do that day, it was egregious.

"Can you believe what he made us do, Malfoy? I'm still shaken up about it."

"It's back to Malfoy now, is it?" He felt angered, she had no right to say that, he felt hateful towards her then.

"Why shouldn't I call you Malfoy? We're not friends or anything." He smiled, his heart feeling a sadistic sort of pleasure.

"Any girl that disrespects me like you do is my friend though, they’re so rare. You said you were yourself, rare and rare you are.. Or you want to tease me now, I could stop this truce now, I have every reason to?”

She sneered, she could be cruel at times. She looked now as if that might have been one of her favorite words, cruelty; hating and seeing the burns she left on the poor useless creatures that meddled with her. “I ask if there ever was a friendship to begin with. Was there? Do you think I could forgive you for what you’ve done to me over the years ? Malfoy, you are perhaps the most disgusting creature I have ever laid eyes on. You are absolutely and inexcusably and unpardonably disgusting.” Like acid, her words stung and simmered. He felt his body tighten, how her words reminded him of his father. His father could find ways to take him and bruise him until he couldn’t bruise any longer, for he could not think of any worse of a predicament. He reacted calmly though, she couldn’t affect him like he did; he did not have to unwillingly love her as he was forced to love his father. Of course, he loved him, how else could it have hurt him like it did?

“Granger,” he said smoothly and artfully. It was brilliant in the way he lazily slurred his words. He sat here, seemingly perturbed with her last comment." You want to end it then? You want to end it because you think there was nothing to end to begin with?"

She groaned." I don't know you. All I know is that you are of a particular type of wizard that is the same as me, I realize we will most likely have to work together, but outside of that I don't want to be with you."

He nodded in understanding."I don't know you either you know. I thought that you were a person I ought to know, because I look at you, and everybody admires you. You are never mean or arrogant if someone is inferior to you and I admire that in you. You're a good person, and there seems to be so few of those these days."

"You don't consider yourself to be a good person then?" she inquired.

"I'm more moral than most people, but because of selfish reasons. You're not selfish. You don't do things so you can tell yourself that your more generous than other people, you do it because it's the good thing to do." She felt

extremely guilty then. She had not accepted him, as he said she did with everyone. He would never be a good person, that she was sure of, but there were bits of character, that were qualities many good people could never have.

He wasn't good; he were one of those people who was right, in that he didn't care what he said to people, they couldn't feel the emotion another did, he was all about priorities, and she took the fact that he liked her as her being

a superior person. She decided that was his personality, she felt like she knew the basics of him. How wrong she was, but one thing was for sure. She had never met anyone like him.

"You are a right person, never good."

He nodded in agreement.

"You are not typical, most people are bad a few are good and fewer are right. I have nothing against you. I find myself somewhere in between good and right. I understand how it feels. I want to know about your qualities, so few people have them."

"You do though and that's why I want to know you Hermione." He said her name like Shakespeare would have wanted her name to sound. He had intentionally made it dramatic, and as she often was with him she found herself intrigued.

 

"That's good to know. I need to ask you a favor." She smiled, slightly taken aback.

"You're awfully sure of yourself." He shook his head.

"It'll be a minor one. I just wanted to show you a passage to show you. It was such a beautiful book but I can't remember the name." He had rewritten his mother's letter, and taken out the Dracos to find out where she had gotten it from.

"Yes, it's from Winter Knows No Bounds, it's a trashy book."

"Yes!" He cleared his throat."I mean do you know where I can find it

in the library?"

"Why don't you read this?" she suggested. He picked the book up

and began to read.

My head rests on my books; these are books I have studied, and lived by,

and still I can not live. My abode is lined in Victorian green, washed

out by the rain that had come in from the previous night's storms.

Storms, which were pouring from every cloud and tossing so that they

came into my studio, fell against me. Smell the air, the nauseating

odor of art; it is through my art that I live.

Here are my paints; I use them in many ways. In the application of

strokes, lines, shadow, light, and the dark, I find and capture my

inspiration. It sits like a bird, singing in the highest of trees,

singing the sweetest of tunes, right by a thorn, where lies its prey.

That is how humans are I think, bursting into sessions of great song

right where our deepest humility lies.

I sit down now. I have in my hands a glass, I smell in its perfume, breathe

in its air. I stare in to the verdant poison and pour it into my glass. I tilt

it so its potent powers can come to my lips, down the glass goes,

until there is nothing of its original contents to come to my mouth.

I see myself now. I am like a swallow flying out of the earth's

bondage and flying into the rose sunset. I swim through a sky bathed

in the etiolated pallor of the moon. Selena is smiling, watching her

dear Endymion, only the city at night is her lover tonight, tonight

none of her is hidden into the grey abyss. I laugh like a virus has

infected my blood stream and causes this noise to come out. I search

with lambent eyes, eyes fulgent in mirth. Life is good and sweet,

like nectar and ambrosia, I am like the immortals, ichor runs through

my veins, and I can laugh in these Bacchanalian festivities. Ha! Ha!

Ha! I run, I fly, I laugh. G-d, give me more words to say what I am

doing. Ha! Ha! I fall over in gales of appreciative laughter.

Quicker than it came, these series of pleasant illusions disappear. It

is now just a recollection of having ever been happy.

Now, all I can feel is lust for the magic liqueur whose powers I wish now to employ.

This is not lust, this is beyond mere carnal appetite, I hold greater

to this than I could ever hold to a lover, this is greater than a body

to pull under mine as I pound into it. This is warmth, no prostitute

could ever feel this pounding of desires I have for this drink. With

impatience, I bring the bottle to my mouth, unwilling to pour it into

the glass. I take it and capture a part of this thing I hold, and

quicker it rushes down.

I sit on the edge of a growing curve of white string, it is the only thing

to see in a stretch of endless black. Then there are pictures dancing,

coming and going, lighting up the expanse. There is now a body of emerald

waters, still for a moment and then rushing and flowing. I go to it, how I do

not know. It's the taste of herbs and wine spirits, and the green faerie, it's wormwood.

It is gone. Swirling ribbon of color come and tie me through

backgrounds of pink and of grey, into a world that must have been the

yesterdays of an insect, there are wings and hanging letters, floating

as if on strings. Harps are played as mermaids sing in their watery

depths. There is a slow and deafening beat, and sights of chaotic

some things surround and implore me in a tongue I do not know. Driving

into nothingness and back into the world I know, everything has changed.

With one valiant effort, I chug the remaining contents within that

demantoid bottle. So, as to see something new. A mirror is propelled

in front of me. The reflection in front of me is one of strokes; little

nuances in the light that lead me to myself. I am ugly. Look, I am

ugly. Give me a look, one ear I show, the other is a sight you would

not wish to see. It was sent in a box to woman I loved as no human

being had loved before. Where my ear is, now lies a swirl of pink and

the read of dried crusty blood. I look at a man as thin as the brushes

that lie around him. He does not eat, only drinks, when he must eat, he

has his paints. This man lives through his creations, and his nous.

The spark of his nous comes through the lingering smell of death, for he

is dead. Go to sleep and rest away from the cold unfeeling light of

truth, and go away from the blade dripped in scarlet. Rest so you will

never have to live through this death again. I close my eyes. My

paintings are stored where they will never be appreciated. I point that

thing to my head and I am glad to never live in this aphotic cloud

again. I pull and I am one with my creations, and away from the pain.

The first glass of absinthe was the desire I have so long wanted. The

second, the sense people make of my work. The third, my reason to live,

die, and paint. Such is case of my condition....

"That wasn't nice, Granger." He took the book and placed it down." It was absolutely morbidly depressing. That was raw." She smirked.

"Why does that upset you? Are you going to cry now?" He'd shed a solitary tear somewhat frequently; he rarely broke down, not like he had a day ago. She had made it a goal of hers to have him cry ever since they became Prefects. She'd shove him a book when they weren't getting along and try to get him upset. The books were always really depressing. "You're not man enough to handle it?” He felt like he would throw up at any moment. The hostility seemed to return, why did she treat him so though? It was her competitive nature, it wasn’t to make him cry,

it was to challenge him, and convince him she was the better of the two.

She felt dirty, and mean, he had been cruel for years to her, but not like she was being to him now. “I can handle it; I simply find it disturbing.” She realized she had been awful, and went quickly to apologize.

“I’m sorry, Draco, I’ve been awful. I really am sorry; there’s a lot on my mind.”

“Believe me, I understand.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” she asked more to herself than to him. She certainly had guessed that he would for the wrong reasons, although she was frustrated with Snape for what he did, another thing plagued her mind, well she plagued the thought to be more exact.

It was Marx who called religion ‘the opiate of the masses’ and indeed, now she began to think so, only her father had said that religion was an institution for the immoral, and a haven for heavenly believers. Her mind was caught in trying to make sense of it all. As a loyal daughter, everything her father had said must be true, while as an admirer of literary figures all great quotes must be correct, but deeper she wondered how they could fit together without contradicting each other. Of course she thought of consulting Draco, but he was a wizard and shouldn’t know such muggle type things, and she dismissed the preposterous idea as ridiculous.

He brooded then on the meaning of his beatings, and wandered into the unwanted valley of his memory. Why should he then feel disgust, for he didn’t remember his father? But he found himself crying the other night, how rare was it for him to cry and yet he had? He felt terribly ashamed. As his father would have had it. Of course anything with his son being ashamed would have been a jovial happening for his father, he must be there somewhere, near his master, smiling and laughing, as if on fire with joyous merriment. Then there was her, she had begun to become part of his thoughts, like a vision, she was an ideal he was beginning to have. That was why they had formed a truce in the first place; he wanted to become her friend.

Of course Hermione, at least had she known a few days before would have felt a peculiar case of schadenfreude.

 

*            *            *            *            *

Virginia Weasley looked at herself in a handheld mirror, and sighed, she felt scared, but of course being a Gryffindor, she couldn’t stay scared for long. How could she, especially now that Lavender and Parvati had come here? They took a seat next to her, busily gossiping as they did.

“Hallo Ginny, you must be feeling awful having noone to talk to and chat with,” quipped Lavender.

Ginny put a hand to her head and fell to the couch dramatically. “Oh yes, I got a rather juicy bit of information on a certain witch and I had noone to tell it to, being sick and all.”

“Do tell,” said Parvati.

“Yes please do!” agreed Lavender.

“Well, apparently, our beloved Hermione is connected to a Slytherin, an especially shaggable one, Draco Malfoy.” Anyone who was listening, which was everyone in the Gryffindor common room, would have easily predicted what happened next, of course they all screamed. Lavender was the first to respond.

“So, how involved are they?” she questioned.

“She says they’re just two parties in a truce, but any idiot would know what that means, they’re obviously shagging, she’d be his first too, I think, does that seem absolutely outrageous or what?” she asked.

“Well, it’s less outrageous than them being ‘just being respectful’.” The three of them laughed at Lavender’s words. Of course everyone who listened knew this mustn’t have been true, but that didn’t stop them from repeating it to anyone and everyone they knew, it was too good to pass up. Indeed, within less than an hour, the whole of the student population knew and discussed it amongst themselves busily. They talked about it as if it must be true, even though they must have known it wasn’t. Some things just couldn’t be believed, and that was just one of those rare things. Of course an unfamiliar passerby wouldn’t have known this, instead they’d be rather curious about the situation.

 

*            *            *            *            *

 

Our favorite duo was again called for a meeting, but this time by Dumbledore, which was quite a relief to Hermione, although it simply sickened Draco.

As the door opened, the professor saw the two students were very much detached from reality, silent and still, pondering something they were very much concerned about.

He cleared his throat. “There are many things I should like to talk to you about, I must start with the most important. I doubt our dear potions professor told you much,”he said thoughtfully. “Your professors have shown me samples of your work, thinking they’d be running out of things to teach you, and they are. Your level of work was so high even I had difficulty comprehending it.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” asked Draco under his breath, thinking about how adding two plus two, would be an awful predicament for the headmaster.

“Well, of course I had to know if your uh gifts extended to areas beyond intellect. I found out you are magnumeni.” Dumbledore had troubled over the last word; as if it was the longest word in a Japanese dictionary.

“Well, professor, what is a magnumenus?” Draco asked with an effortlessly pronounced lilt.

“A powerful magical being that change that can change into three different animals, pass from human to ghost form, and have the magic of fire, water, ice, thunder, air, your minds, and light, all without the use of a wand, it’s rare, there has only been one wizard like that before.”

“How can I, a muggle-born witch, be one then? How can we both be it? Two people from the same school, same country, same age be it? We thought Snape met with us to play a joke on us, surely this isn’t true?”

“Professor Trelawney can continue it from here.” Draco was under merciless torture, the question he kept asking himself was which of the two was the bigger nut. He didn’t trust them, not until quite a few minutes later anyway.

 

*            *            *            *

It began ever so much later so that again things were simply memories:

Draco sat to write as he often did, his hand guiding his quill, having it furiously writing unto the parchment of his collected works, so enormous was it, that he had been told he had a peculiar disease called hypergraphia, all he did was write, aided by thoughts, and the music he would sometimes play to himself to lull himself asleep. He wrote of the flowing vibrations of an instrument; how it looked as it played, strings dancing and twitching into weeping notes, straying, and sounding. He wrote of the words he had so often heard, and images he could see frozen in place; symbolism dropping unexpectedly, connecting the obscure so that is seemed obvious, thoughts and music, singing and appearing in his head, that all guided him to create, perhaps so he could find a refuge from the pain he seemed to be trapped by these days. It seemed strange that he could as easily play as he could paint. Yet time and again it was always his quill he came back to. It could create emotion and artistic nuance, in the midst of change and event. A painting could only jot down a scene and a basic aspect of the human nature he had come to despise so readily. Writing, he could define every bit of it, the music, the image, and the whole. How else could he at times ignore?

 

 

Life is lived with zeal for life is lived but once. Draco pondered the meaning of his life and every moment of it so that every moment was wrapped in death. Yet he didn't choose death, instead sacrifice. He would never stop feeling, he would keep loving without question, to save the others. Yet he still kept within him the bearing down of these feelings, the alternative ones, like there was a wall separating them. Each moment; he practiced a cold indifferent face, his healing was aided by the occasional smoke, the effect could be calming. His pain extended

to any writing he did, Cimmerian prose flowing like a fall into a point.

 

 

The season’s roses lie dying now, true beauty has lived and swiftly died, yet the thorns still live on. It is the season of now of death, Autumn is my favorite season, it marks the only time I have known any trace of happiness. Ironic, isn’t it that the time I find myself happiest should mark a time of grief among all others? I find a new environment now, one in which to escape the dread of present, and let my being get swallowed away from the Sysuphean existence that I live, my heart has forced me to live and instead know those rare ecstasies that dwell for a moment in this solid veil of Saturnine gloom. And hope reasonably for another.

 

He began to write facts that were hard and concrete as he should have written more of before:

 

My name is Draco Malfoy. The significance of my name comes twofold, one lies in history, the other in the realm of make believe. History has me as a tyrant, writing codes so severe; that he be feared and despise. A word comes to mind, the cruel ring of Draconian, it means overly harsh, it that what you would have me be father? The other lies in the place of mythology, Dragon, is that how I should be, cold and reptilian, formulating how best to strike as I lay in silence, waiting for an auspicious time? There never is a time most propitious, if I were like that, I must make do without the benefit of true timing.

 

More importantly, I am the product of a hated surname, or at least what I have been told that it is, it has done no conceivable damage to me, at least not by those outside of its honor, my father has done it....

 

 

I am like the immortals, ichor runs through my veins, and I can laugh in these Bacchanalian festivities.

 

 

 

I remember the;, any point that could be called then, I can remember. I understand a beauty to a world of disgust and sadness. I have no healers to decide for me what is done wrong, to tell me I have so and so disease. If I know that I am a dreamer whose dreams have only made this black of life a tried existence, why do I forever push up that boulder ...? Does my heart thirst for impossible accomplishment? I think I do it to escape the fear of

leaving the situation I have known.

 

 

This paper in my hand;, let the tears fall down, I close my eyes and let the pen fall and let it write in its Saturnine soliloquy, painful words; each accursed word that drips from my heart, each falling into storms where no light from any blessed window shone. Then I shall know these furies have risen again, and let their waves of torment crash into my ship. Let its wreck lie, nay, for my ship cannot die but live these storms again and forever.

 

 

My father is there, I am bound to a chair, iron claws, and metal teeth, like an animal trapping it’s prey. Mirror, mirror on this scene, let me see what has really been.

 

 

It makes sense now, my hand; it lies in perfect resemblance to yours, and now I ask what things it might do, but I know, God above, I know. I am what I wish most not to be, how can I fight it? Does it not run through my veins, this love of trickling ichor? For that is what I have, the blood will disappear, and scars will serve as the link to these haunting memories. I have not cut myself before, my father did it for me and it hurt. I am expendable, just as any other mortal is; but part of me is not.

 

 

He looked at a blade he kept by his desk, he picked it up to examine it. He had always been fascinated with its silver brilliance, and how it could be stained mercury by the blood it could cause to flow like streams from a line of red. It’s majesty and its mystery aided by its power held him captivated like a moth to a flame, mindlessly flying, chasing after some ridiculous pursuit. How it at times disgusted him that he could think like that, but it made no sense, and that was how he had expected it. His logic stood ever kneeling to the line of what had been instilled in him, and that was the love of bloodshed; not that of another, but by his hand unto his hand, mutilating without purpose and without reason. He picked it up and dark thoughts again rose to his head. Without a thought he violently plunged it into his heart. And surely blood came out, splattering as he expected; of course now he surely had only a few moments to live.

 

 

I am like the immortals, ichor runs through my veins, and I can laugh in these Bacchanalian festivities.

 

 

*    *    *    *    *    *    *

flashback

 

Weary and frustrated with the test Hermione continued to write, the test was so amazingly boring, and decidedly arduous. She was even more frustrated to find Draco Malfoy wearing his superior smirk, and directing it at her. “What are you looking at?” she snapped.

 

“You’re still working on that test, Granger, and you’re supposed to be intelligent.” She simply decided to ignore him.

 

Twenty minutes later after completing her test and getting it graded, she came over to him and shoved the paper under his nose. “See, time pays off,” she said, pulling out her perfect score, expecting him to gawk in amazement, instead he just smiled. It was not at all the reaction she had expected to come from him, he still looked cocky. Yes, the cocky ferret looked at her

 

 

He shook his head. “No, Granger.” He pulled out his sheet which had a perfect 100% on it, and smirked.”No, right answers do.” She had never been so absolutely humiliated in her life, and he could now hold it over her.

 

*    *    **   *    *    *

 

 

 

 

The young girl wore the money if not the status of her family’s considerable wealth, such status was washed away in the minds of the Wizarding World. Money afforded her the material, if not the commissioning of the projects she would have to dress herself. That she must do herself. Lavish materials, they were, soft and lovely, cloaks came by the plenty, clasped by gold, and embroidered to magnificence. She looked truly regal in them.

 

She learned to walk with grace, or she flew instead, to converse, instead of talk, to be instead of existing.

 

*    *    *    *

 

 

 

"Do you know why I can't kill you, Draco?" his father asked. "The lord

protects you, he claims you have power unmatched, he gave you a mark

when you were younger. That mark saves you from death boy. Of course

you can't have that it's absolutely ridiculous what he claims. No person

has had what he claims since a thousand years ago. Consider yourself lucky

that you aren't buried in a swamp somewhere.

 

 

Draco remembered as they spoke those words, it explained the mark. That was why he still lived, it made sense now and all he could think of was the awe he felt at himself and his destiny, and his friend. Dumbledore still, talked, but he had no questions to ask.

 

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

 

Hermione was absolutely exhausted at the end of that day and it didn’t help that Ron Weasley was there in the common room when she came back. He was mad too; she wondered if he had overheard what Ginny had told her the other night.

2. Trying to get to bed, she stopped by Ron and gave him a kiss on his cheek. "Good night, Ron. I’m so tired, I must go to bed."

Her efforts failed and as he pulled her down. "I’ve been hearing all sorts of rumors that you’ve been shagging Malfoy."

She looked at his face; he didn’t even seem angry, he seemed terrified.

"Don’t you remember when he told me Whistling weasels walk with wonderful waddles while waiting to wee-wee within waiting rooms. Eh Weasley?" he asked with a shaking voice. She burst out laughing; it was so ridiculous.

He seemed to look a little calmer. "You can rest assured that isn’t true, Ron. I’m not a girl who would shag anyone, much less him. Honestly, I’m not like that." She smiled kindly. "No need to be jealous, Ron."

"Oh, okay." By the time he reacted she was halfway up the stairs. Jealous? Jealous? He ran up the stairs only to be pushed back down again as it became a slide. Giggling she ran down after him.

* * * *

She sat by the glowing embers of the fire; beautiful and trying to look as untouched as the white of her once virgin skin, white as ivory. He came in; the lesser, whom she had to ask herself whether she ever loved, and not to the boy that treated her as the women he wanted only as a name, that his intentions would be serious, but never well placed. Silently he took a step from behind and grabbed her, bruising her porcelain skin. The face was familiar, the searching black eyes known to her, the slick hair of his chest now apparent, as he took off in a rush the stitches of clothing that bound her and it all happened like that, trust forgotten, her love forgotten. She was now only a thing, a machine devoid of any feeling. A thing to cure lust and greed to take over her soul and destroy it, and she learned that the world was cruel.

And when she had a child, she watched him become just like her, wear his virginity like a medal. He’d swathe himself with the same ideal of honor, the same face of untouched righteousness of character, loving only honor and duty, as was commanded. Loving her, loving his father. Then she had seen him, and she had known she would see Lucius take it away from him as he did with her, and lay powerless to a dog baring its teeth, and he would live in the same silent hell she did. Had she been a good mother, she would have told him she loved him, stopped him from feeling the icy grip of the world, but she watched and said nothing, she never had, not since that day, as if that was the only way she could redeem herself. Silence would save her, she hung to it. Do not ask what is the sound that is made from the use of her voice, when has a soul heard it last?

Draco didn’t know, she had always seemed so fragile, he thought he would have known, she would show it. She never did, and in so doing, condemned Draco to her own fate. He would never survive, not unless, there was any bit of good. Surely there wasn’t. The world made happiness an illusion; he (had) no such mirages, he knew it didn’t exist.

Draco lives against hope and reason, living only to sacrifice himself to what honor and duty hand-in-hand command of him, he lives only because of a mark given to him long ago, he lives with scars, which are perpetual reminders for what memories he wished he could ignore. He can't, so he lives each day, bruised and bleeding, doomed to the world's dogs, whom he loves without question; betrayal after betrayal, his world ends, and then he befriends Hermione, and he looks to her as realization of a past comes. Shall he wallow in the waters of the earth and drown, or shall he remain? Two bloodlines, four stories, and lust to overcome, and humility, this is the story of God's creation of humanity.

* * * * * * *

Draco howled in pain, as the blood disappeared; he had never done it before, and foolishly he had tested it. He knew that no person could kill him, he would have to die naturally. There was now only a mark and it was faint, compared to those around it; those had been knives, pushed into fire, plunged and twisted. No physical pain could compare, but it seemed that some of the remnants of doing such a deed remained, the pain stayed the same, the severity of the wound did not reach its normal potential and he had to ask what other way he could have it? He should be in the hospital wing, but he couldn’t help himself.

* * * * * * *

 

Draco spent the next two days in bed, to recover from what he did to himself asking Snape who knew, to tell Pomfrey he knew better than she about his particular condition, while Draco took care of himself.

"She’ll never love you, Draco; your mother is simply incapable of it."

Draco tensed his shoulders. "I’ve always been curious about you Professor, I’ve always wondered how you would always come about knowing what’s happened to me like a ghost especially with her, a ghost from her past sent to come to me."

A ghost? From her past?

"How much do you know?" Draco asked, quiet and grave.

How much did he know?

"I know everything, Mr. Malfoy. Even things you don’t."

Draco looked up to his face; he was always there like the gadfly Here had sent to Io; what had he done to deserve it? He wore himself in the name of duty and in the name of honor. Was it sent to wound him?

"Two things bother me." He cleared his throat. "One is that you did nothing, while you always knew, and you know I would have been happy to be away. The other is that I do not wish to know what I do already; more would make it worse."

"You say that you would have been happy if you left your situation; would you be Draco? You live only to wear that veil of righteousness, that I, Harry Potter, Hermione, or anyone could only ever hope to meet. Sacrifice like that is unknown."

Draco was tall, at a bit over six feet he was taller than the professor. Of course the grease of his hair made him seem a bit taller. He glared with his grey-blue eyes and shook with an unspeakable anger. The professor smirked; the boy had foolishly loved him since the moment they had been introduced because the professor had been nicer to him than anyone else ever had. Draco sat back down as if he had simultaneously realized that. Instead he hugged his slim muscular frame, as if willing his anger towards himself. He couldn’t do anything, back to the righteousness he went. "What do you know about Hermione?" he asked. "What do you know?"

"Quiet now, Malfoy. You know the answer; I know everything. I also know that its not the ridiculous rumor that you’ve been shagging. You’re too good too shag anyone, you’d wait until you’d been married, and then do it only for procreation."He smirked, mostly to himself. "Goodnight, Malfoy."

With that he closed the door. Draco thought of Hermione; he wondered what she would think of him once he was better, he wondered if Snape had told her what he did. That would be wonderful for sure. That would be simply marvelous. Draco rarely smoked, but now seemed like a good time, so he took out a cigarette and lit it, realizing it was the only offensive thing he had ever done in his life, and he hardly ever did it either. He finished the fag (British for cigarette butt) and gathered himself into his sheets, throwing the pack away as to not tempt himself. Although the typical Malfoy part of his genes thought it elegant that he ever smoked, his reason was against it, and he had time now to repent for this single sin. Wasn’t it funny, that he even allowed himself that one occasional pleasure and still regretted it?

I have a problem here. I don’t think wizards would smoke cigarettes. You should use pipes here, but that would seem very out of place here – a sixteen year old smoking a pipe and all. Yet, the cigarette breaks the reader’s trance he/she is in.

*          *          *          *

Hermione had stayed in the library or in Gryffindor tower for most of the past two days; Dumbledore told her that it was important that Draco be with her when they were being taught about how to use their magical skills. She had wanted to visit him but he was in the Slytherin dungeons, where she didn’t dare go. She realized she had been mean to him because of all the stress, and now that he was sick, she felt intense wrong with herself.

*          *          *          *

 

Flashback

The air was cold, the atmosphere chilling, at the end of the month of Caesar. One boy sat in the care of an elf, called Dobby. He sat there young at six months, weak and malnourished. The elf could hear voices, sounding out of their barrier stone walls, cold as the stone he stood on.

"Lucius, you knew this day would come. Where is the boy? He is to be here, where he is needed, Lucius."

"Yes, my Lord, right this way."

"I will not follow you; he should be brought here, in fine sheets, suitable for his burial procession. I don’t have the will to follow you, bring him to me."

Dobby looked at the young child. He was tiny even for a baby, he thought. He knew they would kill him and he was glad; he would certainly treat him as bad as his father did. The house elf hurried to find sheets regal enough to suit the baby. He found them in that very room seconds before Lucius arrived. The baby looked regal and admirable, for the young child truly was beautiful. The elder Malfoy picked up his son and came to the Dark Lord; it was truly pitiful what would happen for anyone who knew.

The baby was brought to the hands of the Dark Lord, and he held it in his arms as if to admire it. The Dark Lord indeed thought him beautiful, even more so than his mother. It looked at him, as if it knew. Of course it knew, and the Dark Lord thought the baby could be a valuable asset to his power; he knew the baby would be more powerful than he would. He had come to kill it to stop it; only it had so many times been written that he could not destroy the destiny of such a valuable creature. Perhaps he would survive, if he were to kill it?

He decided he would earn his loyalty instead by saving him from his father instead, so that he could never be permanently wounded in ways that would stop him from his physical nature at all permanently. That was all he could do, but it would assure its loyalty and the furthering of his power. In soft whispers he recited an ancient incantation as golden rings became apparent on the child’s wrist one by one, preserving him from one thing for each ring. He said the incantation for death, for physically incapacitating wounds, for protection against impossible recoveries, and from himself, if the need should ever arise. The father looked in horror at the child; horror that he had not the pleasure to watch it die as a helpless child in the Dark Lord’s arms.

"He is protected from what you can do to him. He is in essence your burial procession should he grow up to know what you did to him, and better for me as it assures his loyalty."

Draco had since then been protected; it was even Voldemort that saved him from his father trying to sodomize him. For his entire life he was indebted to him. Voldemort of course had gone to Harry Potter that same night and he realized had he decided to go to him before, he would probably be dead. He wondered if the last words Voldemort had said to his father had stopped him somewhat from going full on with hurting and ruining him. That was something he would surely like to know, whether his father had been better because he thought Draco was that black bird, which would someday kill him.

And indeed, Draco would be. He was the black bird with disturbing feathers of omen, sweeping down and kissed by the breathing dusk of a cerise sun setting over a background of black, the red the future frame of his father’s blood spilled into the raging sunset. He swooped down through the tormenting winds of a storm to bite the final coup, a coup deserved. Such was something the future could only tell; the future knows the course of everything., and all to finally or sooner come.

There was a horrendous black harpy for almost every man. The question was, was Draco his? The future would tell it truly was the punishment for what he did to Draco.

 

* * *

Ginny fell asleep again and dreamt, of the life, and the lust awakening in her sleep even in the day she knew it would live again; its powers could never be extinguished.

Through a mist that beckons yonder your heart, lies, in my grip

Like a bird trapped and dead in one final strike, so your reason shall be

With no reason only the blood that rushes through your veins you can only be led to me

I am your blood, Virginia, do not deny it, it is a part of you

Do not deny me, I am your only reason for being, there is none when only now

Like fire fused together so we are fused

Two souls that are one searching and needing, we deny the truth and we know it is meant to be

Come closer to me, you are fire, fire cannot hurt you, but I can

Only if you don’t allow me to be one with you, we already are so do not fear

Unless you shall leave me again like you already did

You are fire to my ice, do not challenge it

You may think you win but then I am water and will extinguish your flame, instead let me join you

Let us forever burn in our passion and over the world

Long ago, she had bled, and then he came, his hands playing the concertos on his violin. "Ginny, come out, I am here." The tunes from her crypt now beckoned her forward, tugged and pushed by the heavenly music, that were like roses in a graveyard. The music tingled in the night; it wanted her to come to it. He was ice and he was steam; she had never known what he was, but the sound of his voice calling her name, and the music that followed her was dripping in the rouge of her blood. She hated seeing blood, but it ran through her veins and so she followed it.

She walked to him. He was silent as he was in all of her dreams, and yet his eyes spoke a thousand words a look, with a look his eyes spoke out all the blind passion of the world, and the things he could say with a heartbreaking glance hypnotized her).

With a glance he could ruin and seduce her, fuel the fires of lust that haunted and guided her. His touch could hurt and please, taking her forcing her into the dark. The lust and the unwanted love alone made him what she saw him as a ghost from a hell and a heaven, like an angel from the accursed fiery pit, a creature both of the light and the darkness. He’d stare, and she’d feel his divine presence, and he’d simply look, in silence. What did he do that for? What glance could lead her into the hell she knew? Only from his darkened burning eyes.

Goodbye to the world, my night has been resurrected from where it lay asleep after all those years now lying in the dark. Die, it never shall, fire and lust and love never die only sleep. Wake up, sleepyhead, sleepyhead, and live again as we burn now and forever.

Sleep rolls and awakes; death cannot and never has parted us from burning in love and in war.

 

* * * * * *

Draco had recovered after three days in bed, well enough, anyway. Getting up had been a burden and it was not going well with his injury. Snape had agreed to let them be instructed in his office, because the strain would have been unbearable on Draco. Luckily for him it was next door to him. Hermione had spent the entire lesson glaring at him.

After the lesson, they walked out, and went to lunch; he had much difficulty getting there. Hermione seemed like she was running ahead of a walking Draco. She eventually decided to help him, but she didn’t do it happily.

"What did you do Draco? What stupid thing could you have possibly done to injure yourself like that? Did you do a back flip on a school broom, because yours was unreachable?"

He smiled at her as they neared the top, and it was the first true smile he had ever given her, . He looked radiant, glowing, and completely different from the unhealthy beauty of him when he was frowning. She smiled back for she couldn’t help it.

"Thank you Hermione, for getting me up I mean. I’m not going to thank you for calling me stupid, and accusing me of doing a flip on a school broom, because I didn’t."

She looked at him for a while, before they were in the Great Hall. She at last responded. "Glad to know whatever you did, did not take you the wits off you. I guess it’s hard to take off something so deeply imbedded within a person."

They were not friends, and she had to compliment him in this way. He shrugged, and she changed her mind. "Its like trying to take away the need you have to be sarcastic and pathetic all the time. Things like that are hard to remove."

He smirked. "That’s what you think; I’ve decided the Slytherin tablecloth isn’t my color, I think I’ll join the Professors’ table."

"Oh Draco, you can’t do that, it’s against the rules."

"What do you mean? Sitting on a table with a bright pink tablecloth is against the rules of fashion. Now, out of my way."

She knew the tablecloth wasn’t pink. "The tablecloth’s green."

"I’m a prefect that will be Head Boy next year, and if I say the tablecloth is pink, I’m taking a more educated guess than you. I passed my colors exam in Wizarding Preschool with flying colors, and besides the students are like sponges; they take every rational thought from my head away, and I say I’m closer to a Professor than a student, idiot, and I’m even beyond them." He carried on after a brief pause. "Are you going to be nice and eat up there with me, or are you going to let me miss your company? I’m in the mood for some of our literary discussions. Besides, wearing clothes other than the school uniform isn’t allowed but you do it. They’re so tasteful who could ask you to give them up?" He asked this while looking at the cloak she wore.

"Im not going to,"

He walked on to go into the great hall, at a snail’s pace.

"The only literary discussions well have is where to put you in your itinerary, I say Dante’s Inferno," she said.

"What?"

"I’ll meet you up there."

An entire ten minutes later he had at last made it up to the Staff table,. Hermione was already up, engaging in conversation Professor Flitwick, who of course sat on a pile of books to reach his plate.

He sat across from her as she had expected him to; she had expected for her to be sitting a little ways away from him and she was. He spoke now to her, ignoring the fact he had been interrupting a conversation, except he decided to talk to Flitwick instead of Hermione, which was unexpected. She knew he had done this to anger her. "So professor, I’ve often wondered how you could teach us to know charms that are more complicated than the ones you usually teach, Professor Dumbledore over there doesn’t have a clue. I’m sure as the intelligent professor you are, that you would be able to tell us about such things." A charming sly person, he had managed to get a response from the instructor.

"Oh there are wonderful obscure charms, everybody said it was strange reading them, because I could never do them, but it turns out I was smart to learn them, even if I can’t do them. I learned all sorts of languages to master them; I’m sure I could spend a bit of my extra time teaching two charming students such as yourselves. Why I’d love to do it!"

Draco looked at Hermione for a second. "Im sure Granger and I will learn much."

"Are you sure Malfoy?"

"Yes, Hermione, I know you will learn much."

"How should you know?"

"If you knew it, you would have said something. You can’t stand listening to something you already know." His words were true as hell.

She blushed, and felt an odd sort of anger for his ability to get the part of her he did, and saying it, it was strange being in the company of a person that wasn’t inhibited by a slow mind, like Ron and Harry.

Hermione decided to eat then, and she watched Draco as he did; he was becoming so thin, and he ate a bit, managing to hold the silverware so that it looked most elegant, eating with the proper amount of slowness, and sit with enough sophistication; such things she had now become.

He did not speak to her during the course of the meal, but she was aware that his eyes were upon her the entire time, trying to figure her out; or analyze her in some way.

She excused herself from the table after finishing, and as she stood up, so did he, although with great difficulty, explaining it was only proper to stand up when a lady did to leave.) She gave him a final glance and was on her way, confounded like a drunken dog tilting its head. Once he had finished, he got up from the table and slowly began to leave, but Dumbledore stopped him and took him to the chambers where Harry had gone after being named a school Champion in their fourth year, they did not stop there. Dumbledore led him to a short passageway that led to his office. Once seated, the professor began his inquiry. "You were rather distant when I brought you here with Ms. Granger. Why would you be that way, Draco?" asked Dumbledore.

"You are happy, Professor, you were happy and I didn’t like you, if you think you get what I mean, but you don’t. I think you must know that I hate you because of your disregard for the truth. I know the truth of the world, I alone do, and I alone know the truth of my condition. I know the reason why I hate this world as I hate you. All day long you smile, as if the world was a sky full of blue and a land of green and flowers, that every person lives with a sort of morality they hang to with determination. Instead you’ll look around and the truth is evil and dirty and wrong.

"The world succumbs to lust, and need for something that is dirty and stained, something they make dirty, they speak lies and lie knowingly, excusing it as normal, excusing anything they want to believe is moral. Do you know what people do at night in this very castle, Professor? They screw like wild animals, crazily and savagely. They lie and say that it is normal to hurt those that are decent because they have no idea what it feels like. They wait in the dark like a serpent waiting for one good person, someone who is good and then they strike. They live to kill the good, and they deny it, truly believing it isn’t good. The lie waiting for a moment to split a person’s mind, to destroy all bits of hope and want, they split it like harpies, awaiting for the rush of death, for they do kill, and what of the wickedness that is spent, like a God forgetting mercy?

"Every day you smile like it all isn’t happening, that there isn’t a such thing as old age or longing and fear, that love is granted and wanted. The truth is the effect of a person who hides in the dark like a shadow, hoping to fade lines of age and present the once beautiful face they had, knowing that the wisdom of a person grows, just as their wants for love grow and try to be heard. What of the love they keep in their hearts, the love of distant memories and uselessly search for another like the handsome love of their day, kissing lips that are younger and riper, until they must know they are old and ugly? What about the hurt as she destroys the mirrors, not wanting to look; instead knowing the youth of her heart is still there? What about the hate one feels for themselves as they begin to see little parts of the world they hate appear in their own soul, the same useless lust, instead they lust stronger and control it? They breathe its air and never act on it, silencing all wants. They sit like a child alone and hugging themselves, as if afraid of what night will be, only they sit in the dark afraid of what light will reveal, knowing darkness is their only friend. Or what of the memories they talk to with loving voices like the beautiful youths they once were, hearing time and time again from their own lips the name; the name they could use in memories in which their names were called lovingly sweetly? What of those who see a rare child suffer as they did? What of the parent that hates the child, hates it like a bull hates at a red cloth, charging and beating it? What if the child lives with all purity? What of the unused tears they should feel as they see the wrong and feel the burden of knowing it? They wont cry, they have lost the will, living in a half-reality of sorts where things are as they should be, answering their own prayers for life and hope and need, granting it only in states of sub-consciousness, unaided by the truth, going away from the paradise they have created for themselves never knowing to say goodbye because of the truth that they are dying. What of the things they see?

"How can you smile? How can you forgive the truth as you do? How can you smile? How can every moment be an ecstasy for you? Can you live, what if it happened to you, that you could live the hell others do?"

His words were bitter and knowing.

He did not wait to be excused; he used all the strength he had and closed the door behind him, going down like he was the fastest person on earth, ignoring all physical limitations and reaching his room and ripping off his shirt and going to the mirror to stare at the scars of his body, and then taking the rest of his clothes off to see cold, pale beauty of his skin, the mirror to the mirror of his depression. Half naked and sore, he looked at what made it so and moaned in indescribable pain. He stared at the mirrors and watched his eyes lose their argentous shine and become dark with sadness… fogged sadness; he was lost in nothing but the sadness. So he stayed for hours on end.

He heard a knock on his door. Putting back on his shirt, he went and answered it, expecting to find Snape. It wasn’t. Hermione was there and she looked at him. She was concerned; she didn’t know why it was important enough that she see him, but she came. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"Come in," he said, letting her through the door. He had obviously taken great care to decorate the room, and she admired it, from the neoclassic influences to the corner of his room which he had made a library of. She found a chair and sat down. The chair was elegant and antique. She took off the cloak and sat in her dress; it was lavish and beautiful, and she looked awing. Hermione obviously had no understanding of the word overdressed and so she wore what would have made a statement in the Palais Versailles. Her gown seemed even to exotic for Madame Pompadour to have worn.

He sat himself down across from her and looked appreciatively at her, as if her presence had calmed him. "I’m sorry it’s so dusty, some of the books are very old."

"No it’s fine, my room is like that. I have a library too." She paused for a moment. "So I came here to see if you had managed all the way, I wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt."

He nodded. "Is that all? I wouldn’t want you to burden yourself by coming all the way down here."

"I’m worried about you, about your health I mean. Are you okay? It seems you’re okay, that’s it, except – why did you stand up like that earlier today? I’d like to know."

He smiled at this. "That’s good; at first I thought you were going to give me a glomp for Gryffindor glory. It means I think you’re a lady, and when a lady stands, a gentleman is supposed to stand as well."

She smiled. "I know the tradition, Draco, I meant why you didn’t stand when McGonagall got up."

"She isn’t as sophisticated as you; when I do so again, consider it a sign that you are a true lady, so few girls care for propriety as I do. I’ve always felt that way. Besides, I was feeling particularly generous, because you helped me walk up the stairs before lunch."

* * * *

 

"Did you bring me here to seduce me? I don’t go with women, I think them vile and disgusting," said Salazar Slytherin.

"Men have always come down, never denying the animal lust as they take me. Sex is every man’s weakness, and now that I know it isn’t yours, I must say you are not typical. You alone have managed to do as much all before the age of thirty. I am older than you, but I will surpass you; I have ambition, what separates a man from a slave. What drives or fails us all? Ambition. I was given the lion’s share. I know how to seduce you, Salazar, I’d captivate your mind, take it and challenge it as no person has; I am an intellectual, I can impress you, just as Cleopatra seduced both Mark Antony and Caesar. I have descended from the Ptolemy line."

He smiled. "I have descended from myself. I am richer than you. Do you think throwing a spectacle would influence me? You are not a god, Cleopatra was not a god; you are human, know it, live by it."

"I’ll have you know that my ambition gets higher with each remark, I’ll build a country, make her rich, stump the glory of great Slytherin. I am a God, I will do it. I have enough money; see me buy the country of another and rule it. I rule the princes of Europe; all of them have succumbed to me."

"I am the King of Europe, you can’t expect to take a country with the king as your enemy."

She stepped closer to his form. "All I want is that one piece of land, the wild untamed beauty has never been matched. I will acquire it one way or another, know that. When I do, my school will make me a legend, a queen."

"What would you give me for it?"

"I will give everything I have to offer. I will give every item in my possession. Such is the sacrifice I was willing to give; now I will give my body and my soul."

"Save the useless pretending, you’ve lost your soul, and there are many people who’ve taken the joy of your body. I ask again, what will you give?"

"Good to the world as deemed by you, or the permission for you to destroy me. To destroy my ambition. What will you give me if I win?"

"You will get the joys of my body, used in whatever way you want to, be it venereal, for torture, or for death."

"I will use it lasciviously Salazar, that would be the best way to humiliate you. And you will lose, there is no way I won’t win, it is inconceivable."

* * * *

"I’m worried about you, you’re always distant, like you don’t want to know the reality, and you’re thin, and pale, and unhealthy. I know there’s something about you; there was a pain I saw when you smiled at me that showed through your eyes, and your composure was so quiet and reserved; even when you were younger, I’d see you and you’d be distant from people. I’m your friend Draco, I want to help you, I just want to know."

She had surprised him, but he caught on. "You didn’t get that from me smiling at you, Dumbledore told you. Tell me the truth."

She shook her head. "Snape did."

* * * *

Bellatrix Lestrange looked at Narcissa through the Floo and smiled, in that typical aristocratic expression that every Lestrange knew. Narcissa was a Black, and she thought it her duty to carry the name even more than her sister; and so she decided she would marry Lucius, even if she had been used by Snape. She had to wed Lucius, he had a name more valuable (respectable) than Black; it would give her that tiny bit of dignity she had hoped for.

"You would have never gone willingly to his bed, Sister. I know he forced you. It is not good to be so beautiful, Narcissa. You want to wed him, because honor and it’s brother, duty command you to. Give into it."

She saw the smirk on her sister’s face. "I shall, and in so doing I shall be forever silent."

She never spoke after that except for a yes or a no. She only spoke, and only a few times, to the non-human, the house elves and ghosts; most of the time she just read.

Except every night she was back to the day, like a hell had been chosen again for her. Every night she’d know something would happen at a certain time, which something was doomed to happen. She was like Cassandra; she refused to give into sex, and so she knew and the world ignored.

*          *          *          *                      

Snape,

I am married now, and I am pregnant, only the baby isn’t his. Night after night you’ve come to me, and now you didn’t think it would happen, taking me in the dark, to feel those horrid hands bruise me. Night after night you’d force me to come to you, to say you’d hurt Lucius if I didn’t. Night, after hellish night I’d find you doing that animalistic deed, and now I’m with child Snape, and it isn’t fathered by the seed of the man I’ve loved, no, it is your own son. Snape, imagine your own flesh and blood is going to be born in this world. He’ll go to school, and you’ll be his teacher, and day after day you’ll see him become more like you. He’ll develop the same temperament, the same passions and furies, and you’ll remember day after day what you’ve done to me, as I am forced to, you can’t intervene, my sister knows, Rudolphus is stronger than you. He can hurt you, as you threatened to hurt Lucius, how should you liked that? Maybe God will take pity on you and ease the pain. He’ll help you just as he has helped me write this letter to you now. He will be named Draco, and I shall secretly call him Severus every single time Lucius is not around, then I can remember my love for you, you who have taken my heart and raced the blood coming from and in through it.

Yours forever,

Lady Narcissa Cuipiltiers Black Malfoy

 

Severus came to her the next day with letter in hand and asked her. "Is it true?"

He never forgot what she did.

"Draco, Severus,"

Her words laconic and bitter.

He had asked again, and all she did was sit, indifferent, and silent; he had since then looked at him, forever wondering whether he was his. He seemed to have qualities of both himself and Lucius, but most of all he was like his mother, from that same ageless beauty, to that sense of honor. It was like looking at Narcissa when she was pure, like Draco was; even his intellect was hers. He had that same thirst for knowledge, that same ability to use logic and make connections between the obscure, both were in possession of such rare and unusual intellects. He was her, in mind, face, and temperament.

He had been his daily hell for six long years, and for so many reasons, and it was deserved.

* * * * * *

Draco panicked with good reason; she might hate him or pity him, no one had pitied him. He wouldn’t have allowed it. He knew he would have pitied himself, and their minds were similar. He stood up and grabbed her up, his grip firm.

"What did that man tell you, Hermione?"

She sat down, away from his grip. "He wouldn’t tell me, except that you weren’t doing anything, that you haven’t eaten in days, until lunch; and then you ate hardly anything and skipped dinner, and you’re thin. It’s like you’re a stick. I don’t think you were in bed for three days because of an accident, you did something to yourself. He looked in horror. I know you’re not well, the way you’re reacting, its not normal, if it wasn’t true, you wouldn’t be panicking."

"It’s nothing. My life is fine, thank you very much."

She shook her head. "What are you like, Draco? I trust you aren’t dangerous, but I don’t know who you are. I’ve grown fond of your intellect." She smiled now. "You have no idea how much I need you, after spending all of my days with Harry and Ron, I need someone who’s as intelligent as you are. They wouldn’t know a smart thing to say if it landed in front of them in an open book. I even looked to you for that when we weren’t friends. Like you said ‘they’re two boys gawking, gaping, and giving glorious glares for gaping at their Gryffindor greats’."

He took her hand that was holding his and sat next to her, and smiled. "It was sweet of you to come here, but I swear I’m fine, you know Snape’s a slimy git."

"You’re right," she said. "-About him being a git, but I think he has your best interests at heart, and I can’t very well excuse the way you acted, can I?

"I’ll eat more if that’s what you want."

"Good, because I got you some food from the kitchens."

He smiled; it was funny and strange to him that she’d get food for him and he appreciated it. It was a nice gesture. "You’re not allowed in the kitchens, Hermione, you know that. What possessed you?"

She smiled. "I’ve been there before, but I got permission from Dumbledore when I did, I don’t now, lets just say you have a bad effect on me."

She got a bag that was folded into her cloak, and magicked the food out and he saw it was all perfectly preserved. "Thank you, I really appreciate all of this."

She shrugged. "I didn’t know what you liked so I got you a bit of everything. Except I figured you liked sweets, because you used to get them all the time from that eagle-owl of yours; I got you a bit more of those."

"Oh that, I struck a bargain with the Weasley twins, I’d let them get their stuff tested, if I could use Crabbe and Goyle as subjects."

She smiled, despite herself. "Well anyway, you’re here to eat, so do it."

He did; she had brought him all sorts of things, and for once she wanted him to just eat it, but he had to take his time making it look like he was a gentlemen, cutting everything up into little pieces, taking tiny bites, and being extremely well in means of etiquette.

He had been eating for about twenty minutes, and then he realized that she was watching him, and he took the food and conjured some plates, which were all absolutely exquisite, and she knew it wasn’t a simple spell, and he had done it without a wand. "I’ve been practicing."

He then took the food and spent fifteen minutes preparing everything on the plates and making it look presentable for her, and gave it to her. "You can’t just stay here watching me eat," he said, and she took the trouble of picking up every nuance in the way he ate, and using them. She realized he probably knew, but he said nothing. He just ate. When they were at last finished, he cleared everything away, and felt the weight of her gaze bearing upon him. "What?" he asked.

"You’re more quiet than I thought you’d ever be, I thought you’d be a little less loquacious."

He gave her a wry smile; one side inclined a bit above the other until he was grinning. He looked so different like that; she had no idea what to make of him. "You supposed Id be a bit more of a talker, did you? That I’d spend all day talking to you and asking about everything, and complaining. I guess I’ve just ran out of things that I’ve had the will to complain about." He laughed at this, but there was such a painful honesty in his comment that he should have been crying before even smiling.

She smiled too; there were things she was realizing about him. He was a good person, she had known that he was right, that he wasn’t good to people undeserving, but he was so good to her now, she found she didn’t care.

"I guess its best I get going now, I suppose."

"I suppose you’re right." He smiled; a slight endearing smile. "Goodbye."

She got up, put her cloak back on and left. He was left alone, and out of his friendly trance, he stood and he began thinking about why Snape would tell her what he had, and what he could do to punish him, he didn’t know that every day with presence, he caused Snape a life in Tartarus.

What did Hermione know? Would she have come to him had she known anything? The entire time she had been with him, he had thought of this, he felt like there was no privacy; he didn’t want her looking at him, analyzing him; it made him feel like a disturbed person. He liked her, but he didn’t want to be anything more, if she got close and found out, what would happen? How would he cope?

*          *          *          *          *

 

It happened six months later:

 

 

Hermione stood, alone. Harry and Ron had bid adieu for what would be at least a couple of months. She gazed across the room to Draco. He stood alone, and he looked at her and made his way over. He had reached her. He gave her a letter and she carried it under her arm as he expected. “I’ve never liked the manor. I will be gone for a couple of months. Will you write to me?” She nodded in answer. “I will miss you.”

 

She shook her head. “Will you now?”

 

He nodded, teasing her earlier response. “I will miss having a person to talk to.”

 

She nodded, she seemed to be doing that a lot lately. “I will miss you too.” She stood in front of him now. He was still so unknown to her. When she did know, it will be revealed whether she wished she had. She now wanted to know everything she knew he would never tell her. She could see her mother, Draco had not yet gone away, she had not noticed until just now. Her mother was there in front of them. She looked at Draco, he looked back and then gave a slight bow to please his friend.

 

“You must be Hermione’s mother, of course, she told me I should recognize you by your immense beauty. I’m afraid she has done your description very ill Madam. Well I best be off Hermione, Mrs. Granger, the sky is falling and I don’t want to miss the clouds, and send the rain my regards before he decides to rain harder, he’s jealous like that.” He turned to walk away, meeting the rain as an underperformed introduction to his life for the next two months. Where on earth was the thunder, why hadn’t it struck him. The omen still would not do his life justice. He carried his belongings and drifted into halls, but not before telling his friend something. “Let me prey you will catch a piece of blue sky, that the rain only performs to me”

 

Hermione stood giggling, it was so perfectly like him to leave such an impression as he left her mother, knowing full well he could control it. He did and when the two stepped out, and the sky bluer than the sea, her mother stood gaping. “Who is he dear?”

 

“Someone who needs to be less obvious.” She stepped out with her mother, trying to explain the handsome stranger as best she could.

 

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

 

 

 

Ron looked to Ginny. She smiled at him; a simple smile. “I’m going to take a walk.” He nodded.

 

“Maybe I should come along?” She shook her head.

 

“I’ll be out for a couple of hours. I want to remember things, relive the memories.” He nodded thinking she wished to relive the memories of the surroundings she’d play in as a young girl, and he excused her. Indeed she remembered again, only now she was remembering something ever darker.

 

She walked until she came to the forest. She heard her voice being called.

 

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

 

 

Dear Hermione,

 

I am writing to you now as I ride a train that leads to a place within a few miles of the manor. I write to you now for reasons you shall never know because I will never tell you. How are you doing? How is your mother reacting to what I did? Send my apologies if I did anything wrong. Well I wish you all the happiness in the world, and all of the happiness I shall never have, now that I do not have you to bring any remnants of sanity in my mind. I write to you now, knowing I am your dearest of friends. You will miss me. You shall miss my company. How long has it been that we are friends? Has it been perhaps two months since you told me I was your friend? Ever since that ridiculous day you were practicing your etherimagry, and decided to burn anything within a fifteen foot radius of Professor Snape, including his hair; we have been friends. How is your father? Is he still beating you up about not reading Tolstoy and Dostoevsky in their entirety. If you need to make a report or anything, I have read him, and so I can help you.

 

Draco Malfoy

 

 

 

The letter was sarcastic, she thought it funny that he would mention her father. He told her he was disappointed in her for not reading his favorite Russian authors. She stashed the letter away in her pocket, and turned to her mother. “So who was he? I’m still not quite sure.”

 

“I told you he is a friend. He stopped the raining because he’s powerful enough to do it.”

 

“He’s handsome,” replied her mother. “He’s uncommonly beautiful.”

 

“I’ve never cared, he is handsome, but it has nothing to do with our friendship.” She smiled. “The letter I just got was from him, he offered to help me if I needed to tell dad about Tolstoy and Dostoevsky.”

 

 

*            *            *            *            *

 

 

 

The black shadow land struck with faces of black and purple, leading away from the sun. She came through in her best cloak, one Harry had given her. She couldn’t see but she kept walking, oblivious to the dark.

 

Out of nowhere, her face was greeted by a white expanse of light. She trudged on the damp earth, now crawling, as if trying to find the source. Then it was clear and a hand with long fingers cupped her face and brought it up. There he was.

 

 

Riddle

 

 

She gasped, too paralyzed to do anything. “Hello Virginia.”

 

 

His hand touched her shoulder and he smiled. She looked up, trying to express the waves of emotion that flooded her being. She felt first anger and pushed him away, she noticed how young he looked. He was beautiful.

 

Then she knew fear, and she again stood frozen, her eyes wide but feeling a sort of recognition. Her eyes betrayed a love deeply engulfed in her mind. He sat next to her, his hands around her waist. “Do you remember me?” he asked, his voice soft. “ Beautiful child, you’ve been away from me.”

 

 

The Black bloodline flows from Slytherin blood. The Granger blood flows from Slytherin blood. The Malfoy blood flows from Beauxbatons. The Snape blood flows from Slytherin. They all feel to a like effect, they all know ambition, and humility, they differ in action.

Blood is important, of this, anyone can be sure.