Castles

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: Er. Drabble. With a semi-plot. A semi-plot-not-really-but-I'll-pretend. That works. This is sort of random.

1.1.1.1.

Today the clouds are insubstantial white; vapor mists obstructing the pale blue of the sky with their gauzy wings. She likes the sky. She likes today's weather. She likes most any weather.

She remembers when she was a little girl and so awestruck by all this magic around her. The ceiling reflected the sky that night and she remembers being so thrilled.

She smiles, but frowns when her view is obstructed by a large mass of hulky bodies clad in green and silver. The pitch has been taken, and so she quietly leaves before she is spotted by Them. It is cowardly, and the lion within her rears its head in indignation, but things--racism; Mudblood-ism--have been getting so bad at school lately that she is scared to walk anywhere without the protection of her two friends.

Bodyguards.

Bodyguards from the wands of bored Slytherins. Bodyguards from the harsh words and mockery of her peers. Bodyguards from the truth because Malfoy might be right.

Mudblood whore.

And she quickly wonders what homework she has tonight because those kinds of thoughts depress her.

1.1.1.1.

This is the story.

"Do you love me?"

Low mutter. "Shit."

"Do you?"

"...Are you going to make me answer that?"

"Yes. And I kind of know the answer, but I want to hear it from your lips."

Suspiciously. "You don't have Rita Skeeter hiding behind the curtain or anything, do you?"

"Do you love me?"

"...No. I don't love you at all. I don't love you when you're using the toilet. And I certainly don't love you after you've had beans for dinner. I don't love you when you're screaming at me and I don't love you when you're pulling my hair and I don't love you when you ask me these kinds of questions."

Satisfied. "That's all I wanted to know."

1.1.1.1.

Today the clouds are white and grouped in clusters. She could almost cry as she lies on the field and stares up through brown lashes because they look so solid and so near. It is almost as if there are people living up there--that they have their villages and skyscrapers and castles shaped out of the pearly white and are merely hidden from view.

She squints. The castles look so close she could touch them, and she lifts up a hand to reach, but her fingers close on nothing but air.

The taste of bile is still sour on her tongue.

Mudblood.

It's almost enough to make her cry again, and this time not because she thinks the clouds are so pretty pretty pretty, but because it hurts that someone could hate her that much. That they could hate her when she has nothing that anybody could hate her for. She's not beautiful, so she doesn't outshine anybody. She's cut back on the bossiness and the condescension and the jump-to-answer-the-question-ness because one day she turned around and realized that maybe people might not like those parts about her.

Only...only it seemed to make things worse.

Mudblood.

She smiles, grimly, and strides up to the castle because she doesn't want Malfoy to think that he's finally scared her off. Because she is a strong person and she is a big person and she is better than that.

And that scares her a little, because it's that kind of thinking that enables him to talk to her that way.

1.1.1.1.

"So it's over, huh? The war, I mean. How does it feel to be a hero?"

"Not particularly fantastic."

"But you won, Granger. Isn't that what it was all about?"

Indignantly. "No. It was about--"

"Hey, I know what it was about. I've heard it enough." Together. "We are fighting for the Greater Cause." Drifts off. "Funny how they never told you what that Greater Cause was."

"Don't."

Teasingly; lightly. Darkly. "Don't what?"

"Don't talk to me that way. You've got yourself bailed out of prison because the Ministry needs your money. So don't talk to me about Causes. And hardy har har; isn't that funny?"

"A bit bitter, are we?"

"Go kiss Voldemort's spiny arse."

"Can't. He's dead."

"Kissed up enough, though, didn't you? Nice rise in ranks. And your ability to squirm out of unpleasant situations."

Calmly. "Sometimes, Granger, I hate you a little bit."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Muffled silence.

Gasp. "What was that for?"

"I don't know. You looked nice, is all. Good for my reputation as a redeemed citizen, too."

Angrily. "Wipe my Mudblood germs off your lips, then, Malfoy, because it's not happening again."

1.1.1.1.

Today the clouds are black. A thunderstorm rages, cold and sharp, as the wind whips through the grass and whips up a runny nose. It's a bit gross how she has to use her mittens to rub off the clear liquid from her upper lip, but it's better than letting it run in a long stream of disease-ridden gunk down her face.

And that was a bit gross to think about, too.

She figures she should go in before she catches cold, but pauses before leaving her body-hallowed spot on the grass. There is a figure walking down the hill. One lone figure. And she feels a little bad because it's alone.

Until she sees exactly who it is, and then she doesn't feel so bad and instead she wonders if she can (should?) confront him. Maybe he's different--weak and whimpering and spineless and helpless--without his two bodyguards. Maybe, underneath everything, they're not so different.

At least, that's what Professor Dumbledore would say. But she's kind of lost her faith in him lately because he doesn't support (really and truly support) S.P.E.W. and because he's contributing to Harry's depression and because she's just so tired of his lemon drops when there's something important to be done.

"Malfoy." She spits, and she doesn't know why this would be considered an insult. But somehow it is.

And he ignores her and he strides past her and something inside of her dies a little. Just a little.

You're not fit to lick my feet, Mudblood bitch.

1.1.1.1.

"I saw you. Yesterday."

Startled. "Granger!" Then, surly. "What are you talking about?"

Nonchalantly. "The battle. Twenty six people died. Forty-two casualties. I can name them. Would you like me to? Hestia Akens. Sarah Lifton. Sara Dans--"

Hissed. "What do you want, Granger?"

"Just to tell you. Saw your eyes behind a Death Eater's mask, Malfoy. How many of those twenty-six did you kill? You're not safe, anymore."

"...I'm not...safe? I'm not safe, Granger? Is that what you came to tell me? I'm not safe. Lovely message. Now tell me...are you safe? No one's safe, anymore. That baby across the street...he's not safe, either. So are you safe?"

Angry footsteps.

Silence.

A door slams in the distance.

Whispered. "Are you, Granger?"

1.1.1.1.

Today the clouds are colored. Bright, bold colors like a whore's vibrant make-up before sweat melts all the layers off. Clouds of cotton-candy pink and purple and gold and blue and orange that reflect the sky. She's not quite sure how this works out--after all, to get sunsets like this it has to be polluted. Like...the-world-is-gonna-end polluted.

Or maybe Hagrid had a lot of beans this afternoon.

...That was kind of lame.

She rolls over and knows that she should be reading the heavy, dusty tome beside her but she's not sure she really wants to. She likes the clouds, and the book will be there for a long time but the clouds always change. For certain clouds, though, she wishes that the sky didn't change because she wants so badly to keep that certain cloud in the sky, in the same shape, forever.

It doesn't work that way, though.

And she misses Ron so much.

It's funny how things work out. She was supposed to be with him. It was the way it worked. Because...that was the way things were supposed to go. Only she couldn't compete with everybody else. She couldn't compete with...well, all the other girls she was competing with.

Which was silly.

She sighs again and the bright whore-make-up of the clouds fails to comfort her.

Ugly Mudblood wannabe slut.

She concentrates instead on hating Malfoy. It's easier, especially while he and Crabbe and Goyle are walking around the lake and cackling over some boy-joke that she doesn't want to know. She concentrates on hating the way spiteful eyes and spiteful lips hiss spiteful words.

It's easy.

Sticks and stones, Malfoy.

1.1.1.1.

Tauntingly. "What are you going to do now, Malfoy? No more school. Hogwarts isn't here for you, anymore. Have to enter real life."

"I'd ask the same of you, Granger."

"Of course, I haven't lived in Daddy's little custom-made cushioned shell for most of my life. So my situation might be a little different."

"How so?"

Deprecating glance. "Obviously, Malfoy. You will go your way. I will go my way. We will probably meet up again...later. And I...I don't think you need me to elaborate."

Meaningful silence. "I see."

Subdued. "I'll be seeing you, Malfoy." Hesitation. "I--" Brusque. "Take care of yourself."

"You too, Granger."

1.1.1.1.

Today the clouds are heather gray and the atmosphere of the day reflects the weather. The grass is wet, rich blue-green to complement its backdrop. Given a choice, many would rather stay inside to shelter themselves from the morose fog, but she has chosen to come out--it is her thinking spot, and the weather is not so very cold that she needs anything more than a sweater.

It is nothing but a thick canopy of vapor heavy with evaporated, condensed water. She knows this.

She likes the thought of castles in the sky, though.

Far above is a figure on a broomstick, wheeling above the grounds. She fancies she can hear the rider's whoops of exhilaration as he (or she--perhaps she is only a sexist, stereotyping little chauvinist after all) wheels his/her broom in positions that may be outlawed in several countries for sheer fatality demographics. Apparently, she smiles wryly, she is not the only person who enjoys the clouds.

The rider weaves in and out of gray mist.

Stupid Mudblood.

It is unsurprising that Malfoy infiltrates her mind at such a random moment; a tapeworm burrowing into her stomach as she swells with disease. Somehow, he refuses to let himself be forgotten to the few that take note of his presence.

Because really...he's not so important as he likes to think he is. He's just another face.

He's just another face.

But lately, with the efforts of his House now at full power, something is subtly wrong. There is something wrong in the way Lavender Brown avoids touching her whenever possible. There is something wrong in the way that it takes a few moments--such small moments that last an eternity--before Padma Patil mechanically reflects her smile whenever they pass in the hallways.

Stupid Mudblood.

Above her head, the rider soars through the mist and she sees a flash of green.

1.1.1.1.

"They say we are suited."

"Who say what?"

"...Er, them say that."

"Who's 'them'?"

"The...girls. In the bathroom."

"The bathroom."

Defiantly. "Yes, the bathroom."

"And what the hell is so reliable and so important about what is said in the bathroom?"

"It's like the...the Roman baths of Hogwarts. It's socializing time. And they say we are suited."

"Suited?"

"Are you absolutely dense, Malfoy? They say that we'd maybe make a...a couple."

"Oh, gross. Spare me."

Silence.

"Granger? ...Granger? Aw, come on, Granger, I didn't mean it that way."

Silence.

"Granger? Don't get pissy. Hey, hey, don't get sad. I didn't mean it that way. They're kinda right. Maybe. Er. Possibly. Er. Not really. But we're good. We're good, aren't we? Granger?" Quietly. "Ah, fuck."

Subdued. "Yeah." Cheerfully. "Yeah, we're good. Now do your homework."

"Effing cow."

"...No. Nah, I don't think we're suited at all."

1.1.1.1.

Today there are no clouds.

She knows it is silly to be a little, well, sad about it. She knows she should be happy that there are no clouds to soften the sharp endlessness of the sky. She knows this.

All the same, she kind of...she sort of misses her castles.

Silly, silly little Mudblood.

Dreams fall and shatter to dust as she lies in her golden bubble and peers outside.

And she is so tired. And she needs a constant, so she shouts (nay, screams and shrieks and bawls) to the sky.

-Why me?

-What did I ever do to you?

-Fuck you, Malfoy.

-There is a war. Do you hear? Do you see?

-I hate you.

-Fuck you, Malfoy.

There is something like relief in her as sweat trickles down her forehead and she subsides as the last echoes of her angry cries fade in the distance. Only...she is so tired.

There is no magic and no book in this world that will take her away, now.

Silly, silly little Mudblood.

She sees him as he strolls over and deigns to sit next to her. He smirks/smiles/grimaces a smirk/smile/grimace that is made of fallen castles that shoot to the ground in one last burning comet of glory. She wonders if it is lonely in his mansion.

He is only a little boy who makes faces and pulls the hair and flings mud at the little girl who did nothing but ask him if he wanted to play with her, after all.

1.1.1.1.

This is the story.

"Why alone, little Mudblood bitch?"

Frostily. "Because sometimes people like to be left alone."

"Really? I don't."

"Malfoy, not everybody lives in your world. Now g-go away."

Pause. Curiously. Sinuously. "Scared, Granger?"

"Of what? You? I doubt it."

"Why're you getting up to leave?"

"Because I'm afraid that your disgusting behavior will rub off on me."

"You're the one who has the germs; not me. If anything, you might be able to scrape off a little bit of Malfoy poise and aristocracy."

Muttered. "Daddy's influence."

"Eh?"

Too sweetly. "Nothing. If you wish to escape with all your body parts still intact, I suggest you leave."

"I prefer not to. You know you can't do anything, Granger."

Low. "Please."

Cheerfully. "Won't and wouldn't. I heard you scream my name, after all--although not exactly in bliss. More like a rather vicious rage. I did hear the word 'fuck' in it, though."

"You're so vulgar."

"Mmn. And you are a bitch. We're even."

Restrained. "I don't...I don't think I like you very much, Malfoy."

"Really, now? I'm touched. I don't think I like you very much either, Mudblood."

Gloatingly. "Then why are you still here?"

"Because I like the way you turn all teary-eyed and hurt whenever I speak to you."

"Just...go away, Malfoy. Again."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to and because I'm sure you don't want to be in the breathing space of a Mudblood for longer than is necessary."

"Why?"

"...Because that is the main message I have been receiving from you over the past six years...?"

"Why?"

Frustrated. "Because you hate me for no reason other than my blood."

"Why?"

Silence.

Small voice. "I'm tired of playing games, Malfoy."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So am I."

This is the story.

She wishes her Once Upon A Time happened a little differently, though.

1.1.1.1.

A/N: Hope you liked! Reviews make me happy. Like...Jacuzzi happy. Thank you for reading!

Please review?