Black Apathy

Black Apathy

There was something calming about the lake, its wavelets gently slapping against the sand, bright in the moonlight. It was the rhythm that went on, in harmony with the swishing of the trees that were right up against the shore. There was even the far off sound of animal movement in the forest. He wondered if the night, so melodic in its monotony, would be disrupted if he fell into the lake. He wouldn't even struggle, welcoming the black water as it engulfed him in apathy. There would be ripples, and then the night would go on as if nothing happened. Which, in essence, was right.

Swish, slap. Swish, slap.

The lone black figure sitting by the lake was completely still, taking advantage of the serenity to forget his troubles. There was no quiet in his life these days. He welcomed it as much as he did the silence, using both ends of the extreme to drown.

Gryffindor house made so much noise that his silence had gone unnoticed. Other shouts took the place of his own, raucous laughter no longer included him in its hilarity. At first, his friends had been somewhat concerned about this sudden change in behavior, the muteness.

Hermione would slide discreet, worried glances his way every once in a while. She never confronted him with it, being afraid of the truth in her own way. Apparently satisfied with his appetite and grades, she accepted the silence as a natural stage of growth. Strangely, she found him a good study partner, for he always concentrated on books with an intense ferocity that looked misplaced in the library. Consequently, between Hermione and the books, his grades were higher than ever.

Ron left the emotional things to Hermione. Being completely ignorant and perplexed about what other people were thinking, he had felt no misplaced discomfort when his other best friend let the silence slide. Of course he still avoided the library like the plague and decided they were both nutters to spend so much time there.

So, he was left in peace, as Gryffindor house wilfully ignored his new attitude, with the other houses following suit, those who knew the truth respectfully avoided mentioning anything to him. Those who didn't know admired his new gravity and wished him well. Actually, very few people inside Hogwarts walls felt any ill will towards him anymore.

Snape, well... was Snape. That was all there was to it.

Draco Malfoy, another one of his nemesis, had been subdued of late, though he certainly had no reason to. His father managed to charm Fudge with the tantalizing scent of money and prestige and had gotten off the hook. Again. Still, all factors considered, the smug git certainly wasn't his usual cocky self.

Voldemort. He let out a hollow laugh, momentarily derailing the night's calm sounds. The ministry had been split in half in regards to the dark lord's return. The "renegade" members became a sort of extended Order, while the others, led by Fudge, tried to discredit any claims of Dumbledore's about Voldemort's return. It didn't help at all. He could just sit back and watch them pick each other off.

A twig snapped somewhere from behind him, and, unthinkingly, he turned around and tackled the person around the waist.

He found himself straddling the aforementioned Draco Malfoy, with a hand raised, ready to strike. The Slytherin sixth-year stared back up at him, silver eyes hard even in the dimness of his shadow.

He sighed and drawled out a solitary word.

"Potter."

"Malfoy."

"Kindly get off me, you great sod."

"What are you doing out here at this hour, Malfoy?"

"I should be asking you the same question, scarhead. I was on prefect patrol, as it happens."

"I don't believe you." It was a simple statement, very ordinary, and, taken out of context, could have been uttered between any two people at any given moment. But this simple phrase summed up the two boys' feelings perfectly. Draco did not trust Harry, and Harry did not trust Draco. It was a constant, albeit childish and annoying, but a constant nonetheless; taken for granted, flung in faces, forgotten in a moment of heated debate, but it was there. It was almost depended upon, that both parties would draw comfort from it, this continuous bickering, for lack of a better word. Draco Malfoy was a believer in traditions, and he drew strength from this one.

"Well never mind," he said, sounding very much like a cross six year old, "I won't ask any questions and you won't ask any questions, and neither one of us was here."

"Sounds like a deal, Malfoy." Harry was surprised, to say the least, but he was determined to not show it before the ice prince of Slytherin. In a house famous for its emotionally reserved, Malfoy ranked at the top for concealing what was behind that contemptuous, arrogant face of his. Had Harry known remotely anything about wizarding society, he would have understood that it was the kind of façade Malfoys had. Contrary to popular belief, the family was actually not of Dark origin. However, recent events had pushed the leaders of the clan into making ambitious and daring decisions. Some of those decisions were misguided, but a Malfoy always stood up for what he believed in.

In his effort to not appear surprised, Harry realized that the peace of the lake had been shattered, for him, at least. He tried to settle back into the smooth melody of the nature around him, and found that he could not. Every time he listened, he would find himself contemplating the blond young man sitting next to him; wondering what had brought him, too, to meditate here next to a wellspring of life and death; eventually that turned to openly staring at his motionless profile, studying the features that he knew and hated so well.

Well, there certainly was no use for staying any longer. The spell of the darkness had been broken. He supposed he should get back to the common room before Hermione raised holy hell, intent upon keeping him in safety.

Harry got up and walked away without so much as a goodbye. He tried to quell a feeling of guilt inside him; it wasn't like he and Malfoy were friends or anything. As he left, he thought he heard a suppressed whimper, like when someone cries and they don't want anyone to know. He walked faster, and soon disappeared out of sight. And Draco Malfoy lay on the soft grass, sobbing at the unfairness of the world.