A Night the Stars Didn't Shine

Draco´s side: The Human Side

`I´m not human? That goes to show you how much you know. You think that I don´t love you, Ginny? I´ll show you not human.´ Draco Malfoy stared into the unusually bright orange fire in the middle of the cold, dank Slytherin common room, both of his fist clenched. The fire lit his face, giving his pale skin an orange hue. His gray eyes hardened and narrowed.

It was cold in the dark dungeons, and empty, too. Not like there had been much activity in there before, but it had been especially empty for the last week due to the fact that everyone else was at home, enjoying their families and stuffing themselves full of holiday-hype food. Malfoy didn´t feel like going home, not to Lucius and the rest of the Death Eaters. To Malfoy, Hogwarts was a secret refuge, a temporary hideaway where he could momentarily live without the troubles of his predestined future constantly bothering him. Except for now. Right now, Hogwarts was the last place he wanted to be. As of now, he would rather face one thousand Death Eaters and Voldermolt and the killing curse then be at Hogwarts.

But he was stuck here, and the problems at home paled, to him anyway, in comparison to the problems he faced here.

`I am human,´ he thought determinedly. `I may not go around hugging trees or saving cats from burning buildings, but I am human, strengths and weaknesses included, and I have nothing to prove to her. The book incident was enough already weakness for a lifetime.´ He clenched the spine of the leather bound sketchbook that he carried with him everywhere, willing it to bust and cease to exist. It was well worn, even though it was relatively new, and almost full of sketches. They were mostly of Ginny.

"Damn book," he said, looking at the soft, textured cowhide cover. "You´re the cause of all this." The book gave no response. Malfoy kept talking to fill in the silence. "It was your fault that you had to open to that page. Why that page?" The book was soundless.

Malfoy raised the book in his hand, aiming it at the fire. This book, his sketchbook, was the problem. So getting rid of it would be the solution.

He hoped that all his problems would burn in it til the blackened pages curled and soot and ash covered the graphite. Then he would crush the smoldering remains of it under his heel, stamping out the pictures and throw them out his window and they would catch the wind and disappear. The whole library/sketch ordeal would vanish into the time and space continuum, only to be remembered by two people, and he would return to his normal life, which consisted of hiding from his father and... not sketching. Homework and Quidditch, he supposed.

And then, after he graduate from Hogwarts, he would fake his death and move to muggle America to escape the Death Eaters. (America held powerful wizards and muggles, and when Voldermolt first began his uprising, they formed a strong resistance effort with England, Spain, France, New Zealand and Australia, and the rest of their magical allies.) He would dye his hair solid purple and pierce his right eyebrow and maybe an ear, so his father couldn´t recognize him. He would adopt the identify of Daemon Marks, who was an overweight muggle businessman from Sweden before his father murdered him, and say he was an tourist from Japan, where nobody questioned people with purple hair and pierced eyebrows. Then he would pay taxes or whatever you did to become a citizen there, and get a degree in rocket science.

But back on the matter of the book. Malfoy pitched the book in the direction of the fire. He watched it arch and fall, pages flapping and rattling together. He caught a brief glimpse of his sketch of Ginny, the one that she had seen. Then it flipped to another one, a new sketch that he had done of Blaise as she stared at the Slytherin tapestry. The book neared the fire.

As the first flames reached out to curl around the book, it froze. It stopped moving completely, it just stayed there and floated in midair. The pages stopped flapping and flipping, the book stayed still and silent, and the flames retreated.

"Talking to inanimate objects again, Malfoy?" an amused voice spoke from the dark stairs. Lazily the book, still in midair, began to float over to the speaker. Blaise Zabini stepped out from the stairs, her wand outstretched and pointing at the book, a mysterious smirk on her mauve lips. She stretched out her arm and took hold of the book.

"Give that back, Zabini. It´s mine," he demanded from his spot in the leather easy chair. She turned her head at him, her long damp black hair flowing on her black robed shoulders, her smirk still on her face.

Violet-eyed Blaise Zabini was beautiful and smart, an Orient and Italian beauty (her father being a predominant magical Italian leader and her mother, a beautiful Japanese model) whose rich family was immersed in the Dark Arts. She, personally, thought that it was boring and `a load of bull´, a term that she had picked up from watching MTV and reading too many American novels. Her family had plans for her to be married after she graduated, but Blaise was interested in modeling and fashion designing, and hoped to strike it big in Paris, the city of her dreams. She was quite the misfit, not acknowledged by the other Slytherins because of her lack of interest in the Dark Arts, and to the other houses simply because she was a Slytherin. She would sit alone at tables in the library or in the Great Hall, studying or writing something on a parchment, never letting their non-acceptance of her affect her or her work.

Blaise had celebrated Hanukkah at Hogwarts of her freewill. She did Hanukkah because no one there celebrated it. Malfoy was quick to point out that no one that attended Hogwarts was Jewish. She said that it was the principal of the matter, not the minor `who said what´ details. They were the only two that had stayed, for whatever reason they chose, at Hogwarts from Slytherin. The other students would begin to trickle in the day after tomorrow, New Years.

"Actually, Malfoy, I believe this book is mine," she said, opening the cover. She sat down in the black easychair across from Malfoy and began to flip through pages quietly, taking notice of the details.

"Excuse me?" he asked. "Those are my sketches in there, that is my handiwork, that is my sketchbook and I want it back. Now," he added, threateningly. Blaise remained unfazed and yawned. She studied one of the pictures with much interest.

"Correction," she said, looking up from a sketch of the interior of a train car. It was the one that he had traveled in on the Hogwarts Express. "These were your sketches, that was you handiwork, but this is my sketchbook now. When you tossed it, that meant that you no longer wanted it. So it´s mine," she explained, then went back to looking at the next sketch. Draco sighed. "Fine, whatever. You want it, it´s yours." He went back to staring at the fire. `Not my problem anymore,´ he thought, thinking of his former sketchbook that now lay in Blaise´s open hands.

"These are very good, Malfoy," she said, turning the page. It was his first one of Ginny. He felt like hitting his head on the cushioned armrest, even though it wouldn´t hurt. Not like the bookcases. Those hurt.

"Thanks," he said, unemotionally, pretending to study his fingernails carefully.

"Who are these of?" Blaise asked, looking up and glancing at him. "Someone you fancy?"

"What is it of you concern?" he asked back, his eyes narrowed. She shrugged. "I just thought that since this girl is so pretty, and that you have so many sketches of her that you have taken a liking into her."

Malfoy might´ve snorted but it would´ve confirmed Blaise´s suspicions. "Well, you thought wrong," he said stubbornly, his arms folded over his chest.

She looked at him, studying everything: his eyes, eyebrows, chin line, and his posture. She took her wand out of her robe pocket and pointed it straight at him. "Funny, Malfoy, funny. Now this time, tell me the truth," she said.

"What? That´s not supposed to be funny. Listen, have you heard the joke about `purple shades´? No? Ok, so there´s this kid that was late getting up for school, and his mum told him not to take the back alleys, but he did anyway, and this bum jumped out at him and yelled `Purple Shades!´ and the kid... oh, ok. I take it you´ve heard it then," he said, staring at the brown mahogany tip of the wand that was still pointing at him. Blaise was superior in Charms, top in her class. He had been hoping that the joke, which wasn´t funny at all, would distract her. She didn´t answer, she just calmly stared an unnerving stare at him, eyebrows raised, book in her lap, wand pointing at him, and that same smirk on her lips.

"Right," he said, running his hand through his hair. He had taken a shower earlier in the evening, and it fell loosely around his face, giving him a punk rebellious look, contrasting the aristocratic aura that usually surrounded him. "She´s a Gryffindor, she´s one year younger than me, and did I mention that she hates my guts? And Blaise, did I forget to mention the worst thing? I love her anyway. Even though we´ll never even be allowed to date, or even speak with civility to each other, and regard each other with the same level of respect, I do," he said quickly. Blaise nodded in understanding. "Doesn´t sound so bad," she said quietly.

"What? She hates my entire being! She would rather kiss Voldermolt than me!" he exclaimed. "Are you sure?" she asked, lowering her wand to her side and going back to looking at the book.

"Yes, I´m sure. Why wouldn´t I be sure?" he asked, kicking his feet onto the ottoman. He stared at the fire again. It had consumed most of the charred logs and was slowly dying. It had lost the blue part, it was red and yellow and orange mostly.

"I´m in here," she observed softly, apparent surprise in her melodic voice. "Yeah, you are," he said, remembering the time when he had sketched her. It was in the Great Hall; he had been teasing Ginny, and when she hadn´t played along, he adverted his gaze to Blaise, who sat alone and proud, simply staring at the tapestry and occasionally taking a drink of the tea that her mother sent her. Blaise had made a good subject.

She smiled with a surprising look of genuine happiness and flattery. "May I?" she asked shyly, holding up the page. He nodded slightly, still looking at the fire. She carefully tore the page away from the book. Blaise closed the book with a soft thud and looked at Malfoy. She leaned back into her chair and got comfortable, holding the picture close to her before speaking. "So you love her?"

A timid but determined "Yes," came the simple answer from Malfoy´s chair.

"What were you going to do with the book?" she asked curiously, looking at the sketchbook that lay in her lap. "Throw it in the fire," he said monotony, still refusing to look at her.

"Why?" she asked. He shrugged but gave no response. He didn´t trust himself or Blaise with what he might say. Instead, he glanced at his watch. It read nine thirty seven PM.

Malfoy stood up and stretched. "Sorry to cut our little talk short, Blaise, but I must be getting to sleep," he said, yawning. "Enjoy your picture, by the way. Oh, and you know what I get to do if you tell on me." She stood up too, her hair slightly mused and still damp. `She must´ve taken a shower,´ he observed. She held the book in one hand and her sketch in the other. "I know, I know Malfoy. You get to kill me." They faced each other and nodded slightly, eyes on the other. "Code of honor," they muttered, then stood up quickly.

"Here, take it," she said, handing it to him. He looked down and then looked up, confused. "Take it," she said, shoving it into his chest.

"Blaise, I tried to throw this into the fire not thirty minutes ago. Why are you giving it back to me?" She shrugged. "With the talent I´ve seen from this book, I think that you can think of something more creative than throwing a book into a fire, Malfoy, that´s all."

"Well, what am I supposed to do with it?" he asked, staring at the cursed cover. Blaise shrugged again. "That´s up to you. Why don´t you give it to the Gryffindor chick in there?" she asked, referring to Ginny.

"Because she hates my guts. Remember?" he asked, tapping his head as he said remember. Blaise rolled her eyes, exasperated. Draco inwardly fumed; eye-rolling was something that she had picked up from her muggle MTV friends that her parents didn´t know she had.

"Malfoy, I´m not asking you to make her like you, I was simply suggesting to give it to her. You don´t have to."

"Good," he said, walking to the stairs. "I won´t."

Malfoy looked at the book that lay beside him on his bedside table. His forest green curtain were open, and the full moon cast an eerie glow on the cover through the glass of the window. He rubbed his gray eyes with the heels of his hands and faked a yawn, trying to convince himself that he was tired. In reality, he was very much awake, his head swarming with thoughts and words and ideas. Blaise´s words ran through his head, predominating the jumbled musings: Why don´t you give it to the Gryffindor chick in there? The more he considered it, the more it seemed like a good idea. He had nothing to lose, nothing could make her possibly hate him more. He had everything to gain, finally, he could get rid of that blasted book, and Ginny was free to do what she pleased with it. His reputation and his father´s would be more than enough to stop any rumor that might come across.

He swung the green and silver silk covers back and put on a plain cotton black shirt and loose black pants over his boxers. He grabbed his black cloak and hastily pulled it on. He slipped on a pair of leather shoes, grabbed his sketchbook and left the Slytherin common room in search of Virginia Weasley.