Remember When...

Sometimes, it's embarrassing to talk to you

To hold a conversation with the only one who sees right through

The version of myself I try to hid behind

...

and sometimes, the place I'm at is at a loss for words

If I think of something worthy, I know that it's already yours

And through the times I've faded and you've outlined me again

You've just patiently waited, to bring me back and then

- I am Understood by Reliant K

Lame:

Draco's Defining Moment

"Defining moments. Does anyone know what a defining moment is?" Daemon Marks walked from the dry erase board over to his desk at the front of the room, sitting down lightly on the edge. Upon the board were the words 'Defining Moment'. He was in room 304 of the Los Angeles School of Fine Arts, the room of Advanced Art.

Pottery wheels lined the back of the wall, with blocks of clay on the surface of the wheel, wax paper wrapped around their sides, and water in buckets placed beside the leg of the bench. Easels were propped with canvases, water-paints or oils in the cabinet in the corner of the room. Sketchbooks were below the paints; some with their original covers still intact, others with murals and magazine clippings glued all over it. A pile of magazines sat on another cabinet, rubber cement nearby.

~*~*~*~

LA School of Advanced Arts was the finest of its kind in the state of California. Set in the countryside outside of Los Angeles, it accepted students from all over the world that showed talent in art, music, or the stage, and had turned out some of the finest artists, musicians, singers, and thespians in the country. Talent agents often sought graduating students from the school, and the Art Wing was always holding art exhibits, showcasing students' work. Commission from purchased work went directly to the student. Tuition to attend LASAA, as it was often called, was quite hefty, but to encourage the less fortunate students, scholarships were offered. Sometimes, full ride scholarships were granted, paying for fees for boarding, education, materials, uniform, and any field trips the student might take.

~*~*~*~

Daemon stood at the front of the room, with the students sitting in various places around the room. He was eating an apple.

A punkish girl with black hair in the back raised her hand. "Chentelle," he called.

"A defining moment is an event where, if it hadn't happened, your life would be totally different."

"Exactly." The girl's pale lips upturned in a rare smile. "Now, I know you all are a bit young, but there have still been, and I don't mean to get philosophical on you all, times where you had to make a choice that changed your life," he said, speaking plainly to the sixteen and seventeen-year-olds in front of him. "I want you to remember that time, as hard, painful, or joyful as it may be, and draw, paint, or sculpt it. Draw your emotions, or the scene. Whatever you feel like. But make sure it's associated with your defining moment.

"I hope you received your art schedule for this week. If not, or you lost it," he growled. "There is a copy of it up here. Please, do not trade, I know that you may not like what you have to work with, but this is to inspire diversity and creativity."

The students stood and hurriedly walked to their stations. There was little talking, and Daemon momentarily closed his eyes to remember his defining moment.

Draco Malfoy walked into the library, the doors shutting behind him with a muffled bang. Surveying the deserted library, he regretted ever earning that late night detention from Sprout. He had lost a valuable three hours cleaning the hallways in Hogwarts; three hours that he could've spent doing a variety of things from nine to twelve yesterday night: his essay for Snape, having sex, sketching. He could've been outside, idly laying by the lakeside, or flying around on the open Quidditch pitch. He could've been in Hogsmead, stocking up on sweets and sugary items, or maybe grabbing a butterbeer and teasing Potter, a pastime that had never failed to entertain him.

But no, he was stuck in the library, researching on who-knew-what Snape had been talking about. Grudgingly, he walked through the shelves stocked with books towards the back of the library. He sat down on a table near a stained glass window and huffily pulled out a chair. He sat in it and put his bag on the table, and began to pull out book, parchment, quill, inkwell, and sketchbook.

His sketchbook. Perhaps this was the most interesting thing about the young wizard. The black leather book was his prized possession, and should something happen to it... Malfoy shuddered.

In his sketchbook held sketches of everything. From fabric from his robe, to a regal owl that was perched in the owlery. Although Malfoy still considered himself an amateur, his works spoke otherwise. They looked as real as if they would leap off the page of thick, heavy paper into reality at any moment.

Opening his book of Advanced Potions to page 45, he began to read. His brain looked at the complicated words on the old page and jumbled them about in his head. He couldn't concentrate; great, just great. And the two foot essay was due tomorrow.

'Great, wonderful. Just absolutely perfect. Good job Malfoy,' he sarcastically congratulated himself. 'Now you'll probably think of some stupid excuse for not having it done, and have to stay up late again tomorrow.'

He looked around the library for any form of distraction that would take his mind off of homework, and the foreboding shadow growing in his mind. His eye caught a brilliant flash of red and narrowed onto it.

It was the littlest Weasley, surrounded by books and parchment, a few tables away from his own table. She was intensely mesmerized by an old book, and jotting down notes on a torn piece of parchment. He watched her dip her quill in an inkwell and begin to jot more notes down. Then, closing the book and placing it aside, she took the parchment and began to read it.

She unrolled a new sheet of parchment and began to think. She looked over her notes, and wrote down a sentence. Malfoy smirked. No one could say that the girl wasted time, or had bad work ethics.

Her red hair was pulled tightly in a high ponytail, and traveled down her shoulders. It was done in some special style that made it half as long as it should be. Small bangs framed her face. When she bent her head down to read, all Malfoy could see was a red ball with a tail and two ears.

She had a pale face like his, brown freckles dotted all over her face. Her eyebrows were the same shade as her hair, and soft ruby in color. Long eyelashes framed her brown eyes. She had a proportionate nose (there was no other way that Malfoy could describe it. It wasn't big, it wasn't small, it wasn't squished, and it wasn't upturned), and had small, pink thin lips.

Malfoy hated to admit it, but the female Weasley was very pretty.

Draco subconsciously reached for his sketchbook. He flipped it to the first blank page and dug in his bag for a pencil. But before he even put pencil to paper, she stood up.

He could see she was wearing a white, long sleeved shirt that was very loose on her and big, old blue jeans as she walked past him to put the book away. His eyes followed her as she sauntered gracefully to a shelf behind him. He turned his head as she reached up and put the book away. She stood up on her tippy toes and placed it in an empty spot and turned on her heels to face the young wizard.

She saw Malfoy looking at her with an expression of mild interest. "Can I help you?" she asked, sarcasm dripping off every word. Her voice wasn't all that high. It was low and rough, not like Pansy's smooth voice, or Blaise's calming voice.

"Your fly's unzipped," he said calmly, his head resting on his hand. He smirked. "Figures a Weasley would forget to zip their fly."

She tipped her head down and looked. Upon seeing her shirt was too long, she lifted it, and Draco drew a breath. She was very skinny and tall in an attractive way. Draco could feel his heart beat faster.

"Is not," she said.

"Monkeys always look," he said. She smiled inspite of herself, remembering times when she would pull that same trick on her brothers, but it soon disappeared.

"Malfoy, I know you can't work on your two foot potions essay that's due tomorrow, but don't take to teasing me. I have my own Herbology report to do, and I don't need you pestering me"

"Me? Pester? You? Never!" he declared. She glared at him. "Alright, I can't work on my damn essay. Give me a break!" he grudgingly admitted.

Ginny gave him a look of utter disbelief. "What is this?" she pondered. "Draco Malfoy? Acting civil? No 'you're too poor' cracks? The Rapture must be going on, and I have sins yet to be absolved!" she said with a sense of sardonic urgency.

"Look, Weasley, I'd make some kind of crack at you, but 'You're too poor, you can't even do your Herbology essay,' doesn't really make a lot of sense. But rest assured, as soon as an opportunity to slip in a money crack presents itself, you shall hear one." She leaned up against the shelf and nodded thoughtfully. Her red tail bounced up and down on her shoulder.

"You have a point there. A very, very lame point, but a point nonetheless." She crossed her arm. "What was it? A detention?"

"What was what, Weasley?"

"Why are you stuck here?"

"Oh. A detention."

"My point exactly."

"Stuff it." Malfoy paused, inwardly cringing. Weasley was right; how very lame of him. He was making himself seem stupid, seem so inarticulate. "Why are you here? A detention?" he sneered, mocking her voice.

"I was here yesterday too. I didn't finish my research."

"Uh huh."

"Fine, choose not to believe me," she said plainly.

"I won't." She looked at him.

"Busy not working, I see," she commented

"What did you expect out of a Malfoy?" he asked her.

"True, very true." She looked around his pile. His arm lay on an open book. The book was open to a blank page. She pointed at it. "What book do you got there?"

He looked down at his sketchbook. Damn. He had forgotten it was there. He gracefully closed it. "Nothing."

"I'm sure."

"It's nothing, Weasley."

"I said, I'm sure," she said, pushing strands of red hair behind her ear. Her brown eyes stared into his. "I'm sure it's nothing," she said, much quieter.

"Damn. I still have work to do," she said, looking at her forlorn pile of parchment and books. She walked past him and sat down at her table.

"Yeah. Go work, Weasley."

She bent her head and began to write again. He watched as she sat down and her eyes fell on the book. Her red hair splashed over her shoulder like a river of copper. The freckles on her face were only a shade darker than her hair, a light brown that only stood out because of her pale skin. She was beautiful, Malfoy grudgingly admitted to himself. His fingers ached to sketch this girl - the angel. Making sure that she didn't look up again, Malfoy opened his sketchbook again and picked up his pencil.

And he began to sketch Ginny Weasley.

"Hey Daemon," a boy with blonde hair called to him. The boy sat on the inside of a large windowsill; a sketchbook propped up on his knee. There was a pencil in his right hand, and he appeared to be thinking hard.

"Yeah Tyler?"

"You eva' have a defining moment?" he asked with a thick, New York accent. He pushed his blonde hair out of his eyes; a hoop earring glittered in one eyebrow.

"Sure have."

Daemon had had several, in fact. When Draco Malfoy had decided to go into hiding, becoming Daemon Marks, when he had married Pansy, and when he and Harry Potter set the stage for his death in his room at the Manor.

But the brightest defining moment, and the one that had started it all, stuck out with bright, fiery red hair.