Courage to Find Cowardice

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Courage to find Cowardice

Chapter Four - Behind Grey Eyes

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"Why did you tell me your name was Lamia?" I asked her later that night after she'd followed me into the large forest that surrounded our land.

She remained unavoidable to me, like mist on a cold and eerie night that pursued relentlessly until you were unable to carry on evading it. I could almost say that I was drawn to her like an insect drawn to light, yet I'm fairly sure it was only my simple curiosity that made her and what she was, appeal to me.

I looked about the clearing where we were sitting and wondered why everything was so quiet. Usually the babbling of the brook could be heard from where we were situated, it being a place that I frequented often, and yet the uneasy existence of an unnatural being such as Malia seemed to have quietened everything, deadening life with her presence. Even the usual night sounds seemed muted, as if the noises were traveling through a thick wall of cotton.

"Because I'm a vampire," she answered simply, pulling me from my musings.

She didn't open her eyes and remained laying on her back, her hands behind her head and ankles crossed. She looked far more comfortable laying upon the rich, crisp grass, than I was myself, who had taken refuge on the old, rotting log that sat in the shadows of the thick foliage overhead. Ironically, Malia looked as if she were sunbathing. Looking up into the sky, I supposed she was in a way. The moon, the sky's large and all-seeing eye, nights pathetic shadow of the sun, was basking light upon her, giving the illusion of her skin being made of soft silver coloured satin that seemed almost translucent. Her hair, blacker than the darkest night, lay in torrents behind her, gleaming almost like blood on the grass.

She had an unnatural glow and I couldn't help but think it was obvious; her immortality coursed through her just as the blood coursed through me. I almost hit myself for not noticing it earlier. The moment I saw her in that room I knew she was not human! Somewhere in my subconscious, I realized it yet I could not accept it, would not accept it.

"You have to lie about your name because of what you are?" I wondered incredulously. That was absurd. Surely it was not necessary in this day and age; there was not as much fear of those sort of creatures anymore, only reverence and a strangled kind of acceptance.

"We are the Damned, Draco," she explained slowly, as if to a small child. "We may only use our real names in times of sanctity and great strife and even then it pains us. It is completely up to each one of us, however, when these times may be. Every time I tell someone my true name, or am introduced as such, I lose some part of my... of my being." She looked up then, staring at me gravely. "I would say I lose part of my soul, but I'm not entirely sure vampires have a soul."

***

I lay awake that morning, pretending to sleep as the first rays of dawn crept over the horizon and peeked cautiously into my chambers, probing my wakefulness, desiring for me to get up and face the day. I had not slept a bit after leaving Malia. I will not say that her admission of not having a soul touched some small part of me in a way it had never been touched before, because I would never admit that to anyone.

Instead I would describe the feeling as sadness...a sadness I had never experienced because it seemed real and pure and entirely unwanted. The slight grief I felt every time Potter beat me at something could never compete with this. The wretchedness at losing the house cup; most certainly not. But in that instant I had felt the sadness - or not felt it as I would have everyone else believe - it was gone. Like a flash of something, too quick and slippery to hold onto but it's infrequency instantly makes you reach out to capture it, wanting to savour the rareness of it's gift.

But it wasn't a touching sadness, I realized as I looked at my immaculate 'just woke up' hairdo in the mirror across from my bed. It wasn't the kind of unhappiness one would feel when a loved one dies. It was more the kind of sorrow, or even pity, that you would feel for someone who was worse off than yourself. So ill fated that you could almost cry for them. I wasn't going to cry for Malia, the feeling of misery wasn't really all that strong... but it was there, and that scared me.

"Master Malfoy?" a voice squeaked.

I turned to look towards the hearth, where a small head had appeared through the invisible door beside it. The house elf dipped into a hasty bow. "Your father wishes to speak with you, Sir."

I nodded grimly and then the elf was gone, disappearing into the little passage again, no doubt running back to the kitchens and thanking whatever God it may worship that I was in a good mood. Not that I was, I just wasn't in the mood for punishing house elves... maybe later.

Dragging myself out of the bed, I showered and dressed, donning the familiar and oh so comfortable black pants, black shirt and black robes. Quickly combing my hair back into its trademark style, I watched with disdain as the locks fell just past my shoulder blades. Father had insisted that I begin to grow it like his, signaling my entry into the realm of 'Malfoy Men' as he so often put it. Personally, I liked it shorter and sharper, giving a more 'aloof' appearance.

Lateness was not something my father tolerated, resulting in me having to hurry to his study since it had been over ten minutes since the house elf left my chambers and it wasn't in my interest to be late. It wasn't in anyone's interest to be late when dealing with Lucius Malfoy.

"You're late," Father sneered as I rapped lightly on the door, opening it at his admission of displeasure. "Don't be late again."

I remained silent, watching him with wary eyes and standing in front of his desk, hands behind my back. We must have remained that way for a good twenty minutes. Father was obviously trying to gauge my obedience, perhaps even my patience. Naturally, neither of those two were exceptionally high yet I do pride myself on being stubborn. Stubbornness had gotten me many places and it appeared to work this time as well.

"Sit," he ordered gruffly, gesturing impatiently towards a chair beside his desk.

I complied morosely. When I was seated, he took a long hard look at me as I glared back defiantly.

"What do you have to say?" he asked suddenly, surprising me.

"Say about what, Father?"

"About these last few days you imbecile! What else is there to talk about?"

I considered the question for a few moments before looking sharply up at my Father.

"What I want to say... I want to say that you've gone over the bloody cliff! Are you barmy?"

His eyes widened and flared with anger, maybe even resentment. Bah, let him be angry, I thought. He's trying to marry me off to some sort of blood sucking animal! I imagined him angry enough that steam would spout from his ears and his pompous, yellow-haired head would pop before my eyes.

Unfortunately that didn't happen. In fact, much to my annoyance, nothing did. He glared, took a deep breath and then did something he had never done before. He told me he understood.

***

"What the hell do you want, Potter?" I spat, glaring up at Potter as he pulled open the doors to my compartment.

"Sorry," Potter snapped back at me, his disdainful expression mirroring my own. "I didn't realize there was something occupying this compartment."

"Well, there is," I retorted, not in the mood to deal with Potter and his band of merry nitwits today.

The Gryffindor slammed the doors shut and I watched the dark blob outside the frosted windows pause before carrying on it's way. It was only then that I noticed the other trunk slipped beneath the seat on the other side of the compartment.

Letting out a muttered oath, I jumped to my feet and glared down at the trunk that was both too old and too unfashionable to belong to anyone in Slytherin. Wrapping my hand up in my robes sleeve, I pushed at the side of it with one finger until I was able to see the name engraved on the side.

"What on earth are you doing?" cried a shrill voice from the doorway. "Get away from my trunk!"

A Weasley!

"I can assure you, Weasel, that I had no intention of stealing any of your precious things."

She was the youngest Weasley, I presumed. Fiery red hair, deep amber eyes, and a glare so obviously reserved for Malfoy's and Malfoy's only , one would have no doubt as to whom she was. She practically screamed Weasley through every miniscule pore on her body.

"Oh yea? What the hell were you doing then?" she demanded, incredulous.

She did the funniest thing then, something that caused me to almost laugh aloud. She placed her hands on her hips and, glaring up at me from her modest height, for all the world looking like a mother about to scold a mischievous child.

"I was seeing whose it was," I replied snidely. "Not that I needed to," I added, making a pass at the crabby, beaten looking box, that had probably belonged to one of her great grandfathers and been passed down through all of her brothers.

How many were there...

Six?

Seven?

"It's not hard to mistake such a piece of crap - it's so old that anyone who noticed it was still in use would automatically think Weasley. And you shouldn't worry. Even if I had had stealing in mind, anything I would have found in that old thing I probably would already have, or better."

The red head rolled her eyes. "Listen, I didn't come here to be insulted Malfoy. You can leave now."

This time I did laugh.

"What makes you think that I'm the one who's going to leave?

"I was here first!" she argued, bristling and starting to go slightly red. She reminded me so much of her brothers it was almost uncanny.

"So?" I sat down on my seat and spread my feet, getting comfortable. "I'll be damned if I'm going to find a compartment now. I'll end up having to sit next to Loony Luna - or worse, Predictable Pansy!"

Then she sat down too, glaring at me with resolve. "Well, I'm not going anywhere, Malfoy. Are you sure you can handle a train ride with a Weasley?"

"Don't worry," I sneered, glaring out the window. "If it becomes too much I can simply use your pretty trunk as a barf bag."

***

"Where were you today?" Goyle asked as I sat down on the opposite side of the table, a sneer still twisting my face.

"Where do you think I was, you idiot?" I snapped, not even bothering to look at him. "I was on the train."

I picked up one of the expensive looking forks that littered the table beside the also expensive looking plates. It seemed that Snape had surpassed himself again, I wondered when one of the other houses would get a chance to claim the good cutlery and plates for themselves.

"Well, we knew that," Crabbe defended thickly, even looking slightly hurt. "We just couldn't find you, is all."

"Then look harder next time," I said scornfully, waving the fork menacingly. After spending a good six hours sitting in the same room as a Weasley I felt in desperate need of a shower and the next person to speak to me would get a fork thrown at them. I was in a foul mood.

"You look as if you've just sucked on a sour lemon, mate," Blaise told me with a chuckle as he dodged the fork that careened towards his face.

"What would you know?" I snapped, becoming, if possible, even more disgruntled as he sat down beside me with a smirk. Blaise, in his cockily annoying way, was not afraid when I was in my bad moods. Everyone else either avoided or ignored me, whereas Blaise took it upon himself to either annoy the crap out of me or try and figure out what had me so riled up. In this case, it seemed he was going for the 'annoying' approach.

"I know a hell of a lot more than you think, Draco," he answered, a sober look settling over his face. Maybe he wasn't going for annoying?

I glanced at Blaise sharply, my eyes narrowing dangerously before hissing, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What it means," he grabbed a roll, "is that your Father needs to learn to keep his mouth shut."

This confused me completely. And angered me... a lot. "What in bloody hell are you talking about, Zabini?" My growl attracted others nearby, including a few of the Ravenclaws across the way.

"Later," he whispered, glancing at the eavesdroppers, his expression dripping with disdain. "This is something you don't want other people to hear."

"Fine," I snapped, glaring at the other people watching our exchange. "What the bloody hell are you all looking at? Take a picture, they last longer."

I ignored Blaise for the rest of dinner, casting furtive looks about the rest of the hall and disregarding any conversations directed my way. What in the name of Merlin had Blaise meant? My Father was always secretive, probably the best person I knew to keep secrets - and the worst.

"Are you going to eat that?" Crabbe interrupted suddenly, his piggy eyes fixed on the Yorkshire pudding that sat swimming in gravy on my plate. Looking up and down the table, I noticed all the Yorkshire puddings had been eaten except for mine. Too bloody bad.

"Yes," I snapped, picking it up and pushing it into my mouth whole.

With that I stood up and left the hall, spitting the pudding out of my mouth as soon as I rounded the corner. I looked at it with disgust as it sat, stationary upon my hand, dripping with gravy and saliva. I threw it into a dark corner and turned around, only to find the smallest Weasel looking at me strangely.

"Do you make a habit out of spitting food into your hand as soon as you leave dinner?" she asked, cocking her head to one side. "Because it's kind of yuck."

"Thank you for your analysis, Weaslette," I snapped, arching an eyebrow up into a sneer. "Do you make a habit of spying on people as they exit the hall, thinking that they're alone?"

"No, but I do check to make sure no one's watching before I do something that could be harmful to my reputation." She turned on her heel and continued walking back into the hall, towards the Gryffindor table.

"I wasn't aware you had any reputation - except for maybe being a poor little Weasley!" I yelled after her, chuckling at my cleverness. I had her there.

The youngest Weasley - red hair, brown eyes, freckles, shabby robes, hand me down school books, trunks and pets; and a short fuse just like the rest of them, making it easier for me to rattle their cage. The only difference was that she was a girl - she might as well have been non-existent. She was never noticed, and even if she was no one dared to do anything about it, not with that angry oaf of a brother, Ron. The only way anyone ever knew who Weaslette was, was by the colour of her flaming red hair.

***

"He is an insufferable git, Sophie!" Ginny cried, trying to explain to her friend how truly horrible Draco Malfoy really was. "He does nothing but insult people, making themselves feel bad so that he can feel good. He's really just a coward, all bullies are!"

"That doesn't matter, Ginny," Sophie argued, going slightly red. "He's hotter than bleeding hot, and that's good enough for me!"

Ginny sighed and rolled her eyes, giving up and practically falling onto her four-poster bed. "He'll never notice you anyway, Soph," she groaned, watching her friend with sympathetic eyes. "The amount of girls he has feigning over him is aberrant. He's such a pratt!"

"That may be so," her friend replied dubiously, "but he's a sexy pratt and no one can deny him that."

"I bloody well can," the red head snapped, disgruntled.

Truthfully, she couldn't deny it and she would be lying to herself if she tried, but he hardly deserved to be labeled 'sexy', especially by her. And yet, for some reason, she couldn't stop thinking about him. She'd never had this kind of problem before, and especially not with someone as horrible as Malfoy.

She kept thinking of the train ride with him, the way his hair fell across his face, shadowing his cheek. His flawless skin was almost translucent yet it glowed, even in the dim compartment. But that wasn't what bothered her about Draco Malfoy - not by a long shot. She'd seen pretty boys before, many of them. The fact that Draco Malfoy was even slightly attractive meant nothing to her because she knew what he was like on the inside and after all, beauty is only skin deep.

But his eyes. The dull grey eyes that stared back at her when he insulted her family or attempted to hex her brother and his friends. They were gone. Replaced by something entirely different, something scary.

When they argued over who got to stay in the compartment his eyes burned with flames; dark, forbidding grey flames. Flames that had no right to burn in dead eyes. When he sat there in silence, on the opposite seat from her, his eyes were all but hidden, not cloaked as usual, nor dead but alive with violence, anger, and a swirling pit in which life resonated, grew, exploded. Ginny couldn't explain it. Then, outside the hall... the disgusted look on his face as he threw the food over his shoulder, wiped his hands on his robes. He was troubled and so undoubtedly alive; it was a way that Ginny had never thought of Malfoy before.

He had always appeared too dead to her, the boy who lived for one sole purpose - to insult. But this, this was a Malfoy that she could relate to. A troubled kid trapped in the stigma of their family reputations, but there was a difference. A big difference. One where he was almost exactly like his father.

She really didn't like him. He was horrible and selfish , something that could only be expected from someone of his ancestry and upbringing, and that only made it easier for her to hate him. But on the train today Ginny couldn't help but think that she had seen something she wasn't supposed to, a part of him that he usually kept hidden and he had unwillingly shown it to her. That he had a soul, he had a being... he could feel.

Not sure what to feel, Ginny had a quick shower before jumping into bed, muttering goodnights to her roommates and trying in vain to sleep. When she did sleep finally, she saw nothing of the broomsticks and unicorns, kittens and cute boys that her dreams usually carried, nothing but eyes.

Deep grey eyes that both scared her and intrigued her, smoky and mysterious yet clear and truthful. They seemed the epitome of fear and abandonment, giving her such a feeling of self-hate that she almost cried. When she woke up, all she could remember was the loathing of herself, her hair, her background, they way she felt whenever Harry bothered to look her way, who she was - and yet, she couldn't tell if that was brought on by the eyes that hated themselves so much that the feeling spread, or if she really did feel that way. And that scared her more than anything else. The idea that she could hate herself so much, or that anyone could, was completely foreign to her.

But then she realized that she had felt that feeling before, and for the first time in years her thoughts were brought back to that one fateful night in which someone said 'Hello, Ginny. My name's Tom Riddle.'

***