Silver Smoke and Shattered Mirrors

Chapter Two
Smoke

There is a place above Binns' classroom that's secluded away from the rest of the school by a roofline partition. It overlooks the school grounds but is hidden from view by a line of tall oak trees.

I often go there for a smoke. From there, I have a birds-eye, often voyeuristic view of the students below, and I go there to feel omnipotent, puffing away at my father's pipe, letting the evening breeze that blows in from the lake wash over me, sweeping away the ash from my pipe and soot from my soul.

This time the bastard took away my pocket money. My marks were less than satisfactory this term and he was determined to punish me until I "shaped up." Mother, of course, must have protested vociferously, but he would have silenced her, silenced her along with my life, snuffed in his hand like a match blown out.

I trace the ornate L.M. along the base of the pipe. When I was a child, my father used to always sit in the armchair in the parlour and smoke on the pipe. I would stand next to him, holding the ashtray, catching the sparks in my hair and my clothes until he had finished and I was left with nothing, nothing but the taste of ash and charred love in my mouth.

There is a scrape on the tiles behind me.

Potter stands there, his hands in his pockets, looking at me before quickly turning away. I feel a jolt run along my spine.

He's so fucking gorgeous.

The light of the setting sun lends a golden cast to his translucent skin turning the tips of his hair aflame with red, the edges of his lashes a glittering black in the approaching night.

For a while I can think of nothing to say.

"What do you think you're doing up here, Potter?" I ask, delicately flecking ash from my robes. "This is for purebloods only."

"I am a pureblood," he answers simply. He's still not looking at me.

Turn, Potter. Turn towards me. Look at me. Acknowledge me.

"Ha," I scoff, pipe between my teeth, "Pureblood? Even after what your father married, that dirty Mudblood?"

I expect a blow, or at least a violent word from him, but nothing comes.

Hate me, Potter, hit me, strike me.

Just don't ignore me.

Instead, I hear another scrape to see that Potter has picked up a roof tile.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

He doesn't answer, but flings the tile as far away from him as he can. There is a slight splash in the distance as the object strikes the lake, but I see no ripple in the water in the failing light.

"Why don't you leave Potter?" I say, puffing on my father's pipe, tasting the bitterness of my voice on my tongue. "Leave and find someone who will actually tolerate your presence."

Don't go.

Stay.

"I can be up here if I want to, Malfoy," he says, with just the slightest bit of bite in his words. He sits down as though to demonstrate his point.

He is a mere two yards away from me. I can feel the heat of his body, warming me against the chill of the encroaching darkness. I take another puff of the pipe and let him sit there.

He is staring me.

The knowledge that he is staring at me unabashedly does strange things to my anatomy. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and a crinkly feeling runs up and down the length of my spine.

"What, Potter?" I snap.

"Who taught you how to smoke a pipe?" he asks.

Startled, I take the object from my mouth and look at it. There are bite marks on the end that are all mine, and slight discolourations at the base where my father's and my fingers have worn away the wood polish.

"What's it to you, Potter?" I ask, spitting out his surname between my teeth. I bite the end of the pipe again, letting the mellow tobacco smoke settle in my lungs.

Who taught me? Who taught me? Nobody, that's who. I used to watch my father disappear in a cloud of smoke every evening, wishing his elegant hand gestures as he raised and lowered the pipe could be mine, wanting so much for him to notice me, feeling jealous of the fact that every puff he took from that damned thing was a goodnight kiss I would never receive.

So I stole it. I stole the bloody pipe.

"Because I want to learn," Potter says.

I stop smoking and look at him.

He's looking back.

I slowly hand the pipe over to him as the sky drains the last dregs of light from the sun. He reaches for it and his fingers brush mine. I feel a spark jump from his body to mine, igniting my cheeks.

He parts his soft lips and rests the tip on his lower one.

I'm feeling jealous of that goddamned pipe again.

He takes a long, slow drag on it as daylight goes out. Darkness settles over him and he is now illuminated only by the orange glow of the pipe.

He coughs.

I snigger impolitely as he chokes, unused to the smoke filling his lungs. He hands it back to me, coughing still, eyes watering.

I put the pipe back into my mouth and wrap my lips around the tip, fancying that I could taste the lemony sunshine of his mouth upon it still. I take a small puff, wondering if this was the closest I'd ever get to Potter's lips, that if the pipe was my only kiss by proxy.

Presently, he stops coughing and we sit in silence. I am torn between a sarcastic quip and dragging myself closer to him, to bask in his untouchable, ethereal beauty.

I want to taste him. I want to add the taste of tobacco to my mental list of flavours, to kiss him and really know if I'm right.

We sit in silence for a while longer until I can no longer take it. I turn to tell him to sod off when I realise that he is no longer there.

I never heard him leave.

I wrap my lips around the pipe again and take in a small puff, blowing my smoke of a kiss into the night air, obscuring the clear sky.