Silver Smoke and Shattered Mirrors

Chapter Three
Reflection

The silence in the Slytherin dungeon can be deafening at times.

Especially on Friday nights, when the chatty whispers of sixth and seventh years holding their socials pervades the room, mingled with the grunting breaths and quiet slurps of the fourth year boys.

The acoustics in the Slytherin dungeon have always been spectacularly bad. Every little whisper is heard by the ear of the person furthest away whilst you strain to shout your day's comings and goings to the friend next to you.

But tonight, like every other Friday night, it is the lack of loud noises that presses uncomfortably against your ears. I sit in the Armchair, donated to the Slytherin common room by my great-grandfather, Malevius Malfoy, tapping my fingers idly against the plush cushioning adorning the arm.

It's an exciting place, the Slytherin common room.

I never understood why we, Salazar's chosen students, the purebred, the privileged, are relegated to a fucking dank and clammy dungeon while those bloody Gryffindors are holed away in their poncy tower. They're probably having a grand old time up there, being raucous and uncouth and randy like their Mudblood and Muggle counterparts. Getting warm. And comfortable.

It's no fun having money sometimes.

Everyone expects good behaviour, proper comportment, and ruthless ambition. And a smidgeon of frosty disdain for the nouveau riche. Like the Bulstrodes. Like the Perks.

These are things bred into every Malfoy.

Nothing is louder than the hum of a whisper as I look around the room. Crabbe and Goyle sit together on a sofa, doing nothing, thinking of nothing either. Elisha and Thomas are drinking pumpkin juice out of decanters and goblets, pretending it's brandy. Pansy and Sally-Ann hold their teacups primly, probably congratulating each other on her newest acquisition of a Belladonna Karan dragon-hide clutch.

I'm bored as fuck.

I've already gone for a smoke, terrorising the first years lost its appeal after the first month of school, and unlike Saint Potter and his little lackeys, I don't get myself into trouble for fun.

I think of what they might be doing up in their little tower. Playing Exploding Snap, perhaps. Chess. Swigging butterbeer. Snogging in corners. Potter's probably got that little Mudblood up against a wall, his hand sliding up her robes---

I clench my hands painfully against the velvet brocaded armchair.

No.

No, it's probably that red-haired git, that Weasel, the two of them stealing an illicit kiss during a drunken round of co-ed Spin the Wand. I torture myself with sweet fantasies of Potter's lips softly parting as Weasley leans in to take what is rightfully mine.

Mine.

Anger rises within me. Potter's first kiss is mine. He owes it to me. He owes it to me after seven years of sexual frustration, of hatred, of longing. The first taste of Potter's mouth belongs to me, so that I could explore the different flavours of his tongue, the contours of his teeth, the smell of his hair before anyone else. It's fucking mine.

Suddenly I laugh, the sharpness of the sound bringing to a halt all the activities in the Slytherin common room. Pansy and Sally-Ann titter at me from behind their gloved hands and Elisha and Thomas choke on their pumpkin juice.

When would I take it? When would I claim that kiss?

I push away the Armchair and rise, feeling restless. Crabbe and Goyle grunt and start to accompany me, but I stop them. I'm not in the mood to deal with my two moronic minions, so I head out of the common room without them.

Leaving the Slytherin dungeon, I walk outside, not really caring that it is after hours and that if I were caught, Filch wouldn't hesitate to throw me in detention. Few students cause mischief now that the Wanking Weasley Wonders are gone and I know that batty old codger is itching for some "fun."

But I need a breath of fresh air. I need noise, I need activity, I need freedom, I need----

Potter.

I have no idea where I'm going, but I find myself at the edge of the lake a few moments later, standing right below the Gryffindor Tower.

Three guesses as to why my subconscious brought me here.

I sit on a projection, staring at the ripples of light obscuring the jutting reflection of the tower on the water. It's dark out here, but it's early yet, and the lights are still on in their common room. The barest strains of noise filter down from above, clueing me into what the Gryffindors are up to. Whatever it is, it sounds more exciting than Friday night tea in the Slytherin dungeon.

So I'm fucking jealous. Why is it that the damn Gryffindors get the best of everything? A tower, the House Cup, the Quidditch Cup, a Triwizard champion, Harry Potter---they fucking got the Boy Who Lived.

I pick up a stone from the lakeshore and hurl it as hard as I could against the reflection of the towering edifice. There is a thunk! and a splash as the rock strikes the water, scattering the Gryffindor Tower into millions of refracted ripples. I throw another one, and another, and another, hating them all so much, wanting for their damn tower and repute and fame to shatter, like their reflection on the lake's surface.

The drops splash my face and I sit down, wiping away the water from my cheeks.

Wait a minute, the lake is never warm, especially at this time of year.

Pulling my hand away, I realise that there are tears, tears on my hand. My tears. My fucking tears.

I don't know whether to sob or burst out laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. In the end, all I can do is sit. And reflect.

A figure moves into the light of the window, casting a silhouette on the surface of the water. It just stands there, looking out over the grounds.

It's Potter.

I would know that figure anywhere: his wiry frame, unassuming posture, and wild hair. I know that I'm well-hidden against the rocks at the base of the tower, but I feel strangely exposed nonetheless.

I stare at his reflection, fancying that it could stare back and see me sitting here, a black gargoyle, hunched over a rock with a tortured expression on his face.

He doesn't move.

What the hell is he doing, just standing there?

A prickling feeling runs down my neck as I stare down Potter's reflection. The black figure on the surface of the lake suddenly takes on a material, corporeal presence.

I catch my breath. Potter raises his hand, in a silent, silhouetted salutation.

He can't see me. He couldn't have seen me.

But he knows I'm here. He must know I'm here.

I raise my own hand and lightly touch the still surface of the water, causing a small pool of shimmering waves to emanate out from my fingers, obscuring the reflection of the Gryffindor Tower, destroying the rippling black body of Potter's reflection.

No. Wait.

But as the water stills again, the window is empty, and the figure is gone.