Clandestine Whispers

Clandestine Wishes

By C.S Bolte

PART ONE: AMONGST THE DROPS OF POURING BLOOD

>>>>>1 The Ring and the Envelope

With thin pale fingers, he slowly twisted the ring of metal around and around his finger. His muscles, strained with tension, consistently tugged the metal left and then right, never stopping the spinning motion. Steel grey-blue eyes gazed at the sparkling emerald stud of the ring. Those eyes, never blinking, thoughtfully focused on the symbolic ring, eyes of seemingly emotionless luster.

Tightly gripping the ring, he twisted it off with a forceful wrench, and a flicker of reluctance passed through his eyes as he gazed at it one last time, holding the object precariously over it's pit of doom. Then, with a snarl of anger, he viciously dropped the ring into the open mouth of deep darkness, forever lost to the attachment of human hands.

~~*~~

"Scarhead! You and your sleazy friends can go to hell! Next time you see your friend Weasel, tell him to go get a life -- he could, say -- beg for money on the streets! And as for that Mudblood Granger, she should transfigure herself into a beaver, it'd sure suit her looks better than the body she's in now!"

"Shut up, Malfoy! You're just envious that Ron has friends, and Hermione's teeth are normal size now, prat! You don't know anything about what my friends and I should or shouldn't do!"

"Like you do, Potter. Even your parents didn't know what was best for them, and went and got themselves killed! Just because you escaped doesn't mean you won't meet the same ugly end, all because of your choice in friends and stupidity! I bet your father would be ashamed to see his son now, pathetically hanging out with riffraff like Weasley and that Granger!"

Furious, Harry was about to spit out a retort, or shove Malfoy off of his broomstick, do something to get him back, when suddenly, the grey-blue eyes lit up, and before Harry could so much as blink, the blondish-silver-haired Slytherin had zoomed past in a flurry of green.

Harry swore under his breath, flying after the other Seeker before the Snitch was caught. It was his sixth year of Hogwarts, and everything had been going horribly, ever since the beginning of the year. First of all, he hadn't gotten a letter from Sirius in the longest time. And, to make matters worse, Snape was even nastier to him than usual. And ever since last week, Malfoy had been doing and saying everything to get him, Ron, and Hermione upset. It was working, too.

Harry had begun to catch up, he was almost there, his hand reached towards the Snitch-- BAM. He felt himself shoved to the side, and as he closed his eyes, the call rang out, "SLYTHERIN WON." All other sounds from then on were tuned out, as he let himself sink into depression.

Harry Potter never lost against Slytherin! The idea was preposterous! Even more of an addition to the wrongness of this year; he had let Malfoy's teasing distract him enough to let the Slytherin Seeker get past him and win the game. Bugger.

He landed on the Quidditch field. Unlike his current demeanor, everything about the Quidditch field glowed, bright and warm. The green grass whispered peacefully, the Bludgers and Quaffles now safe and sound in their box. Everything around Harry reflected the opposite of what he felt. The last thing he saw before leaving the Quidditch field was the smirk and wink given to him by Malfoy before the light-haired boy turned back to listening to Professor McGonagall, a worried expression on his face.

It wasn't even satisfactory to see that Malfoy had something to worry about. Gryffindor had lost, and there was tons of Potions homework Harry didn't feel like doing. So far, being 16 wasn't so great for Harry Potter

~~*~~

"Did you hear? Today is Parents Visiting Day."

"Wha? No way, seriously? Oh bloody hell, can't let mum see my unfinished homework!"

"Harry? What's happening with you?"

"Nothing. Do you really think the Dursleys would come visit me at Hogwarts? Yeah right."

Hermione and Ron gazed worriedly at Harry as he went back to reading his Quidditch book. He had been dismal and separate from them for the last few days.

"The whole school will be filled with parents. Let's hope we don't bump into Malfoy. I've had enough of him this week, and would hate to see his parents."

"You're not in luck than, Hermione. Speaking of the lil' prat, here he comes."

~~*~~

Draco Malfoy had been taught and had taught himself how a Pureblood and a Malfoy should act. Of course, he held up to the expectations, and openly spoke against any people who weren't Purebloods. However, if for once he'd had the chance to think and do his own way, others may have been surprised by the hidden sides of this seemingly spoiled, firmly-opinionated, arrogant young man.

Visiting Dumbledore had reminded him of last Friday. The day he was still wondering whether he should regret, or not. Stupid Dumbledore, making me deliver this damn letter to the Mudblood, knowing I'd hate the task. Why me? I refuse all ways of going near that know-it-all and her riffraff friends, especially dumb Scarface St. Potter. Argh, why does everyone remind me of every thing and every word I hate? Why do I constantly torture myself by remembering? Is there any way to get rid of it? Any cure? Bloody hell, sometimes I almost wish I could be included in their little team. At least the riffraff are happy.

The last of his steps to the Gryffindor table were quick. A part of him told him it was because he wanted to get it over with, but another part said it wasn't so. Making sure to keep his ever-present neutral expression, he walked around the corner of the table, glancing at what Potter was reading. Quidditch book. Huh. He glared at the fierce red hair of the Weasley momentarily, and then tapped the girl on the shoulder.

She turned around, looking at him questioningly, and then, realizing who it was, glared at him. He gave her stare for a stare for a moment, willing her to admit defeat and look away. But she didn't. Standing as if superior, he gave her a haughty look, and shoved the envelope into her hand, saying, "Dumbledore said to give this to you, Granger."

She raised a brow, putting down her Sugar Quill and beginning to neatly open the envelope. Draco unconsciously stared at her hands as they moved, fluid and precise, not tearing the paper of the precious envelope, but opening it so that only the necessary damage needed to open it was done. He wanted her to hurry up. His eyes burned with wanting to know what it was about this muggle-born know-it-all that was so important. But at the same time, he wanted to continue watching her moving hands, never wanted them to stop, to be still and lifeless.

Backing up a step, a flicker of fear flashed in Draco's eyes. What was he, a Pureblood, a Slytherin, and even more, a Malfoy, thinking? Why was he waiting for her to open the envelope? Why did he care? He didn't! He didn't care! Turning on his heel, his face flushed with embarrassment and anger, he stomped briskly out of the Great Hall, shoes tapping on the tile surface, sharp as his anger, quick as his rising emotions, and consistent as his fluttering, pent-up confusion.

Unbeknownst to him, he was watched with a curious, thoughtful eye by the receiver of the letter. Her eagerness to know flared up, as Hermione Granger took interest in the unusual demeanor and disappearance of the Slytherin prefect, Malfoy.