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“Hey, what’s this flower?” you looked up from your book; from the place below the tree.
The sun was shining for the first time in May. It had been rather rainy the past few months and finally, finally the grey clouds made place for the first rays of sunshine, the warm light was fighting through the puffs just so it could touch the grass.
As soon as the weather got better, you dragged your boyfriend outside, persuading him with soft whines to abandon the duties of the Inquisitorial Squad for this hour
He gave in, surprisingly less reluctant than you had believed. Because you were well aware that Draco deeply enjoyed acting in name of Professor Umbridge.
“Which one?” you replied before putting your fancy leather bookmark between the pages. Brushing off the loose grass from your skirt, you walked towards him who was standing in the middle of the meadow that was close to the Black Lake. He seemed a bit lost, quite out of place even though you thought that he fitted perfectly into this scenery.
You had accidentally discovered this small place on one of your expeditions; stumbling over the thick roots of old trees and small rocks, following invisible trails until the small forest parted and this peaceful area appeared.
“Here,” he opened his large hand to reveal a small thin stem with several small flowers. The blue petals were a sharp contrast to his pale skin and somehow, you thought that it looked extremely pretty. The way it lied in his hand, like mapping the pale blue veins on his wrist.
“These are called ‘Forget-Me-Nots’, or Myosotis in the scientific language. There’s a German story about how these small flowers asking God not to forget them and that’s the reason they are called this way today,” you explained and he slightly tilted his head, intently listening.
“This was boring. Why do you know that kind of stuff?” he then commented with a speculative smirk and you rolled your eyes, gave a small pout. He had always been a bit dishonest.
“I hate you.”
“Of course.” He leaned down to let his forehead bump with yours before backing away.
“They remind me of you,” he quietly remarked after a moment of silence, his cinereal eyes first focusing on the flower before they locked with yours.
“Alright. You just fulfilled your daily dose of cheesiness,” you slightly chuckled before pressing a peck on his cheek.
Draco’s well protected, luxurious life shattered in the summer before his sixth year.
It was bloody Potter’s fault that it laid in pieces.
Instead of travels, mild sunbathing and meeting up with his friends, the days were filled with hopeless trials; his mother frantically trying to find the best magical lawyer possible and suffocating, blunt paparazzi. It was more spotlight than desired; more than he ever asked for.
The blonde was sick of the flashes and irritating clicking noises that would always follow him like a tail, hungry for more information; thoughts, opinions, statements. Fine lips froze into a thin line, eyebrows in a constant frown. A mask, nothing more.
There were countless pictures all over the Daily Prophet, moving mirrors of himself and his mother with a stern, grim expression as these hateful journalists speculated about their background, their privacy and his father. They dug their nose into things that didn’t concern them; and Draco despised them; hated them from the bottom of his heart.
He sat in that giant stiff hall that he was sure he’d have appreciated for its extravagantness, with his mother’s cold tightly hands clutched in his the day these high mighty ministry workers sentenced his father to prison; to hell.
His father was sent to death. The powerful, cold man that Draco had always looked up to; had feared and respected the same. Lucius Malfoy was the leading figure; the patriarch of Malfoy Manor.
The world crumbled.
But he didn’t know that with his father’s arrest, his own fate would be decided as well. The game had changed. Chess figures had been swapped and Voldemort’s pale fingers were hovering above the new figure, this eerie, cruel smile on his face as he gracefully placed his small little triumph to a new field. Things were going to be amusing and he would enjoy watching this little boy struggle - like a fish on land. It was a justified punishment, in place for his father’s incompetence.
Draco received your letter full of love and support. Encouraging words and soothing they were and when you came for a visit, the young Malfoy heir wrapped his arms around you, seeking for warmth and comfort that his mother couldn’t give.
These were the rare moments Narcissa witnessed her son with a soft smile on his face - when she once walked past the salon; her eyes automatically wandering to look into the room.
She found her son sitting close to you, heads deeply stuck into a book as giggles and smirks filled the air; saw the two of you wandering through the meadows, picking wildflowers and threading flower crowns. It was innocent and pure.
In these moments it seemed like her child was able to forget about the fact that his father was in prison and Draco almost seemed like he usually was
Things were being fixed; glued back to place.
Draco was happy again.
He was the Chosen One.
Because Draco had been trusted; had been bestowed with an important task that solely he was able to execute. And just like it was rumoured that Potter was the only one to defeat Lord Voldemort, he, Draco Malfoy was the one who would kill Dumbledore. It was a chance, an opportunity, an honour, really.
Feeling invincible; with adrenaline and excitement flooding his mind and firing his veins, he was plastered with false confidence. He soothed his mother’s tears and softly held her, telling her not to worry when she came to him with concern all over her face. He was anticipating the success.
How hard could it be to kill someone?
After all, there was this tiny, forbidden spell that would do the task.
Avada Kedavra.
Easy.
Draco’s sixth year - the calm before the storm; the peace before the war - would be the first part of a life lesson. But he didn’t know that yet; for him who was still a naive, silly child in a body of growing young man.
He slipped away from his mother’s caring and protective grasps; with a small lie on his lips and a charming smile. His aim led him through dark alleys and past dubious figures to a shop that his father had frequented. Because he recalled something; remembered this particular thing that he trusted to be the ideal solution.
The bell tinkled softly upon entering and Draco had to suppress a sneer. He had always disliked this store for its run down front and interior. It was dusty and musty and the floorboards always groaned with every step. But he was just too used to the clean surroundings of his home.
Like his father, Draco always had had a weird fascination for artefacts of the Dark Arts. It was obscure and strange but something about these mysterious yet dangerous items was extremely interesting.
But today, he wasn’t here for any of these cursed objects.
Draco was starting to feel very concerned while he was trying his best not to lose his nerves. His confidence was wearing off, like the aftermath of Felix Felicis after hours. The first wave of euphoria long gone and he was finally sobering up.
Autumn was there, dyeing the leaves in the deep crimson colour that later would stain his hands – when he finally had succeeded.
But there still had been no progress at all.
The cabin was unmoving, broken – hidden between junk and countless forgotten things that were left in this large room to collect dust. Draco was sure that if he ever had the chance to take you on a date here, you’d love this room.
He imagined walking through the rows of countless shelves, with laughter painted on your lips and dust sticking on your fingers after flipping through one of the mysterious, tatty books that stood in the shelves. They were long forgotten – like most of this junk but you had always loved looking for new things.
Yet there was no time. Time was running, sweeping through his hands, like the sand in the hourglass that would count down the minutes to his death penalty. The blonde gulped, swallowed the big lump in his throat; a ball formed from desperation and fear.
This task that he had been trusted with proved itself to be harder than he had imagined.
He put Crabbe and Goyle outside for surveillance and made sure they’d take the form of different people every single time he walked up the moving stairs to the 7th floor.
Yet all his attempts are in vain; plain pointless.
Because this wooden thing won’t budge and he failed, failed, failed.
The apple was still there.
He was Sisyphus, condemned to roll this stone up the hill, only to have his efforts perish, disappear like Harry did under his goddamn invisibility cloak. He tried again; attempted to mend the cabin that would act as a portal to another place.
Spells and curses – three of the unforgivable ones.
Hours spent in library; studying, researching, practicing.
He grew used to it, eventually. Dropping out of Quidditch for research, not caring for his Prefect duties. It were sacrifices, things that he needed to give up in order to succeed. He was a Slytherin. Ambitious, hardworking and determined. Slytherins were never supposed to fail.
He didn’t forget the countless; endless hours of practice with his aunt – where he was locked away in these darkest rooms below the dining room. Damp, musty walls mixed with dust and the flickering lights of the torches that she had lit.
Occlumency – shutting the mind off; making the thoughts inaccessible for intruders. It was difficult – a challenge for someone like him who had always had an easy time with learning. But he improved greatly, conjured a proud smile on Bellatrix’s pale face, as her lips curled and contorted.
The blonde didn’t tell you that he was scared of her and her lessons. Nor did he tell you that he was receiving lessons at all. Even though the idea of telling you was so inviting. How many times he had to stop himself from opening his mouth; letting the words spill over – he couldn’t tell; wasn’t able to keep track.
Keep trying, keep going – the voices whispered in his head; just like the snake that brought doom upon Adam and Eve.
Don’t tell, don’t tell.
If he dared to - images of his mother would fill his head. Tears streaming down her pale cheeks and screams stuck in her throat as she widened her eyes, horrified, paralyzed from pain. He wanted to stop; didn’t want to continue. He tortured his mother; sweet whispers –death threats- about how Draco would sign his family’s fate with his failure. For now it would be just a plain illusion. But for how long?
It was impossible to escape from his clutches.
His aunt laughed, crawly; eerily and it sent goosebumps down his arms and shivers down his spine.
Draco learned to lie, refined his excuses and mastered his acting.
Because he had no choice; had no freedom.
The mark on his arm was burning.
It was raining the day the apple finally disappeared and reappeared shortly after. A piece was missing, bitten off as if the fruit had just apparated and disapparated.
And Draco couldn’t believe his eyes; tested it once again to prove that it wasn’t a hallucination that his brain had made up. Like a fata morgana; a mirage. He hoped it wasn’t; pleaded. When opening the door, there was another piece missing.
A triumphant smile appeared on his lips as a feeling of luck, of success, stretched in his body. A weight was lifted and he took a content, deep breath. Draco could already see the proud expression on his mother’s face, her thin lips curled in this bright smile that only mothers could smile. And Lord Voldemort was going to reward him – now that the glory and the respect were replenished, well earned with his hard work. Young, sixteen and already so powerful, talented.
He had done it.
The blonde hugged you close that night, pleasantly humming against your hair as the two of you watched the rain painting darker spots on the ground. Raindrops were racing, gliding down the cold glass and you watched them painting trails over the clear surface. The Malfoy couldn’t sing very well; yet he didn’t care. The success of repairing the cabin was overshadowing his usual quirk of not wanting to embarrass himself.
The wind was whistling a foreign melody as it whirled up the leaves on the trees and a smile unconsciously appeared on your lips. You had always liked rain more than the sun for some reason. It was really soothing somehow; like home.
Maybe it was because Draco always reminded you of thunderstorms and heavy rain in summer. He was a tsunami with silver eyes. Violent, rough and overwhelming, yet beautiful and fascinating in its own way.
With his slender, bony hands in a loose grip around you, you slightly turned, tiptoeing for a sweet kiss that he eagerly replied.
The bird was dead.
And he stared at the lifeless little corpse that was lying in the dark cabin, unmoving; immobile – as if being frozen. He had been wrong, so wrong.
Nothing had changed.
He was going to die and his mother would die first. The Grim was sitting on his neck, waiting for his chance to retrieve his soul or simply waiting for him to come himself.
Draco wanted to stop.
The desperation was seeping through his body, gradually building up, until it burst; reached its peak in a sort of detonation. Short breath and racing heartbeat. Adrenaline was circulating in his body. But he was paralyzed, was petrified; prepared to run away from the threat.
Except, there wasn’t anything to run away from. The young Malfoy was standing alone in the Room of Requirement.
Pants and gasps spilled over his lips as he clutched his chest, as he frantically tried to suppress this outburst, this explosion of symptoms that he was experiencing. A heart attack, he thought; squeezing the skin above his heart which was beating painfully, pricking – slamming against his rib cages. There was no ease of the pain.
“You’re not coming to Hogsmeade?” you inquired, while scribbling some things that were supposed to be your Potions homework. It wasn’t easy to hide your disappointment because Draco had been quite busy lately and you had barely time to see each other.
It was strange to see him skip Quidditch for things that he didn’t even waste a second thought on. But his reasons were quite logic, reasonable and soon the question marks above your head vanished. And so did the questions.
He watched your hair fall into your face as you bent down to write; noticed once again how much they resembled a silky waterfall. How he loved letting his fingers run through the soft strands. Unconsciously he came closer, yearned for your warmth; yearned for your addictive scent.
“Can’t,” he growls from behind you, “this is false. The Fluxweed has to be picked at a full moon and not at the crescent moon.” His pale fingers pointed at the passage that he had just skimmed through.
“Ah thanks,” you gratefully mumbled, crossing the words away so you could correct your mistake in neat handwriting, “why not though, Draco?”
“I have detention with McGonagall because I didn’t do my homework,” the explanation was logic, yet something about that aroused your suspicions again. You bend your head to look at him from below. He had been so distant lately; had vaguely replied to your questions.
“You never forget your homework because secretly- you are a bloody nerd. Did something happen?”
“No.” He shook his head, rolling his eyes in reply to your comment.
“Really?” you probed, setting the quill down so you could turn towards him. He was now standing in front of you, his cold eyes as expressionless as ever. And as he was glancing back at you, you realized how tired he suddenly seemed.
“Of course. Besides, I am at the top of the class even without doing my homework. I can afford that; contrary to you,” there was his usual confident smirk again. You blinked, confused about the sudden change. All the shadows in his eyes were gone, as if they had never existed.
“Well that’s good for you but at least I don’t have detention.”
“At least I don’t have a to redo my homework because I did so bad the first time,” he replied with a smug, mocking grin and now it was your turn to roll your eyes. It was the usual fun bickering that was always going on between the two of you – this was what you were used to.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” you muttered, turning back to your homework; feigning a pout. It was a hassle and he was a handful, a fucking spoiled brat.
You loved him, nevertheless.
“I won’t,” he annoyingly whispered into your ear before bending towards you to shower your cheek with soft, sensual kisses. You ignored him, focusing on the letters; finishing up the last few things for your assignment. Fingers briefly trailing over your neck, hardly brushing your skin. You shivered.
“You can finish that later,” warm breath tickling your cheek and the fingertips were now seductively travelling over your arm.
“I need to finish this, really,” you insisted, sternly continuing with your small essay.
“I’ll help you, I promise.”
His voice was husky. Silk and dripping honey, as he coaxed you, distracted you from your studies. The blonde had always known what buttons to push to gain your attention. You were weak, completely in his grasp. Sometimes you believed that he was a male siren.
“Okay.”
And he smiled and carefully took the quill out of your hand, setting it aside so he could pull you up and into his arms. Your lips curled; eyes twinkling amusedly. You caught on, understood his aim.
Draco forgot about his worries; about the burden of the task that he had to carry out no matter what. You were here with him and as always he felt high, felt exhilarated with the love that was flowing through his veins.
How lucky he was.
Fingers intertwining, noses were touching as he smirked against your lips and you sighed, feeling so happy that your heart could burst.
The spell was easier to cast than he had initially believed.
It was time to make preparations for his backup plan and he took the golden coin that was jinxed with another spell – inspired by Dumbeldore’s Army. The round piece of metal weighed heavily in his hand and he slightly moved his hand, letting the light reflect on the shiny surface. Nothing about this thing would be able to arouse unnecessary suspicions – it was an identical copy of the original ones after all.
“Look _______. Isn’t this lovely?” your best friend held up a pair of earrings. Small, rather long crystals were dangling on the tag and you gave her a smile, nodding.
“It is. They are so pretty!” you replied, drawing your eyes away from the counter that displayed leather bracelets.
“What are you looking at?” the other girl made her way towards you, winding her way past other counters that held shiny objects and glittering jewels. The room was brightly lit, furnished with countless mirrors and light furniture. It was simply luminous, too bright and you had to screw your eyes slightly in order to be able to see something.
“There’s this leather band that I think of purchasing,” you pointed at this one particular leather band. The colour reminded you of black coffee and the leather looked smooth, matte and very simple. It was only for the small, plain engraved flower – almost not noticeable – that caught your attention.
“It’s for Draco,” you quietly added after a short pause.
“Ahh, I see,” she grinned and teasingly nudged your shoulder.
“Don’t say it,” you warned her, slightly embarrassed.
“You’re soooo-“
“Don’t say it, Als,” you growled, interrupting her again.
“…in love.”
“Shut up.”
“Okay, okay. Go and buy your present and let’s go. I want to drink some Butterbeer,” she giggled still amused about your embarrassment. It was just so much fun to tease you.
“There’s nothing better than a Butterbeer at the end of the day,” you friend leaned back in her chair, stretching her muscles. You had just brought back the filled cups and she eagerly grabbed her beverage.
“Alison, it’s still afternoon,” you snorted, laughing over her silliness.
“You know what I mean.”
“Of course.”
You had finished your errands and now finally, after hours, you were able to sit down for a bit; relaxing your sore feet and recharging your energy with a cup of Butterbeer. The inn was packed as usual but today it was filled with students from Hogwarts, wearing their black robes and shimmering colours of their houses. It was a sea of scarves, really.
And they all came for one reason; came to warm up their stiff fingers and red cheeks after painting the air with white breath while strolling through the streets of the Hogsmeade.
“I am going to the bathroom for a bit,” you licked the foam off your lips and slowly got up.
“Want me to join?” your friend suggested.
“No, I don’t need you to accompany me when I want to pee,” you playfully rolled your eyes. She just snorted.
“I’ll wait here then. Stay safe and good luck.”
You were washing your hands, when the door opened again and a blonde, beautiful woman entered.
“Hello, Madame Rosmerta,” you greeted the landlady with a polite smile, “how do you do?”
“Hello there, sweetheart. I am fine. How about yourself?” She mimicked your action, as she turned the water tap.
“I am fine too.”
“That’s good.”
Things were all in a blur.
All you would later remember was this pretty necklace; lagoon opal hugged in silver. It was handcrafted and skillfully assembled; truly a masterpiece. Too soon the admiration vanished and made place for the intense pain that would shortly follow, causing you to drop the small, slender box that lovingly held the piece of jewellery.
Because your body was on fire as if someone had just poured glowing lava over you. Flames of the stakes were licking on your skin; singeing it. This was how it felt to be burned alive.
Your chest was hurting; pierced from thousands of invisible knives – thrown at you until they got stuck in your skin. Dementors were sitting on your soul, devouring it; swallowing it whole, alive. With eyes rolled backwards and eerily floating hair, the ear-deafening screams were exiting your mouth. It was torture; was worse than what the Cruciatus Curse could ever be.
And you screamed, screamed, screamed.
Until you were Lethe; were oblivion.
McGonagall finally gave a curt nod as she looked at him through her glasses, silent approval. Her student averted his eyes, slowly packing up his things.
The blonde closed the door after politely greeting her. He hurried down the infinite wooden stairs, rushed past conversing students that were slowly climbing up the steps. With his books and quills still in his hand, he made his way towards the small courtyard – one of the countless ones in Hogwarts.
The clock was nearing half past five and he was sure that you were already waiting for him. He felt so much anticipation to see your face, the rosy cheeks and this dashing smile as you told him about Hogsmeade.
You weren’t there yet, when he arrived – heaving chest and short breath. He had never been the athletic guy, actually. Had always been blessed with a slender body.
The Prefect of Slytherin sat down on a cold stone bench, easing the pants as he waited for your arrival. He watched other students walking past in groups, chattering and laughing while their hands were dancing in wild gesticulation
And he waited.
And waited.
But you didn’t come.
How furious he was, fuming with anger as he took the step down to the Dungeon. You had stood him up; had let him wait in the cold wind for at least half an hour. And his skin was frozen in contrast to his boiling blood.
It was an audacity to do so, even for you, his girlfriend.
He spat the password and masterly ignored Pansy Parkinson who came up to him as soon as the young Malfoy entered the Common Room. He simply cut her off when she opened her mouth, ready to annoy him with more of her trivial stuff.
“Did you meet Potter on your way back from Snape’s office?” Blaise only asked from his bed when Draco slammed the door of his room shut.
“Shut up, Zabini,” the blonde remarked, not even listening. He was too absorbed with his own irritation.
“So you did.”
“No,” he growled as he slipped into a warmer pullover. Draco suppressed a shiver.
“_______ stood me up.”
“Malfoy, you didn’t go to see Snape? Or McGonagall? You were summoned there, you know. Because there’s a reason on why she didn’t show up.”
“There’s no reason needed. She stood me up.”
“Malfoy! Stop sulking, you bloody egoistic brat. Your girlfriend had been brought to St. Mungo’s. She can’t possibly come and see your ugly face.”
“What did you say?”
“I can’t believe this managed to slip past of you. The whole school knows it already, bloody hell. ______ had been in an accident and that’s why Snape and McGonagall asked for you.”
Draco sat in the empty bathroom that was situated on the first floor. A long forgotten place, too run down and too shabby to be remembered. Nobody would suspect him to spend to be here. Yet it was the only place where he could be in solitary. He had stumbled into this room; gall on his lips and nausea clouding his view before his knees lost their strength and he slumped down.
It was like a punch in his face. Because of course, of course he recognized the necklace that he had prepared himself for the assassination of the headmaster.
The blonde buried his face in his hands, tore on his almost white hair strands as the first broken sobs pored over. No words could describe what was going on inside him.
Murderer.
He was torn, ripped between the pages of different decisions.
Draco quietly slid into the room where you were resting; sleeping. The blanket that was draped over your frail body had slipped a bit and the young Malfoy heir found himself reaching out to pull it back over you.
He gulped, noticed the hollow, grey colour on your cheeks; perceived your skin that was slightly yellow – like parchment paper and wax. Fluttering eyelids and occasional groans signalizing how hurt you were; how much pain you were still experiencing even though you were supposed to be getting better. The sight of you broke him apart.
You seemed thinner than in his memory, malnourished and his heart sunk at the thought that it was his entire fault. He had killed you with his bare hands; had sacrificed and immolated you like some pawn in a chess game. And all because he was fucking scared of death.
But he would’ve done everything just to switch places with you; to spare you from the agony that you were going through. His fingers slightly twitched, desired to reach out and touch you. You had done so much for him, yet this was how he was thanking you.
The Slytherin didn’t deserve you.
There was a reason why at the end of the story it was never the villain who got the girl.
Because the girl was better off without him, him who only brought the bad.
He flicked his wrist to the side; whispering a single word that would destroy his chance of finding happiness again. But it was a fair punishment; something he deserved.
“Obliviate”
You woke up to the distinct smell of flowers and its scent was familiar in a way. Flashes of little fragile petals in the shade of sky blue.
But strangely, you didn’t know why.