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Disclaimer: Is there any cross-dressing in Harry Potter? No? Then I still donít own it.
Notes: Its shorter than usual, sorry. Oh and yes, Ive finally decided to title the series M since all the titles so far have started with it. Crabbe and Goyle are still being explored, beware, Pansy will be in this issue. I like her. Ahh, ever the loyal Slytherin I be. When Ive finished it, Ill condense it into a whole series with these as chapters. Right now, its simpler for me to put it out this way. Thanks to everyone who reviewed!
Part Three of the "M" Series
By Kick Flaw
He left for detention.
He was gone, I think around two hours. Snape's a sodding bastard. No detention should last that long.
He came back.
I dont think hes blinked since he started staring at the fire.
The Slytherin common room always has a fire going. It gets so cold down here, especially in the winter, I think wed all come down with hypothermia if it didnt. Its damp too, but that keeps many of us from getting sore throats. Unlike up in the Gryffindor House, where the lack of moisture dries everyone out at least once a year. They can laugh all they want about the significance of being placed in the dungeons. It has its benefits, trust me. The giant Grandfather clock which chimes every three hours, the deeply set study-nooks lined with pillows throughout the halls and a huge, year-round fire are some of them.
Get too close though, and youll be burned in this wet, cold abode.
Reminds me of other things. Like Draco, whos sitting a little to close for comfort. I think hes craving the heat. I think hes wondering if being dried out may have its benefits as well.
Im watching him again; watching the firelight glint in his steady, intense eyes and reflect back from them. Its eerie, the red glow flickering over his pale skin. Crawling, almost, in its path over his features. The veins in his hands and wrists are made plainly visible, like a minute circuitry pumping not blood but electricity through him, and hes giving off that light on his own.
Hes thinking about the boy. The boy who consumes light and creates heat from it. The boy who draws the world to him, our sole source of warmth. Without him, wed be cold. Wed all be cold, like down here in these dungeons. The boy who needs light, though the world seems to have forgotten that.
Light and Heat. Heat and Light. Fire. Drying us up.
Drying the tears up.
Not that * I * ever cry. Nope, nope, nope. Goyle might. Hes desperately trying to finish his Transfiguration essay. Its kind of funny. I completed mine yesterday with Draco. Im glad, today he probably wouldnt be up to coaching me in how to transform a feather into an elephant. And how knowing that will come in handy, well never know. McGonagall is a hag.
Pansy just sat down next to Goyle, looking gloriously fake as usual. Shes clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her legs together, ankles crossed primly, head tilted so that bright gold curls wash down her slim shoulders: The picture of demure nobility. She hates it. She doesnt have a choice. Much like Draco. Im glad I wasnt born into their class, sure my parents have power, but not aristocratic power. Id hate to have been raised in that... stiffness.
Hey, Goyle, she murmurs, her cultured voice a soothing reprieve from the coarse language left behind with Draco so silent.
Oh hey, Pansy.
You look like youre ready to tear your hair out.
Goyle nods miserably. McGonagall is a hag. She hates me.
She hates all the Slytherins. Pansy replies, grimacing.
Anyway, would you like some help?
Poor Goyle looks pathetically grateful. Hes such a dork. I have to smile. Would you? he asks beseechingly.
Pansy looks at Draco, at me and at Goyle again, smiling through her puzzlement. Yeah, I didnt think we could have slipped mischief past Pansy. Shes got talent for trouble, the rare times she gets in on it with us.
I dont think Professor Draco is in right now, so I could give it a try, Im not the best, but Ive never failed in Transfiguration. Here, let me see it.
He hands it to her, blushing slightly when their hands brush. She bites her lower lip shyly in response, before obscuring my view of her face with her curtain of hair. I give Goyle a thumb-up, making him blush even more.
Screw the Malfoy-Parkinson betrothal, Ive got other plans for those two.
Well see, well see.
Draco still hasnt closed his eyes, but I dont believe hes seeing. Did I really start this? This chain of events grows into an increasingly miniature infinity. He started out so colossal, a dominating glance, word, touch, name. He was a vastness in my meager view. Now hes descending. Not falling from it, no, never, not Draco. Falling into himself is more like it.
The microcosm of his soul the most potent force behind his existence. Not his soul, the seed from which his soul was grown.
Hes searching for it.
Hell find light.
* * *
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