VII

Hether sighed as she shut the door behind her. The whole day had been an unnecessary event. She hated Wednesdays, and for good reason. She used to like them before, but that was a long time ago, longer than she cared to remember. Nowadays they seemed to be filled with the rubbish that was Astronomy and Muggle Studies and Care of Magical Creatures. And oh, the meals. They were beyond spiteful.

She leaned on the door and observed her roommate. Grega had looked up when she'd walked in, but had looked back down just as quickly, with a red face. She'd tried to use every opportunity she'd had to thank her about the Mishappenings of Saturday, but to no avail. That was what the students were calling it, but Hether preferred to call it The Duel. She'd been in many before, but this one she had used to mark her place in the school.

Back to Grega. She was actually a nice girl, not dull but not too smart. It was her practical wits that had landed her in Ravenclaw, and not her intellect. She struggled greatly in classes, and that made Hether feel sorry for her, just a little bit. She reminded her of Maisie Goodbury. Blonde like her, with freckles splattered across her face and large, grey eyes, except hers were much quicker than Grega's and darted about as if looking for the best places to start a fire.

Maisie Goodbury. She'd met her one summer, in the county of Somerset. Both had moved there a week before. One was looking to start a life; and the other, to end a life. They'd become neighbours, a circumstance unforeseen by Hether, and then - even though she tried and tried to prevent it – friends. Maisie came from old and running money; her ancestors started the first proper burial service in all of England, hence her name. They were the sort that often had one child, in order to keep the money in the family.

Maisie was a ball of sunshine that brought light into the gloom of Hether's quest right when she needed it. They laughed together. They cried together. They moved in together. They ate little chocolate muffins on the wall that separated town from sea and watched the sun rise. They both giggled and laughed and promised to do so until they died.

Then came the war, and Hether disappeared into the shadows. Maisie moved herself to the frontlines, desperately trying to revive those who weren't destined to be. Hether frowned. She always found it difficult when the balance was attempted to be tipped, because her morals would be questioned.

In the end she had to go. A sniper's shot from nowhere, right in the center of her brain. A deadly infection which followed suit to cut off any chances that perhaps, someone could tip the balance. Hether watched Maisie- she shook her head. It was Grega she was watching, now. And she hoped history wouldn't repeat itself, because no matter how she tried to maintain it, it always did.

Grega turned her head so fast to face her that her neck cracked. "What?"

"Huh?" Hether said dumbly.

"You've been staring at me like I've grown an extra head." Grega scowled. "It's making me uncomfortable."

"Oh...sorry." Hether scratched the back of her neck. "You've just got, uh, really nice hair." She hurriedly finished and marched to her bed, sitting on the other side so she didn't have to face her. What was this that she was doing? It was unnerving and nerve-wracking to her.

"Thank you?" Grega furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. She shook her head and turned her focus back to her Astronomy jotter. That girl really was extremely strange.

Hether shut her eyes and took a deep breath. History would only repeat itself. She began to fiddle with her ring. But so what if it did? Then she would make it worth the while. She twisted on her side so that she was now backing the window.

"You know, I actually don't know anything you." A lie. She knew the darkest secrets of everyone that had ever graced the universe. But it always better coming from the horse's mouth.

Grega looked up. "That's because you don't bother to know anyone. You carry yourself with airs and graces that say you don't care about anyone." The truth. It hurt, but it was the truth.

"Can I still get to know you?" Hether sat up. "If we're going to be in this dorm for the next two terms, then I think I'd better know more than your name."

"I could say the same for you." Grega shut her book and gave her a small smile. "I'm Grega Geydon, from Strath-on-Clyde."

"You mean Strathclyde?"

"No, I mean Strath-on-Clyde." Grega pursed her lips. "You see, there's..."Hether tucked her legs beneath her and listened in earnest to the blonde girl. Perhaps, she could learn a thing or two from this girl. Perhaps, she could teach her to trust again, and perhaps, she could save her.

They talked and talked; and gisted and gisted; of one another, of Hogwarts, of boys who made them squeak like mice as they drew near. Time faded into the background, and folded into an everlasting moment. Second turned into minute; and minute into hour, until the clock began to strike the eleventh hour.

Each strike reminded Draco of expectations.

Ding. Be like your father.

Ding. You are a Malfoy.

Ding. You will be a death Eater.

Ding. Potter, potter, potter.

Ding. Prestige. Do not lull.

Ding. Ding. DING. DING DING-

A sudden and violent shake on his shoulder jolted him out of the nightmare that he lived. He looked up to see Vincent Crabbe staring at him. He looked worried, like he was concerned about him. It was all about the prestige.

"Alright, Malfoy?" Vincent frowned. "Look like you've seen a ghost."

Draco swatted his hand off his shoulder like it was a fly. "I'm fine." He looked down on his lap. His jotter lay open, with his pen point down, making a smudgy circle that was seeping through the veins of the pages. He set the pen aside and turned to Goyle, who was staring at a piece of Replenishing Toffee. It was wet and stuck to his fingers like glue, and no matter how hard he sucked on it, it never shrunk. It puzzled the boy deeply, because his brain wasn't so sharp, but it disgusted Draco immensely.

"Do you think we'll become Death Eaters, Draco?" Vincent asked. Blaise made a clicking sound of disapproval, much to the former's disdain. "Shut up here, Zabini. I bet you wish you were a death eater."

"Perhaps in another life, on my deathbed." The latter responded sourly, which was disheartening, as his family would have been a formidable ally.

Draco shifted his gaze to the burly boy. It sounded to be a question of eagerness, yet it felt like a worry-laden one. Was he excited to be a harbinger of death, or was he worried he wouldn't make the cut and wind up to be a disappointment to the Dark lord, just like he was? It sent a sudden jitter of fear down Draco's spine.

"Of course, we will. That's a stupid question." Draco scoffed. It sounded more to him that he was reassuring himself; that he was convincing himself that he was still relevant and not a pest. He shut his jotter and switched off his lamp. "Goodnight."

He lay on his bed and rolled on his side, turning his back on the other boys and facing the grey-brick wall. Panic raced in his face, baring its teeth at him. What if he truly didn't make the cut? His mother said he had potential, but every time the dark lord shunned him, bringing up the case of the Potter boy, as if he reminded him of his enemy's existence.

Draco lay that night, wide awake, long after the spell of sleep had fallen over the school, trapped within his own fears. They washed over him like a terrifying wave, clambering over him and poking little holes in his sanity, drowning everything, even the lull of the water. He began to long for things he never knew – a reassuring smile, a comforting hug, a helping hand; all luxuries of a life he never lived.