MY eyes were slowly closing as I felt the weight of my entire body on my eyelids, pushing themselves to close, so my nerves could relax. My body slouched against the cold wooden chair of the library as my chin rested on the base of my hand.
His hands are on my hips, pressing me down onto him as I'm moving against him, gripping his hair. My body on top of him, legs thrown on both sides as I'm straddling him.
He's kissing my neck—my collarbone—relishing on the skin of my neck as his lips feel like electricity, like a current that's moving against me bringing me back to life, his touch was like coming up for a breath of air when you've been drowning for so long.
My lips pressing against his as I'm leaning onto him—pushing his body back as he's resting on top of the silk green sheets of his bed—hovering over him as I'm connecting our lips, tracing the shell of his ear—he enjoyed the soft touches of the tips of my fingers against his skin.
"You're sleeping," a dainty voice interrupted my thoughts as a grunt surfaced on my lips. "Evelyn!"
"I'm awake." Her brown eyes peered over me as her hair was put together by the help of her wand into a low bun, tightly secured. Her delicate hands brushing against the pages of the books as she's waiting for me. "I was just resting my eyes."
"Perfect," she paused, handing me the book, "then you know what I was talking about, the bases of the sword and how they've connected as well as the meanings of scurvy grass, lovage, and sneezewort."
"What?" My eyes blinked at her, my face twisting into a state of confusion.
"I thought you were paying attention."
"I was." I swallowed the thickness of air building up in my throat—straightening my back as she tilted her head looking at me. "Like fifteen minutes ago."
"What have you been doing that has got you so exhausted?" She questioned, "you look like you haven't slept in days, and we're nowhere near to properly solving this if you're sleeping."
I moved my hand against his—shifting it to interlock it as I pushed him back, kissing him as he's gripping my hair—tilting my head to intensify the kiss as he groaned into my mouth. He's leaning forward, shifting to pull me under him, pinning my hands above my head as my chest is heaving from the sudden change.
"Nothing," I smiled, "just been assigned too much work so I stayed up all night a couple of times." She pressed her lips into a thin line, slightly chewing on them as she's looking back at the book. Tracing the corners of the book as she's flipping them over, looking for something.
"Hermione." I took her hand into mine, squeezing it slightly to give her comfort. "It'll all be alright, we'll find all the Horcruxes and Riddle will be defeated." Then I realized that most times when people say 'It'll be alright' isn't true, it's only to comfort the other person because neither of us has any idea of what the future holds for us. "You know when all of this is over we can write a book about our experience, it'll be a fun little journey."
"For some reason, the words 'fun' and 'Horcruxes' in the same sentence doesn't seem right," she laughed as I leaned back onto my chair, releasing her hand—my eyes on the bracelet. "I did some research." She shifted in her seat.
"I mean isn't what we have been doing for the last few months, research over research, and it's a never-ending loop, "I breathed, "the one thing I just cannot understand is this damn sword. It's goblin made, it's a Gryffindor sword, it attacked Ron but is the same thing that has been but not been destroying the Horcruxes."
"And it glows," Hermione added as I nodded slightly, "I think I may know why it glows," she added again, but slowly.
"Oh." I looked up. "Why didn't you tell me before, we would've got a head start into what this thing exactly is, no offense to your house or anything, you know what I mean."
Hermione arched a brow, looking up at me as she hesitated in her movements. She's trying to say so much, but it's like something is stopping her—something is holding her back as I'm patiently sitting for her to go on.
"Put your hand on it again," she spoke as my brows furrowed, I didn't question it as I turned my body towards the left. Picking up my hand as it hovered over the sword—inches away from touching it as a sense of greed coursed through my veins, wanting to touch it more as the tips of my fingers delicately touched the blade.
The red light surrounding it—like fire almost. My hands felt the magic of it, as my eyes brightened from the power of it—almost wanting to absorb the sword whole, like a hunter watching its prey was the way my mind was working right now.
I felt as if all of my blood was transfused out of my body and a new circulation was adapted. It was like painting while watching the scenery, and it's coming out exactly the way you wanted it to, or finishing a book you had on your shelf for so long. It was a desire—a need, something that was more than an attraction.
"What was that?" I asked after a couple of minutes passed that I hadn't even realized until my hand pulled away. Shaking my head as I tried to empty my thoughts, running my hands over my shirt to straighten it as I looked up at her. "That was magic."
"Well of course that was magic Hermione, it's a goblin-made sword, it contains magic."
"Evelyn." She rolled her shoulders back. "There's more than one kind of magic in this world—in the world we live in."
My eyes narrowed at her hesitant mouth, the way her tongue would press against the back of her lower teeth when she wanted to stop herself from saying something.
"Put your wand on the table," she asked as I pulled it out of the pocket of my robes, "now, do a spell."
"Hermione I can't do a spell without my wand—that's wandless magic and very rare."
"Trust me," she looked directly into my eyes as my head leaned back, "do it."
I gulped unknowingly as my eyes wandered to the library, the stack of books sitting on a student's desk as I muttered a spell. "Flipendo." The stack of books immediately fell on the ground—one by one along with their quills as I looked back at her. "I don't understand —I've never done wandless magic."
Her eyes looked at the stack of books falling, her fingers fiddling with each other, and she was twisting the bracelet in her hand. "Hermione?"
"You can do wandless magic."
"That doesn't make sense, no witch can do wandless magic without intense studying, practice, and the whole curriculum in general. Not even Snape can do it without a few tries, so I don't understand—I don't get it."
Some part of my mind decided to completely shut down. Wandless magic comes with practice and intense lessons with professors from what I've seen over the years. Wandless magic is something that is considered rare because even though a wizard's body is considered magical, you can't naturally produce it so easily—you need to learn to tame it properly.
"This is impossible." It wasn't impossible anymore. My mind went back to the time when I was visiting the Manor for fall break and had muttered a spell to make one of the guests' trips due to what they had said. I hadn't even realized I wasn't touching my wand, it was natural.
"Actually it isn't," Hermione finally spoke after a few moments, her hands picking up a quite large book as she handed it to me, flipping it to the page as my eyes looked down at them. "Siphoners."
I looked blankly at the pages in front of me—anything Hermione was saying went into one ear and out the ear as so many questions rolled back and forth in my head. Siphoners were considered abominations of the wizarding world. They are born without the ability to generate their own magic but do possess a rare power that allows them to siphon magic from other sources and use that magic for their own purposes.
Siphoners have always received harsh treatment when they were discovered for who they were—they are extremely rare but are indeed considered very powerful.
"Evelyn do you understand what this means," she called out my name as I felt the strain of this information in the back of my eyes. I knew what this meant and what it held for me in the future—everything began to make sense one by one.
My mother who had always neglected me as a child kept me away from muggle things for a very long time. She kept me away from magic as long as she could, and I thought it was because she wanted me to live my life as a child that didn't consist of magic.
Being Siphoners also includes the fact that it is from a genetic line—and since they are rare they barely exist, until now.
"Evelyn?" Hermione called out my name again as I hummed in response—a way to tell her to move on with the conversation. "Siphoners come from a genetic line," she paused, looking down, "I know your parents aren't siphoners because you wouldn't be this conflicted. Evelyn, your parents—"
"My parents aren't my parents."
There was a brief silence between us as tears swelled up in my eye, the people I've lived with for the past eighteen years of my life were now strangers to me. The people I thought were my father and mother aren't my real parents, my siblings aren't mine, no one ever was in that Manor—and now it all made sense.
"Evelyn are you—"
"I'm fine." Translation: I wasn't.
"Siphoners can't do magic, how can I—how am I able to do magic?" I questioned as she flipped the page of the book.
"You're a witch yourself, you siphon off of yourself. Hence, why you're able to do magic—including wandless magic without even trying," she whispered slowly, "you can siphon magic off of both non-living, and living things that contain magic. Specifically for non-living it needs to contain magic like the sword in front of us. For living things—it could be vampires, witches, werewolves, doppelgängers, etc. It also extends to supernatural beings' bodily fluids, such as the blood of a witch, vampire, or doppelgänger, or a werewolves' venom."
I nodded my head as she continued going, collecting the material of my dress in the fist of my hand as I tried to contain myself from wanting to scream so loudly that every window would break in this castle. To everything breaking apart—to pieces as I watch it crumble. For it to cut my skin, so I would bleed and feel pain then the numbness of everything in my head—the unresolved trauma and feelings for someone, the conflict.
"You can cast spells like any regular witch, which like I mentioned before included wandless magic. As well as Telekinesis—that's when you absorb magic from an external source and have the ability to move magic and people like any regular witch. You can inflict pain like excruciating migraines, as well as Pyrokinesis—which is the ability to generate and manipulate fire like any witch."
"Is that all?" I look up, my eyes red from the strain of the pain swirling around in my head.
"There's more, but it could be talked about later. I found out about this a few days ago but wasn't sure that something like this would be true. Considering Siphoners are considered—"
"Abominations?"
The universe has always had a hold against me, every time things would begin to go in the right direction—things would just fall all of a sudden.
"I need to go," I closed the book, looking at her as she didn't fight against it. I needed a minute to process everything—I wasn't sure what I wanted exactly. There were points where I wanted to watch the world burn and then there were moments where I wanted someone to hold me and tell me it'll all be alright even if it wasn't true.
I had so many thoughts and questions in my head.
Who are my birth parents? Who are these people I've been living with for the last eighteen years? How does one just now acknowledge the fact that they're a siphoner?
My hands shake from the thought and possibilities of so many things in my head. I felt like I didn't know who I was anymore, I was so unsure of what I am and am capable of being. The hunger—the greed towards power taking a long walk in the spaces of my mind.
I pushed open the door as the air from the open windows in the room made the strands of the few hairs framing my face poking me in the eye.
The mirror on the ceiling reflects the entire room—the black interior bed frames with the white silk sheets. Parchment paper was placed all over his desk with the stack of books and quills.
My hand is still on the doorknob as he's turning around—his light grey eyes looking at mine, confused in a sense as he's standing in a thin black button-up shirt—the first two unbuttoned as it reveals his toned muscles.
"Did you mean it when you said that I make you feel something?" I questioned—a question asked so suddenly that even he was taken back from it. His lips move to make a sentence as his hair is ruffled from the cold air blowing in. "Did you?"
The room was dark, light shining dimly from the small candles around the room as he stood in the middle of it. My hand slips away from the knob as I'm stepping forward, the door closing shut from the heavy wind blowing in. "It's the middle of the night, you shouldn't be here."
"Not until you answer my question," a stubbornness in my tone, standing as I'm looking at him.
"Young," he stepped forward, "it's late."
"I don't care if it's late," my voice grew louder, "say it."
"There's nothing to say."
I stepped forward, almost close to him as I'm looking up at him. The color of his eyes changes every time he's standing in a different lighted room—it would go from this clear grey to dark grey to the shades of blue—and each time they were mesmerizing to look at.
Eyes studying the way his chest rose up and down, the ways his lashes settled on his eyes, the faded scar on his cheek, the way his lips were a darker shade of pink.
My hand pressed against the base of his chest, the palm of my hand coming in contact with his skin, as I'm leaning forward, "does this make you," my hand dragging down, "feel something?" I whispered in his ear as I felt his body go completely rigid. "Does this," I leaned towards his neck, leaving a small kiss below his ear, "make you feel something?"
He took a hold of the back of my neck. He knew how much I liked it when he placed it there—I liked how his hand felt there on the back of my neck, slowly tracing his hand down my spine—gaining control of me. He's pulling me slightly back, my eyes looking up at him, there's a glint as my eyes look down at his lips—the curve of them, the need to drag my thumbs across his bottom lip.
The way his heartbeats picked up showed that he knew what I wanted, the way his eyes greedily studied my face. "What do you want?" He asked.
"For you to answer my question." I wrapped my fingers around his wrist, letting his hand trail down over my collarbones, the curve of my breasts as he's daring not to look down at me. Taking a step forward, "for you to tell me what you meant when you explicitly told me I made you feel, the way you looked at me, I want you to tell me."
He nudged my chin up, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, my breath escaping my lungs. "You like that don't you?" A question that completely caught me off guard, his thumb tracing my bottom lip, "the way," he dragged it down, "this feels."
Our chests almost brushing against each other as another breath brings us closer. The need to just rip through his clothes—the greediness that developed when he was in sight, the thought of his hands going over my body as he's whispering the sinful things he wants to do to me.
"But," his hand moving away, "this doesn't mean anything." He pulls away as he's turning around, picking up a square glass decanter barware, filled with firewhiskey as he's pouring it into the round-shaped glass. "It's not real."
"Some things don't make sense," I breathed, "but that doesn't mean it's not real, Draco."
"Don't say my name," he demanded, slamming the glass against the wooden table.
"Why not? Nothing I haven't said before." I moved forward, "Clearly that seems affect you, Draco."
He turned around, stepping quickly towards me as I'm leaning backward, my back against the wall as he's hovering over me. "There's nothing here," he spoke aggressively, "what you think you feel isn't real."
"You don't know what I feel."
"I see the way you look at me, witch," his eyes looking down at my lips then back up at my eyes, his hand pressing against the wall, completely flat, "I'm not who you want me to be. What you feel isn't real, it's solely an illusion of your mind."
"Just because you can't come to terms with—"
"Listen to me," he growled, "what you think you feel, is just because," he pushed a strand of hair away from my face, "I happened to be there when you were vulnerable, and you latched your emotions onto me, manipulating your mind into something I'm not."
"You don't even make any sense."
"You have a type of Stockholm Syndrome," he spoke as my back fell back onto the wall, "you've bonded with me because I was there during your weak points, your mind has connected itself with me, or someone who isn't really real."
I didn't even realize I was crying until a tear slipped from the corner of my eye, in disbelief of what he was saying, "that's not true, you know that isn't true."
"Isn't it? If it were someone else instead of me, would you not have been with them right now?" He questioned as my lips twitched trying to form words, my hand fisting in his shirt. "What you think about me isn't real."
My mind decided to block itself from everything, the thought of finding out today that my parents, the siblings who I grew up with, aren't really mine. The way I have no clue who my real parents are, the way I don't know who I was.
Though when I was with him, it was like a song that you could listen to over and over again, the joy it brought you, the way the lyrics understood you, that's how he felt.
"You're right," my hand fell from his shirt as he looked at me, his eyes spoke a completely different language than what came out of his mouth.
Then I left the room.
—