MATURE CONTENT: Cussing, Underage alcohol, Mention of death
November 1997
Draco.
"So you screwed up," Riddle's voice invades my thoughts, I feel a surge of irritation rising within me. I hurl the quaffle, only for it to snap back with even more force, a frustrating reminder of my current situation.
In the distance, the cheers and shouts of girls echo across the pitch, while a group of stupidly dressed Gryffindor and Ravenclaw girls wave in our direction.
The lanterns surrounding the pitch blaze brightly, almost blinding in their intensity, while raindrops dance in the air, the grass seemed to take on a dual tone, appearing both lighter and darker at the same time.
It was nearly half past seven, and the hallway leading back to the dorms was crowded with students.
We're granted— well not granted we just have it—the privilege of dining after everyone else, a exception we've secured for ourselves, and Dumbledore wisely chooses not to challenge us, especially in these uncertain times— well not that uncertain, we all know war is coming. Though our days of playing quidditch are over, we still have individual training sessions, away from the Gryffindors' prying eyes.
"I expected nothing," Riddle's laughter grates on my nerves.
Merlin, he's insufferable.
Riddle effortlessly balances on his broom, a smug grin on his face. Suppressing the urge to knock him off, I focus on the task at hand. The quaffle and bludger approach with alarming speed, and I barely manage to catch the latter before it collides with my head, though I'm pushed slightly back in the process. Tossing the glove aside, I return the bludger to its case.
"How's Daddy going to react to this, Malfoy?" Riddle's hand lands heavily on my shoulder. I shrug it off, striding back towards the changing room. Despite my efforts, Riddle's arm snakes around me, an unwelcome presence.
"He won't be impressed, pretty boy," he mutter, taking a swig of water, and I will not to rise to Riddle's bait. Lucius won't hear about this anytime soon; communication with Death Eaters in Azkaban is strictly forbidden— or atleast that's what they say but nobody bothered by it.
"Don't be disheartened. Next time, I'll give you a hand with your aim, Malfoy," Riddle's mocking whisper sends a surge of irritation coursing through me. He wasn't talking about the game.
"Confundus," I mutter under my breath, watching with satisfaction as Riddle is propelled to the far end of the field, his laughter fading into the distance. My this year's resolution is blocking out all negative energy so I block out the main source of all the negativity in the entire planet. I stride back to the locker room, with Riddle trailing behind.
Despite his slow entry, Riddle gets out from the locker room before me, undoubtedly eager to boast about his speed.
"Why do I get the feeling you're deliberately ignoring me?" His voice interrupts my thoughts once more. If there's anything Riddle enjoys more than causing chaos, it's taunting others. Or perhaps he's simply the most aggravating individual I've ever encountered.
The Great Hall lies in silence,brighten only by the flickering candles at the Slytherin table. Two plates sit with a lavish spread of food.
"Planning to run to Daddy for help?" Riddle's voice cuts through my thoughts once again. I realize I've been lost in annoyance, a common occurrence in Riddle's presence as I maintain my composure and ignore his constant taunting.
Midway through dinner, a brilliant flash catches my eye, and suddenly, she strides into the room, effortlessly demanding attention. Her heels click against the floor, each step a symphony of attraction.
Despite still wearing her uniform, she's transformed it into a masterpiece, with rhinestones adorning her tights and sleek black heels with a shimmering bow.
Merlin, those legs.
Her skirt barely grazes her thighs, defying all decency and logic— even my belt is longer than her skirt. With each stride, she carries a runway-worthy walk, as if she's constantly under the lens of flashing cameras.
And it's not just tonight; every day she graces us with a new outfit, never repeating a look. How do I know? Well, I just do.
And anyways is this even allowed?
She lives for fashion, her obsession is apparent in every stitch and every step. The world could be crumbling around her, but mess with her clothes or shoes, and she'd unleash chaos upon us all.
As she takes the seat beside me, annoyance simmers within me, yet my insides betray me, stirring with a mixture of conflicting emotions. I catch a whiff of her perfume—lemon, mint, and lime—a bouquet of florals and musk that dances in the air, seductive and infuriating.
I'm captivated by her, drawn to her arrogant presence like a moth to a flame. But my obsession is based on resentment, a frustration born from her effortless charm and my inability to resist it.
It's a volatile mix of desire—desire to cause pain—and disdain, a conflict that keeps me constantly on edge in her presence.
"So you screwed up," she taunts, her words laced with a mixture of amusement and the usual disgust. It's like they've choreographed this little performance just to get under my skin. And why does she always have to be here, making everything more complicated?
I shoot Riddle a glance, hoping he'll have the sense to intervene, but he just chuckles, earning himself a swift kick from me under the table.
As she leans closer, her presence practically radiating smugness, I can't help but feel drawn to her—drawn to choke her—despite my better judgment.
When she reaches for my plate and starts helping herself to my food, I instinctively pull it away, our hands locking in a silent tug-of-war. It's not really about the food; it's more about a who gives in first, and neither of us is willing to back down.
You're not five, Malfoy.
"Alright, enough, you two," Riddle finally interjects, breaking the tension with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Reluctantly, I release the plate, shooting her a sidelong glance that she returns with a defiant smirk. But as much as I try to play it cool, I can't shake the nagging question in my mind:
Why does she always have to mess with me? More importantly: Why do I let her?
Maybe she jinxed me or charmed me or slipped something—
"So?" Riddle questions, raising an eyebrow in that infuriatingly smug way of his.
"She'll survive, but Potter's onto her," she says between mouthfuls of food, her big brown eyes batting innocently. Damn it, she knows exactly how to get under my skin.
Merlin, she's got a grip on me.
"Why are you here, right now?" I scoff, grabbing a small piece of bread.
She gives me a smile that makes my heart race—because it's disturbing and disgusting—and I shouldn't have asked that. Her smile is so bright that I'm sure it's blinding Riddle too.
"Well, do you know how long it took for me to be alone with her?" she says, sounding almost scary. Maybe it's just me.
"She's being monitored every second. I had to drug Pomfrey," she whispers the last part, and Riddle looks positively gleeful. God, why does she always have to stick her nose where it doesn't belong—no, scratch that, she doesn't give a damn about her own business, but she's all over mine.
But today, I'm secretly glad she did, even if it adds to my frustration because sooner or later, Potter, daft as he may be, will figure this out, and she'll have a target on her back, that is, if she doesn't already.
"So, tell me what it is," she turns her full attention toward me, and for a moment, it feels nice. Having all her attention on me. But no, I'm not telling her, because if I do, she'll butt in, and so will Riddle, and they both have their own tasks to do.
"No," I say, nibbling on a single piece of bread. She squints her eyes and passes the plate toward me.
"We went to great lengths to make sure Katie Bell doesn't remember, Malfoy," Riddle chimes in, his tone dripping with irritation. He didn't do a damn thing—Knightley did, but I'll never admit to it. "I don't appreciate the secrecy."
I debate whether I should tell them or not. They'll figure it out either way, and I really don't need them meddling any further without my knowledge. "Dumbledore. I have to kill him," I say in a low voice.
There's silence. Both Riddle and Knightley don't speak a word. They both seem as though they're calculating something. If I hadn't known them since childhood, I'd say they're siblings.
"We need a drink," Knightley declares, already on her feet and ready to leave, with Riddle following suit.
We find ourselves back in the dungeons, in our prefect dorms— although we're not prefects, yet. Dumbledore should thank us for his hefty salary, considering our decent living arrangements. Knightley, ever the riddle, hesitates before selecting her drink of choice—cognac, as always, a sophisticated touch among tequila and wine.
She never drinks anything othe than these.
Why?
Why do you care? my own voice retorts.
I don't, just curious I deflect.
"So, what's the plan, what are we doing?" Riddle interrupts, and I can't resist tossing my wand in his direction. His indignant smirk only adds to the amusement.
"We're not doing anything—I am," I assert, but Knightley has other ideas, I'm certain. She settles herself by the fire.
"That's not entirely up to you," she challenges, and thus begins our back-and-forth of "no"s, a familiar dynamic that never fails to frustrate.
"Stop that"
"No"
Merlin, she's annoying.
"Why were you at Borgin and Burkes?" Riddle ask— Are they following me or do they simply don't have their own tasks to attend to.
"No," I fire back, and I mimic her earlier smile, a silent challenge in her eyes.
"Malfoy, we all know we're getting involved whether you spill or not—so why not save yourself the trouble?" Riddle's voice cuts through the tension, and reluctantly, I acknowledge he's right.
Having them intervene does make things easier, even if I'm more inclined to welcome Riddle's meddling than Knightley's—because I don't want her in a position where she might get hurt—after all, I derive a sick sort of pleasure from her suffering, a lingering desire born from when I saw her in pain back when were were kids. And I don't appreciate anyone other than me doing the hurting.
—Because I like her pain. I've felt it once at a very early age, and I've never gotten over it.
As I spill the details, covering everything from Lucius' embarrassing arrest to my misadventures involving the vanishing cabinet, Borgin and Burkes, and even stumbling upon the Room of Requirement.
I'm met with an unexpected reaction from Knightley and Riddle. Knightley's laughter bursts out, a mix of delightful and painfully jarring that echoes through the room. Meanwhile, Riddle's cool exterior momentarily flickers, replaced by a brief look of surprise before he smoothly returns to his usual composed self.
I leave the part about Bellatrix and the bloody wolf's plan to enter Hogwarts.
But I'm pretty sure Riddle has already connected the dots, given he's the second in command in our little cult. My confirmation probably just confirms what he already suspected since I can feel him lurking around my legilimency walls , though he's playing it cool as always.
And as for Knightley, her laughter seems to convey a blend of disbelief and amusement, as if she can hardly believe the ridiculousness of the situation— I can't either.
Their reactions catch me off guard, breaking through their usual annoying slef for just a moment. It's a rare glimpse of ounce of emotion from two people who usually act like they're invincible—
You're the same as them.
No, compared to these two I'm the most humble one here.
But of course, they quickly pull themselves together, masking their hedious laughter.
"So, you genius decided to kill the almighty wizard of all time by sending him a cursed necklace," Knightley chuckles, downing her drink in one gulp. Her sarcasm hits me like a ton of bricks, making me realize just how absurd my plan sounds when put that way.
"No wonder Bell is in the hospital," Riddle chimes in, his tone dripping with mockery. I can't help but silently agree with him, though I fervently hope it was them suffering instead of Katie Bell.
"Are you both finished?" I respond, brushing off their comments as my brain instinctively blocks out the guilt that threatens to creep in. I don't need their help; I'm more than capable of handling things on my own.
"Riddle, deal with Potter and his minions—Knightley and I'll handle the cabinet," I state firmly, brushing off any objections from Knightley with a dismissive glance. She shoots me a look that could ignite her entire wardrobe, but surprisingly, she remains silent.
Well, that's a first
"No, I'll deal with Potter," Knightley insists, but her words are like background noise to me. I've already made up my mind, and nothing she says will change that—because as it turns out only she can change my mind—because she won't stop nagging until I do. Riddle and I ignore her protests, and she sighs in frustration
"You don't think I can handle Harry Potter?" she challenges, her voice tinged with irritation.
Of course she can handle him. She's more than capable of dealing with anything or anyone, but that doesn't mean I'll let her. Besides, something's been off lately. It's like she's not her usual egoistic self, she is but much less—she's more talkative, less hostile, and strangely occupied.
It's a stark contrast to the cold, calculating, and quiet Knightley I've known since forever. She's pretending like nothing's changed, but it's not fooling anyone— not really, just me.
Yea because you stalk her.
No I don't.
While she effortlessly slips back into her old routine—no her new transformed one, where she glares less and doesn't talk to a single soul—I don't even struggle for a second to bury the memories of the past, locking them away behind walls of legilimency.
"You handling him is basically signing his death warrant," Riddle chuckles, breaking the tension in the room. Knightley shoots him a puzzled look, and I can't help but feel annoyed. They've always had their own dynamic, and it's always grated on me— just because they're kids of the same household, it's unnecessary.
"Isn't killing him the whole point of—" she starts but cuts herself off, lost in thought. The whole point of what? The war? The deaths? The massacre we're actively participating in? "-this thing," she finishes, vague but contemplative.
No, the real point is claiming power, seizing control, and instilling fear—qualities that bring out the Malfoy in me, with its own brand of power and control, but not like Voldemort, not running around killing teenagers.
Just a natural assertion of dominance.
Riddle silently stands and returns his glass to the bar, then moves toward Knightley and takes her glass too. He doesn't say a word before leaving, but at least he cleared both glasses. Knightley slumps back on the foot of the couch, and I can't tear my eyes away from her. Even if my gaze isn't on her, my mind always is.
It's not that I'm obsessed—it's just a fleeting fascination with every detail of her being: the way her freckles catch the light, the subtle curves of her silhouette, the polish on her nails, the choice of her shoes, the delicate curve of her ears, and even the precise application of her dark eyeliner.
And her hair—her goddamn hair—is a cascade of silk, braided and adorned with a black triangular clip, similar to the gold chain around her neck. Why does she still wear it? Come to think of it, she never took it off.
Her face holds a grace that defies explanation—it's just not fair for a girl to have it all.
Suddenly, her head snaps in my direction, and she tilts it to the left. I don't look away because I can't—because she's that captivating, like when you see a beast and yet you still lurk near the shadows to catch a glimpse.
Her eyes move to my hair and then meet mine, and they hold my gaze for a moment longer before trailing down further. I don't break eye contact, refusing to accept defeat.
She rises to her knees, and—
Merlin, the view is breathtaking.
Her ample curves of her breast draw my attention as they directly stare at me, and I—
Focus Malfoy.
She inches closer, practically crawling on her knees, and I feel the sudden urge to escape. Why is she so close? My body instinctively pushes back against the edge of the couch, but she keeps advancing.
Why am I moving away? Because I need space—because I don't want to catch any diseases from her.
"Stop moving, Malfoy," she says finally, coming to a halt and sitting with her back against the sofa. She pulls her knees together, causing her skirt to hike up, and rests her head on her knees, tilting her head toward me. Suddenly, my body temperature spikes, and warmth floods through me.
She's already infected me.
Yeah, you've been infected since you were 10.
"You're avoiding me"
"So what?" I retort. Of course, I've been avoiding her—I've been avoiding her for over a decade. Usually, it's her who avoids me.
See, different—like she's a whole new person, asking me if I'm avoiding her. When she has deliberately ignored me—she actually ran south when I called her in fifth year.
"What changed?" she asks, her curiosity evident. This is the first time she's initiated a conversation with me—or anyone, for that matter. Knightley never speaks unless necessary, but lately, she's been social, and it's unsettling.
"Nothing's changed," I reply tersely, and there's a moment of silence. Maybe she's plotting my death, as she always seems to be doing.
"Are you with anyone?" she suddenly asks, and I'm caught off guard by her sudden interest. She's never shown an ounce of curiosity in anything I do—well, maybe once or twice—but she's never openly asked. And everyone knows I'm never with anyone—
How can I be when you're constantly looming around me?
"Yes," I lie, though not entirely. Technically, I am engaged to Greengrass, though I'm not sure which one—hopefully Daphne, since the younger Greengrass is—well, she's nice. Too nice. She's naive and hopeful, whereas Daphne is at least tolerable, as far as I know.
"Better than me?" she asks with a smile. She knows no one is better than her, and I know it, and the entire wizarding world knows it.
But wait, is she drunk? It's impossible—she's only had one drink. I've seen her down eight shots and still carry herself home.
She rises gracefully, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt with practiced ease. A muttered command sends my glass sliding back onto the bar tray, and before I can protest, she nearly yells,
"Let's go."
I hesitate, unwilling to accompany her, especially in her current state—pleasant and sociable, but not quite herself. I'd rather she throws daggers and glares.
"You're expecting me to walk back the cold, unpredictable dungeons alone?" she exclaims, her eyes wide with exasperation. She lives in the normal people dorm. Riddle and I do too but there's two different entrance for us and it's much bigger.
And it's worth noting that, this is the same girl who took a stroll into the Forbidden Forest and witnessed Voldemort drinking unicorn blood and still kept on walking.
"I'm not exactly in my right mind. Anything could happen to me," she argues, though I know she's more than capable of handling herself. Still, I'm not about to let her take unnecessary risks.
It's not the matter of whether I'm not or I am it's that I cannot.
"Come on. I'll even give you a goodnight kiss," she offers with a mischievous smile, and in that moment, my body moves before my mind can catch up.
I stand abruptly, my posture rigid as I walk past her. She falls into step behind me, and as we make our way out, I can't shake the warmth spreading through me at her mere presence—because I'm embarrassed to be seen with her.
As we walk in silence, the tension between us is palpable, but I refuse to acknowledge it. She may be acting oddly friendly, but I'm not about to initiate anything thing with her.
As we near the entrance to the normal people dorm, she stops abruptly, causing me to turn and face her. "What?" I ask, irritation seeping into my tone.
She meets my gaze with an intensity that catches me off guard. "You know, Malfoy," she begins, her voice softening slightly, "despite everything, I think you still like me."
Merlin, kill me—please.
I scoff, trying to brush off her words. "Save it, Knightley. We both know I'm not the one you should be saying that to." She lets out a small chuckle, shaking her head.
"Maybe, but you're the one I'm walking back to the dungeons with, aren't I?"Before I can respond, she leans in and plants a quick kiss on my cheek, leaving me stunned.
Something is seriously wrong with her.
Or maybe it's me.