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Serendipity and the fallen seraphim	By : Gemma Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 1373 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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"So talked the spirited sly Snake, and Eve,
Yet more amazed, unwary thus replied:
'Serpent, thy overpraising leaves in doubt
The virtue of that fruit, in thee first proved.
But say, where grows the tree? From hence how far?"

I remember the elegant slope of his script on the page, creased as it was, the edges caressed by the movement of my fingertips as my eyes scanned slowly, almost fearfully, across the page.

'Serendipity,

Our meeting earlier today inspired me to write to you, eager as I am to converse with you and discover how the many years have treated that young girl I saw so fleetingly in her youth, though heard so much about from an understandably proud and boastful father.

Tomorrow evening I am returning to Hogwarts to confer with Professor Snape over the progress of my son, Draco (who speaks about you often, and is quite in awe, though he is too proud to admit such a weakness, of your keen wit and intellect).

I request your presence in one of the vacant classrooms on the third floor. You will know which one if you choose to attend. I will understand if your studies prevent you from meeting with me, but know that if such an event occurs, I will be bitterly disappointed.

Yours sincerely,

Lucius Malfoy.'

Voices sounded in the corridor outside as the other Slytherin girls prepared for the encroaching night.

I sat very still, perched as I was on the windowsill, holding the letter open in my hands, my gaze locked on the sloping script. Each curled letter was captivating, each inked punctuation entrancing. The ink itself was a fine black, though when it caught the light it seemed overset with a deep red, which reminded me of that drop I had so impetuously licked from Lucius' cheek as a child.

The image made me blush, even as my mind whirled, knowing as it did now what that substance had been. Blood. It had been blood. I think perhaps I did realise this fact that day, despite the haze and pain brought on by the fever. But somehow blood on his perfect pale skin had not seemed such an affront. Fallen seraphims could likely bathe in the blood of babes, and yet to my childish imagination and eyes they would always be revered.

Now I trembled at this knowledge, and I wondered, as I had many times before, what exactly Lucius had been doing on my estate that day, and how that single drop of blood came to rest on his cheek, quivering on his high cheekbone with every breath.

His pink, thin lips flashed into my mind, and I found myself wondering how soft they might be. So often had I seen them curled into an arrogant smile, which although mildly irritating, made me long to press the sensitive cushion-tip of my thumb to it, slipping the very tip inside and brushing against those white, devilishly sharp, canines of his.

I blinked, folding the letter with trembling hands. My heart was pounding a tattoo in my chest as I slipped the cream envelope beneath my pillow, and stood so as to de-robe.

Once the heavy school gown and robe had been safely tucked away in the large mahogany wardrobe that my father had insisted I have, I pulled a long nightgown over my head. The ruffles and lace which decorated it so prettily reminded me of my childhood, and made me feel a flash of homesickness, though I knew that the home I wished for was the not the home of my reality.

Sighing softly, the breath blowing through my parted lips, I curled my legs under me on the bed, my back pressed against the headboard and my hands kneading the plush duvet in an unconscious gesture.

My mind turned to Draco Malfoy, who I knew was bedding down not far from my own room, his long hair most likely splaying over the pillow in a blonde fan, his grey-blue eyes hidden beneath pale lids so like his father's.

I knew Draco through Hogwarts of course, but I had also encountered him in my youth, him coming from a bloodline as pure and wealthy as my own. I could still see him running towards me, his blonde hair, long even then, flying out behind him, his blue eyes laughing one minute only to turn hard the next. He never knew what he wanted, that child. He forever thought he did, that his will was total and complete, yet those who knew him well could see that he was one with no direction.

Closing my eyes, I leant my head against the wall. No wonder he took so well and so completely to a group as close, secretive, and elite as the Death Eaters. Though, was there ever any choice for a child brought up in a family such as his own?

A frown creased my forehead, and I purposefully turned my mind away from such an unpleasant, and most likely all too correct, thought. Instead, I saw once more Draco as an infant, his chubby little hand holding my own tightly, our mirrored smiles turned to those around us; performing for the crowd. And how the crowd would ooh and ahh. So similar were we, our hair a near identical golden glow, though mine was richer and his more fair. Our eyes both blue, our mouth both pink and pouting, perfect little cupid bows.

How the spectators loved to see us dress in similar clothes, to see us holding hands and playing, to see us fast asleep in each other's arms.

But that was not Draco Malfoy, and that was never me. We played the game, and oh how we loved it for a time, but then, as children do, we drifted apart, only to meet and converse in class or at the elegant soirees our parents expected us to attend.

Draco was never cruel to me, though I have heard the tales spoken of him, and I know that for the majority they are true. There is a coldness in him that makes me pause. A chill that always made me act kindly towards him, but never to allow myself a real closeness.

So like his father in appearance, yet so very different in demeanour. Many pass them off as one and the same, seeing no difference in their identical icy veneers and presence.
How very wrong all those people are. How much I pity them.

Draco has the platinum hair, the blue eyes and the smooth pale face with the arrogant mouth, just like his father. In this way they are similar, but that is where the parallels end.
Draco is ice all the way through. Genuinely cold and cruel, I know he feels no remorse for his actions. Yet there is an angry passion in him that weakens him, creates cracks, which can be worked on so that he could be broken by skilful hands.

Lucius is all passionate heat. True, one can not see this heat nor even touch it, for he inflicts it upon you. He is cold, he is cruel, he has done things that I will never allow myself to consider, but oh what fire he can create. What passion. What consuming heat that is so sharp, addictive and blissful all at once.

Settling down into my bed, pulling the Slytherin colours of green and black over my body, I turn my mind back to the envelope which lies under my pillow, it's presence almost palpable.

Draco Malfoy could never hold my thoughts as his father does. He could never possess me. But Lucius could, and this thought terrifies and thrills me, part of myself responding to this concept as if it has been lurking in the shadows, waiting for the light of this realisation and admission to fall upon it and warm its sluggish blood.

And so, as I gaze into the darkness of my room, I make the decision. And I hope that it is one I will never be made to regret.
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Serendipity and the fallen seraphim