The Silver Three

I startle awake from a nightmare. I know that it was a nightmare because sweat is on the back of my neck and my forehead, making my hair matted. I take deep breaths, trying to stay my racing heart. I rack my brain and try to remember the dream, of what made me so afraid. Father says that when I have a nightmare I should try to remember it and face it.

This is what I am supposed to do with all my fears.

Nothing comes back to me. Though I sit in bed in the coolness of the dormitories, I cannot remember what has startled me awake. Frustrated with myself, I slip from the sheets and walk past a sleeping Poppy. Over the years, she’s grown tall and beautiful. Her hair nearly glows in the dark against her pillow as I pass by.

The halls are dark. I slip into the common room and fetch myself a small cup from the cupboard near the glass wall. There are no mermaids this late at night, all of them in the weeds of the Black Lake lurking or sleeping. Often during their lively hours, I sit near the glass and learn the language they use with Slytherin’s. It is a series of hand gestures and shapes, a way to communicate that has been a part of the Slytherin culture for years.

When Salazar first built the dungeons and students moved in, they had a problem with the mermaids. They are vicious and nasty creatures, not the beautiful and vain women that art so often portrays. Right away students had to learn to communicate with them, or the mermaids would hammer the glass, often cracking it.

Now it seems natural to me to sit on the floor and watch them pass.

Instead of doing that, I wave my wand over my cup and whisper a spell. Water fills it until it’s just below the brim. I set the cup down and heat the water, finding a diffuser and cramming it with tea leaves before dropping it in and letting it float to the bottom.

A whisper of movement makes me turn around, suddenly alert. Though I am completely safe in the confines of the dormitories, it is natural for me to spin around at sounds, ready to fight. Though I expect some sleepy first year wandering around, I am surprised to find Blaise, rubbing his eyes and pausing when he sees me.

“What in the bloody hell are you doing down here?”

“Surely the same thing you are.”

He gives me a tired grin. “Well I was thinking about sneaking down to the kitchens and stealing some snacks.” He shrugs his shoulder. “I can’t sleep.”

“Fine.” I take my tea and sip it. The taste of bergamont fills my mouth and it’s the perfect temperature. “Wake Draco and we’ll go.”

“He’s going to be angry if I wake up.”

“Tell him I demand his presence.”

With a sigh, Blaise leaves. I sip my tea and wait in silence. A shadow passes by the window in the lake. It isn’t any shape I recognize, which doesn’t unsettle me. There are creatures in the lake that even Professor Dumbledore hasn’t discovered. Creatures that could kill me if they really wanted to.

I always found it particularly amazing that wizards, while powerful, aren’t the only powerful things in the world. I recall the year when Draco was attacked by a Hippogriff, a proud animal that could have likely killed him if it tried. I think of the dragons in the world, all breathing their rage and clawing the earth.

Wizards are only at the top because we have the minds that put us there.

Blaise reappears with a frowning Draco. His normally perfectly placed blonde hair is sticking up in places, much to my amusement. His eyes are dark, nearly black-blue as they always are when he wakes up first thing in the morning. He twitches his lips when he sees me, though it isn’t exactly a smile.

It’s enough.

I let Blaise take the lead as we sneak into the hallway. We walk through the dark as best as we can and use our wands minimally. Mrs. Norris is attracted to light, and the moment she sees it she will not stop pursuit. Wherever that bloody cat was, Mr. Filch was sure to follow.

Draco falls into step with me. He doesn’t say anything, but we walk so close together that I have to concentrate on not letting my arm swing at all. If I do, our fingers brush repeatedly, making my hand warm. There are several instances where I’ve held Draco’s hand, but it different to hold the hand of a friend than to want to hold the hand of someone you’re affectionate for.

Affectionate. It’s the best word I have. People can love in many ways. The Greeks had classifications for love, but as most have learned, the Greeks didn’t know everything and their philosophy was not the end all be all. In my opinion, there is a difference between the love you have for different parts of your family, levels of love for your friends, types of love for your passions, and degrees of love for partners.

I’ve never been in love that I can remember. But Draco sometimes makes me think that maybe being in love is a lot like our friendship. It’s when you care about someone deeply and you want to protect them at all costs. It’s the warming sensation in my arm because he bumps me and the shy grin that appears when he’s communicating with me silently.

Mother says that a boy like Draco Malfoy is a good person to marry. It isn’t because of his merits, or because he is a good person to the girls he dates. He isn’t because mother thinks he is nice to me or could care for me as an individual. It’s because Draco Malfoy has a lot of money, shows a lot of promise, and would never get in my mother’s way.

Above all else, mother loves compliance.

“What are you thinking about?” Draco whispers as we take another turn. Blaise seems content to lead the way and let us hang back. I don’t complain. “You have that look on your face where you’re so far away from me.”

“I’m right next to you.”

He smiles that rare Draco smile. “Not always. I wish I could go where it is your mind takes you when you leave me.”

“It isn’t always a pretty place.”

“Pretty is for the ignorant. Ugly is for the realists.”

“You’re starting to sound like a wise old man,” I joke. He laughs at that. “A few more witty jokes and you’ll be like that crock pot of a headmaster.”

Draco’s face darkens for a moment. I suddenly worry that I’ve offended him, but when he looks at the ground, it isn’t a look of embarrassment. It’s one of worry and anxiety. I touch his hand lightly. It’s the concerned friend type, not the kind that I want. “What is it?”

“Dumbledore,” he murmurs. “I do not think he should last many more years here.”

“I should think not,” I agree.

We don’t speak more on the matter, but we both know why we say these things. I count the days and wait to see if Draco will fill me in on what he knows. Each day he remains silent, it hurts more. Then again, I know things too. I know that mother has been whispering in the dark to Death Eaters. I know she has been visiting with Wormtail and informing him on how to do something. That something, I haven’t an idea.

One thing is clear in the eyes of Draco Malfoy. He knows that He is coming. In a short time, He would be back. One way or another, the Dark Lord would rise, and the man with the half-moon glasses would perish, and the boy who lived would come to pass