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title: Mr. Smiles date: september 02, 2002 During the term break, the light that comes into the Malfoy Manor strengthens, somewhat. It becomes harder, brighter, sharper; all these arrows and shards falling through heavy drapes, all trying to pierce into the mind of the hazily familiar visitor. Draco. Wandering through the Gardens one day, past the neatly trimmed English hedge mazes and the old sculptures and casts that sing cantinas and recite poetry to him as he walks past; all this is for him, because Narcissa is ice, stone and ivory and Lucius doesn’t believe in strolls. Maybe if you snatch a look, out of the corner of your eye, you can catch a statuette giggling and trying to run stone fingers through stiff, granite hair, sighing dolefully as he walks past. That’s the Genie. An age ago, she was wishes and wanting and the power to grant them all. But miles away from Persia and the bitter transaction between a Malfoy and trader has left her entombed and in love with an oblivious boy; and thus, stupid. Draco can’t see what used to be hair the shade of a million nights of scented oil or the smell the scent of somebody who was from gritty sand and cool oasis; but he’s all eyes for high English noses, not-so-black hair that lingers a bit on dark brown. That dark mole under the shadow of a shoulder that was revealed when a Quidditch robe slipped just a bit. And those eyes from sea-side towns and that smile that lights up Hogwarts like Muggle neon signs at a carnival that’s only just opening... Of course, it would be nice if that smile were directed towards him, just once. It would be nice to be touched by fingers that weren’t pastry-white from blood that spans back through blue and violent centuries; but like spotting a shooting star, that might not happen. Draco’s never seen a shooting star anyway. He imagines them like this -- a fall from grace and dignity, a fall to earth, a descent to something better, stronger, solid, warmer than the night skies. No, not a carnival, then. A street lamp in complete darkness, if you please. Down a street. A street far, far away from Draco. There are, after all, different kinds of light. There’s the light of the Malfoy Manor, thick and knifing through the ruins of a brain that a stupid love has rampaged through; accusatory and yellow like bitter bile. There’s the light that comes only at night; the sort that lights up the world and somehow, the inside of your head. And then there’s the light that comes refracted through the separate tears of the Genie and Draco. Not that Draco would ever relate to a statue. |
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