They were calling this the "Battle of Hogwarts".
I sat by myself in my nightclothes, staring at the flagstone floor in the Great Hall. My hands were folded in my lap, and I couldn't hear myself think over the sound of voices coming from every direction. I never asked for this. I never asked to be a Slytherin, I never asked to be the odd one out.
When I was eleven, I arrived at Hogwarts thinking about stories my older brother, Mason, had told me. He talked of friendly ghosts and different Houses, Dumbledore and which teachers to avoid. He was a Ravenclaw; intense and very wise for a boy of fourteen. He cheered for me when Professor McGonagall called my name for sorting.
I remember looking over my shoulder and seeing that Mason had already made a space for me at the Ravenclaw table. He'd flashed me a thumbs up as I climbed on top of the stool with hands shaking so bad, I couldn’t imagine anyone not noticing. The Sorting Hat rested on my head for a long time before it placed me in the House with the highest production of Dark Wizards.
I'll never forget the way Mason's face fell.
Slytherin never seemed to fit me well. I hated the green tinge to the light in the common room. I hated how our passwords always seemed to be something along the lines of "Pure Blood" or "Salazar". Throughout my entire seven-year stay at Hogwarts, I never once felt pride for the green and silver hangings for my House, and this caused problems. I didn't have many friends.
There was one, though. An unlikely pair we made, to be sure. He was of medium height and well muscled, with pale blond hair and sharp eyes. His voice simply oozed confidence and so did his stride.
I, on the other hand, was small and compact with a dark complexion and green eyes. I'd been known to be timid, and I avoided confrontation if I could help it.
Imagine my surprise when he flung himself down on the common room couch beside me one night back in second year.
"Ever, isn't it?" He'd drawled, his voice lazy but attentive. I glanced up from my Defense Against the Dark Arts book and nodded.
"What sort of name is that?" The question could have been unkind, if not for the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"I don't really know," I muttered, running a hand through the loose, brown curls that fell to the middle of my back. "I've been meaning to ask my mother that my entire life." I smiled nervously.
"I'm Draco, by the way." He said, reaching out to shake my hand. I took it in my own, temporarily baffled by the contrast of my olive skin against his alabaster. What could this boy possibly want from me? Certainly not my company.
I could never quite figure Draco Malfoy out. One moment, he was parading Pansy Parkinson around on his arm, the next he was sitting with me on the common room couch, grinning so wide I thought his face would split in half. He was fiercely loyal, as it were, and I found myself enjoying the time we spent together.
By the end of our third year, we were nearly inseparable.
My mind was brought back to the present again by Professor McGonagall's voice ringing out over all of us. She kept mentioning the word "evacuation", but none of it registered with me. I could only sit there, lost in thoughts that made my stomach turn. Where was Draco?
Draco and I had never agreed on things like blood status and Lord Voldemort. He insisted that the world would be better off without Muggle-Lovers and their half-blood babies running around, waving wands and polluting the air with their dirty breath. He dreamt of being high up in ranks when Voldemort took power, of his family being held in reverence for years and years. He would talk of all this with a fierce look in his eyes, and I would always change the subject.
Our opposition had come between us a few times, but Draco always got over it. He said I'd understand someday, and that would be that. Our talk would change to the Potions essay Snape had assigned, or what we were getting each other for Christmas.
I remembered sixth year, when Draco talked less and less. He'd drop onto our couch and stare into the fire or fall asleep. He never told me what was wrong, and I watched his skin take on a grayish pallor with growing worry.
"Would you miss me if I wasn't around anymore?" He asked me one night, his sunken eyes staring into mine with fervor.
"What are you talking about?" I replied, alarmed enough to turn and face him completely.
"Just tell me. Would you feel empty without this?" He snatched my hand in his and held it to the side of his face. He wasn't smiling. He didn't really have any expression at all, actually. He just stared, and I was frightened by the dead look in his eyes.
"Of c-course!" I'd stammered, gripping his fingers. "Draco, what's going on?"
"Nothing," He muttered, pulling his hand out of mine and standing up to leave. I watched his receding back with a profound sense of anxiety. I wanted to protect him, to be with him all the time so that I could finally understand him. I wanted it, but I wasn't brave enough to get it.
Dumbledore died that year, and I didn’t see Draco until the following September. He had a new haughtiness, and I couldn’t understand the constant smirk on his face. He learned the Cruciatus Curse and used it often on other students in the hallway. I still saw that deadness in his eyes sometimes, but I didn’t dare mention it or ask him why he'd changed. He meant too much to me, and questioning him might've meant losing him.
My seventh year at Hogwarts was a strange one. Professor Snape became Headmaster Snape, and people kept leaving. Voldemort was on a rise to power, and all around me, my fellow Slytherins celebrated. I heard reports of people dying and couldn’t bring myself to join in the happiness. I was so afraid, I couldn’t think straight.
Now, there were rumors of the Dark Lord standing outside the gates, and Harry Potter hiding somewhere in the castle. I still couldn’t see Draco anywhere, even when "The Boy Who Lived" came sprinting into the Great Hall and Voldemort commanded anyone within earshot to capture him and turn him in. Pansy Parkinson was all too willing, and McGonagall asked her to leave. The rest of the Slytherins were directed to follow, and I tore myself away from my thoughts and stared up at her with wide eyes. No one seemed to notice my panic. My best friend was somewhere in this castle, and I knew he would fight for Voldemort. To the death, even, if things got down to it. I stood shakily, filing through the doors and into the Entrance Hall.
I stared around wildly for the pale blonde hair that was so familiar to me. Up the marble staircase and down several corridors, I followed the rest of my House, too distracted to notice that no one was coming within five feet of me. "The Odd Slytherin", I suppose, but it didn’t matter.
We finally stopped outside a plain wooden door, which opened to reveal a clubhouse of sorts. My panic grew when people began piling inside, headed for another door at the far end of this room.
"Ever," I heard my name, called in a hushed tone from somewhere behind me. I turned and caught sight of Draco, standing behind a statue of a witch holding a tortoise in her arms. No one noticed as I broke away from the crowd and hurried over to him. He took hold of my arm and pulled me behind the statue.
"This is it, Ever," he said, smiling falteringly. His eyes went dead for a moment, then lit with something resembling fury, "I prove myself tonight."
"You don't have to," I shook my head vigorously, "Come with the rest of us!" I tried to pull him toward the door in the wall, but he stood firm.
"I can't. You don’t understand."
"You're right, I don't. But this doesn’t have to be your fight, Draco." I was practically begging him, my hands clasped in front of me.
"Just get out," He said, putting his hands on my shoulders, "Get out, and get home. Don't ever come back because you won't be safe."
I stared at him. He shook me roughly.
"You never belonged!" He said violently, his face twisted into a snarl, "You couldn't fight for us, now. You don't believe in what Lord Voldemort teaches, and if you stick around, someone's going to find out. They'll kill you, Ever." He searched my face with his eyes, shaking me again, "Don't ask me to be the one holding the wand."
"I'm not… asking you… Draco, please just leave with us." I grasped his hand in my own. The contrast of our skin didn’t bewilder me this time. It sent my heart racing, and I could imagine all of his skin on mine. I could imagine watching the contrast and feeling like it belonged. Like we belonged. I shook my head vigorously.
"I can't." He said simply. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and drew me forward, pressing his lips to mine in a way that made my legs shake. I put my hands either side of his face and tried to drown out the sounds of impending chaos.
"Ever, I can't do this," He pulled away only slightly. I could feel the breath of his words fan across my lips, "Not now. Don't come back. I can't worry about you tonight."
His eyes weren’t dead, then. I watched them as he brushed a thumb over my cheek, trying to memorize the way he looked in the torchlight. Then he retreated, his face closing off and his hands dropping away. I wanted desperately to cling to him, but I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t stay and fight one way or the other because I knew I couldn’t watch him kill or be killed. Not my Draco.
He pushed me in the direction of the dwindling numbers of Slytherins inside the clubhouse room, and I forced myself not to look back. A strange sense of dread mixed with acceptance took hold of me as I passed through the room and climbed through another door. My head was with Draco, back behind the statue.
"What sort of name is that?" He'd asked back when we were children. Walking through the dark, earthen passageway that unfolded in front of me, I realized how long ago that had been.
I forced him from my mind, then. I kept him at bay with thoughts of my brother, of the words to my favorite songs. Anything to keep away the memory of the way he looked when he pushed me away. I ignored the swollen heat of my lips and forced myself to walk forward, closer and closer to the yellow light I saw up ahead.
I couldn’t be his ever after, happy or otherwise. I couldn’t let myself hope because, surely if I did, it wouldn’t be. I would discover that he had died, and I'd be lost for good.
So I forced myself not to love him, for a while anyway. Because maybe if I didn't hope for him, didn’t yearn to be with him, shielding him from whatever might happen, maybe he'd make it through on his own accord. And then maybe he would find me. Maybe.
I climbed into the light.
