I

It was a very timely event, that the boy had to be there. It was an even more timely event, that she had to be there. Like a well orchestrated game of chess, they were pawns set on an unchangeable path. To his darkness, she was the light. To her void, he was the filling. It was a simple story that started just as simply.

He saw her as she sat down. It seemed she was either oblivious to everyone around her, or she just didn't care. Her very essence screamed rebellion. Her skin was as dark as the mahogany tables at which they sat, and it seemed to make her clothes appear to float in the air against the pale white skins around her. Her hair cascaded down her back in tight, big braids, latched unto her head up till where her scalp came to a stop. A blue and white scarf fell from her shoulders, hiding the braids so he couldn't see where they ended.

He glanced down at his book every now and down so no one would notice his staring. But no one did, not even her; in the end it was just he who was staring at a back that he was beginning to grow strangely desperate to see the face on the other side. He wished she were at his table, so that he could observe her more. He'd heard she had a smooth face, without spot or blemish, that melted down into a pair of brown lips like ripe plums. A wild thought from the pits often crossed his mind that if he bit them, he would surely taste ripe plum. It was thoughts like these that he always chased away before they led to one thing, and that to another. She was dark, dark, dark skinned; a mass of walking chocolate scorned because she was not the desired caramel. Her eyes appeared to be boring pools of brown; a murky uninteresting colour that no one would want to drown in, but he swore sometimes they were silver, and sometimes they were gold. This in itself was the very basis for the belief that, beneath all that silent beauty, resided a violent beast that was born to be mad.

It made him even more angry that she would be sat the fools full of wise airs and graces, than with where she could be made into someone; where she truly belonged. Oh, if he ran the school. But there were matters – real matters – that were more pressing. He had a legacy. He had a destiny. He had a goal. She had an objective; one and one alone. He was in danger. The fact that he was oblivious to this made her relieved, but worried. He didn't know, but if the wrong hands uncovered his secret, his legacy; his destiny; the destiny would be gone forever.

She so desperately needed to put her plan in action, but he was untouchable. Forever surrounded, forever secretive. Eyes like the grey of the moon that seemed to scorch everything with the invisible fire of disdain. She could not force, nor could she kill and get it over with. She had to coerce. She studied him when she could. He travelled in a pack he did not require. With each passing day she watched him slowly reduce his devotion to hair gel. It seemed an insignificant trait to observe but it meant he was becoming more reckless by the hour. Whatever it takes, he was beginning to believe. Whatever it takes, she resolved. Whatever it takes, he clenched his fist as he stared at her back with the endless braids and striped scarf.

The bell rang, and with a flurry of fabric and books, the hall slowly emptied itself like a cloth in the wringer. He separated himself with his pack and went north and upwards. She shoved her books in her pocket and went south and downwards.

There was only one place she could think. She went down into the bathroom. She ran her hands on the very edge of the aged ceramic sinks, feeling the slight chill the cold contact sent up her back. She stopped at the sink that was broken. It had been broken off in a very sad fashion, like someone had been trying to grab it to steady themselves, not knowing that it was but a weak, centuries old piece of furniture. She liked the faucets the most; they were tall and thin like bamboo sticks but sprayed a nasty blast of water if you didn't know how to regulate it. She hovered her hand above it; fingers barely touching the cool metal.

A sharp gust of wind brushed against her cheek, and her nostrils were invaded with the smell of new leather and... burnt jasmine? She whipped around and found herself under the cold fire of his grey eyes. She took in his eyes, wild with the bewilderment of him being this close to her. His mouth was slightly ajar with the same disbelief, and she was certain the exact look was mirrored on her face. She cleared her throat, and he seemed to register that they were only centimetres apart.

"Pardon me," He sniffed and looked at the suddenly fascinating metal grating covering the drain. He felt his face heat up as he took a step back so that the drain grating stood between them. His face heated up. His face had never heated up before. It never had a reason to, because he always got what he wanted or made sure he did. Maybe it was it was her eerie beauty or her silence that unnerved him. He found it amusing but scary that someone whom he'd never spoken with could have so much influence over his emotions and composure.

She found it amusing too, as she waited for him to explain his sudden intrusion. Who knew that someone who might as well have been sculpted from ice could turn to jelly in private?

"Yes?" she prompted, looping her scarf around her neck. It was getting cold lately. She made a mental note to remember to pop into the nearest town for a winter jacket or two.

"Go with me to the Christmas Ball." he blurted out and instantly regretted it. It seemed more of an order than a question. What if she now thought of him as a chauvinistic pig? Did she even think about him? She stared at him with unflinching eyes, watching as his face turned a light shade of pink. It made her want to snort. Perhaps he wasn't human enough that he only managed to turn an insignificant shade of pink when embarrassed.

He wanted the ground to open wide and swallow him so he could hide and forget this moment forever. He watched as she opened her mouth to speak, and with it, his hopes fell and darkened. Never again would he bother himself with the frivolities-

"I don't know your name."

His vision blurred slightly as he focused on her, unsure of what he had just heard. He blinked, and regaining his composure, tilted his head slightly in confusion.

"Pardon?"

"I don't know your name," she repeated, a shadow of a glimmer appearing in her eye. "If I was to get to the dance before you, I wouldn't like to go around asking people if they've seen a boy who can petrify with his gaze, now would I? they would think I was rather odd."

He felt himself smiling. He felt his lips part in that odd expression of joy he rarely showed. She'd never had a conversation with him for so long. She'd never even spoken to him before. He wasn't even sure if he had ever heard her speak before this moment. She was articulate, and amusing, and funny.

She watched his face light up as he took in her words. He was feeling more at ease; his hands had shifted from being lifelessly glued by his sides to his pockets. She could see the blue jewel on his ring glint in the dim light that filtered through the windows, high above their heads. She didn't half mind the fact that he was slowly eating out of her study time; in fact, this could be a step towards helping him.

"My name's Draco," he said, and paused as if he wanted to say something but thought the better of it. "Draco." She liked the way his voice sounded like a rough stone being ground against a soft piece of slate. "I see you around but I don't know your name either."

"Everyone calls me Hether. Like the plant, but without the 'a' in between." she shifted her weight on her feet.

"But that isn't your name, is it?" he pressed on. This was surreal. The whole scene – him, speaking to her; her, replying back, only to have him press on. The best part for him, was that she wasn't put off by him in anyway.

She gave a tight, tiny smile before speaking. "There's lots of girls in Slytherin that would die to go to the dance with you, you know."

He arched an eyebrow at the sudden change of topic. "You don't belong in Ravenclaw. You should be in Slytherin."

"You're right," she clasped her hands in front of her, and he noticed how long and finely cut they were, such that they resembled blunt claws, quite unlike the short, white-tipped nails almost every girl wore. "I don't belong there. I don't belong anywhere. My sorting took two hours until I told them where to put me."

"That's interesting," he said genuinely. "the hat was barely sat on my head before I got sorted."

"Lucky, I guess." She averted her gaze to the ground. He loved how, because her hair was woven to her scalp, it wasn't able to hide any of the features that made up that flawless face. He was chasing something. She was trying to prevent something.

She heaved a mighty sigh and rose to her full height, just under his chin. "Well, it's been nice, Draco," his name poured out of her mouth like a lazy stream of honey, sending jolts of cold shivers up his nerves. "but I have to go now."

With that, she walked past him with a flourish of her robe and the smell of fresh lavender; which infiltrated his mind and swarmed his senses, leaving him light headed. He stood glued to the spot, dwelling in the incredulous nature of the events which had just transpired. He was speechless – struck with infatuation? He caught himself; it was deadly, this game that he was getting into. She was deadly, and it was a distraction. She was a distraction, and a breathtaking one at that. He shook his head, the familiar scowl setting in. What was he doing? He had more important things to worry about – what he know about love or relationships? Had she, by some chance, slipped an amortentia potion his way and stolen his memory? The scowl set in deeper and he spun around on his heels, storming out of the bathroom in angry disbelief.