The 1994-1995 school year arrived with a crackle of international tension and the glittering promise of the Triwizard Tournament. For Darla, it was her fifth year the year of her O.W.L.s and the year she felt the atmosphere of the Wizarding World begin to sour.
The Great Hall was draped in the colors of three schools, but all Darla could focus on was the blue-white flame of the Goblet of Fire. She sat at the Slytherin table, her ice-blonde hair pulled back into a severe, elegant braid.
"It'll be Krum," Draco whispered eagerly, leaning over his plate. "Imagine, Darla. A Seeker for Slytherin winning the whole thing. We'd never have to hear about Gryffindor again."
Darla didn't respond. Her dark blue eyes were fixed on the Goblet. She felt a rhythmic thrum in the back of her mind a warning. Her Legilimency was acting like a radar, sensing a deep, jagged malice hiding somewhere in the room.
Then, it happened. The Goblet turned blood-red. A fourth slip of parchment fluttered into Dumbledore's hand.
"Harry Potter."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Darla watched Harry stand up, looking smaller and more fragile than she had ever seen him. While the rest of the Slytherin table erupted in jeers and "Potter Stinks" badges began to circulate within the hour, Darla felt a cold stone of dread settle in her stomach.
She knew Harry hadn't put his name in. She had seen his mind, he wanted a nap and a break from the spotlight, not a date with a dragon.
A week before the First Task, Darla found him. He was in the library, buried under a mountain of books on Summoning Charms, looking like he hadn't slept since the selection.
"The Accio charm is about intent, Potter, not just volume," Darla said, sliding into the chair opposite him.
Harry jumped, nearly knocking over a bottle of ink. "Darla? What are you doing here? If Draco sees you talking to the 'cheat'-"
"Draco is currently occupied trying to get a badge to bark 'Potter is a Loser' on command," she said, her thin mouth twitching into a ghost of a smirk. "He's remarkably easily distracted."
She leaned forward, her heavily lidded eyes becoming sharp and focused. "You're going up against a dragon. You know that, don't you?"
Harry paled. "How did you-"
"I don't need a gossip column to see the terror radiating off you like a bad perfume," she replied. She reached across the table, her hand hovering near his. "Close your eyes."
"Why?"
"Because your mind is a mess of static, and if you go into that arena with your thoughts looking like a tangled ball of yarn, you're going to be a Very Famous Scorch Mark."
Harry hesitated, then closed his eyes.
Darla closed hers too. She didn't dive deep she wasn't a Death Eater seeking secrets she was a Legilimens seeking a pulse. She gently pushed her thoughts into the periphery of his, smoothing out the jagged edges of his panic. She projected a single image into his mind: The sky. The feeling of the wind. The way a Seeker moves when the world disappears and there is only the Snitch.
"Don't try to be a warrior, Harry," she whispered. "Be a flyer. You're better than any of them when you're in the air."
Harry's breathing slowed. The frantic beat of his heart mirrored hers for a second. When he opened his eyes, the emerald green was clear again, the "static" gone.
"How did you do that?" he breathed.
"Focus," she lied smoothly, though her own heart was racing from the intimacy of the mental touch. "And a bit of Malfoy arrogance. It's quite useful when you're trying not to die."
She stood up, smoothing her skirt. "My father is coming for the first task. He expects me to cheer for the 'true' champions. I suggest you give him a reason to be disappointed in his daughter's choice of company."
"Darla," Harry called out as she turned to leave. "Why help me? Really?"
Darla paused. She thought of her mother's cold hands, her father's growing shadow, and the way the Peregrine Falcon in her soul yearned to just fly away.
"Because I have sound moral principles, Potter," she said, her voice echoing with a touch of wit. "And it would be a terrible waste of my time if I let you die before I figured out why you're so remarkably difficult to ignore."
As she walked away, she caught sight of Hermione watching her from behind a bookshelf. The two girls exchanged a long, silent look. Hermione saw the Malfoy crest; Darla saw the curiosity. For the first time, the lines of the war felt less like walls and more like hurdles.
The Yule Ball was a masterpiece of ice and etiquette, a night where the Great Hall was transformed into a shimmering cavern of silver frost. For Darla, it was a performance. She was the "Silver Queen" tonight, draped in a gown of midnight blue silk that clung to her frame, her ice-blonde curls pinned up with enchanted silver pins that glittered like fallen stars.
She was on the arm of a handsome, if slightly vacuous, Durmstrang student a boy named Viktor's friend who Lucius had personally recommended. But as she moved through the waltz, her dark blue eyes weren't on her partner. They were tracking a boy in messy dress robes who looked like he'd rather be facing another Hungarian Horntail.
"You're drifting, Darla," a voice whispered.
Darla turned to see Narcissa Malfoy standing near a fountain of frozen punch. Her mother looked breathtaking, but there was a tightness around her eyes that Darla recognized. It was the look of a woman who knew the storm was coming.
"I'm merely observing, Mother," Darla replied, her "perpetual calm" firmly in place.
"Observe the right things," Narcissa warned softly, her gaze flicking toward Harry Potter across the room. "Your father is... restless. The tide is turning, Darla. Ensure you are on the shore, not in the water."
An hour later, Darla escaped to the Rose Garden. The enchanted snow fell softly, and the air was filled with the scent of frozen petals and hidden secrets. She stepped into a stone alcove, leaning her head against the cool rock, letting the mask slip for just a moment.
"The shore is a lonely place to be."
She didn't jump. She knew that voice. Harry stepped out from behind a topiary reindeer, his tie pulled loose and his hair a disaster.
"You look... you look like a Malfoy," he said, though his eyes said something entirely different. He looked at her with a raw, "embarrassing honesty" that reminded her of Luna. "But your mind is still loud. I can almost hear it from here."
Darla let out a soft, sharp laugh. "It's the music, Potter. Or the champagne. Or the fact that I'm currently failing my mother's primary directive."
"Which was?"
"To stay on the shore." She stepped toward him, the silk of her dress rustling like a warning. "You're a terrible dancer, aren't you?"
"The worst," Harry admitted, a lopsided grin breaking through his exhaustion.
"Good. Then there's no pressure."
Darla reached out, taking his hand. It was warm and calloused, a stark contrast to the cold, manicured hands of the boys in her own House. She placed her other hand on his shoulder, and for a moment, the Triwizard Tournament, the Dark Lord, and the weight of their names vanished.
They didn't really dance; they just swayed in the shadows of the roses.
"I saw my father talking to Karkaroff tonight," Darla whispered, her voice barely audible. "He's afraid, Harry. And when men like my father are afraid, they become dangerous."
Harry looked down at her, his green eyes intense. "Why are you telling me this? You could get in so much trouble."
"I told you," Darla said, her sharp tongue returning to hide the flutter in her chest. "I have sound moral principles. And right now, my principles are telling me that you're the only thing standing between my family and a dangerous future."
She leaned in, her forehead resting against his for a fleeting second. Her Legilimency flared not to peek into his thoughts, but to share a feeling. She projected the sense of a falcon taking flight, the feeling of absolute, weightless freedom.
"Don't let them ground you, Harry," she breathed.
A noise from the path Draco's unmistakable laugh snapped the moment. Darla pulled away instantly, her mask of "calculated observation" sliding back into place as if it had never left.
"Go, Harry. Before my brother decides to make a scene."
Harry lingered for a second, looking at his hand as if he could still feel her touch. "Happy Christmas, Darla."
"Happy Christmas, Potter," she replied, watching him disappear into the shadows.
As she walked back toward the lights of the Great Hall, Darla felt the first true crack in her foundation. She was a Malfoy, yes. She was a Slytherin, yes. But as she touched the silver pins in her hair, she realized she was also a woman who had just shared her soul with her family's greatest enemy.
The shore was indeed a lonely place, but for the first time, she didn't mind the cold.