The Slytherin Curse

The task

The sound of logs crackling in the fireplace of the Slytherin common room should have been a blissful, sedative ode that soothed any daunting thought which might have tormented any young witch's mind. Instead, it was a scratched disk that played in reverse, out-of-tune resonance that irritated Athena's troubled psyche.

"After you are done, come to my room. It's right next to yours, I'll see you soon," Draco's words lingered in her head as she perused over the idea repeatedly.

She remembered suddenly what her father had told her earlier that day at breakfast. That Draco had to talk to her about something that the Dark Lord wanted. A task that they had to complete.

Anxious.

Athena was anxious. No. Words couldn't even describe how she felt.

One does wonder, what sort of task would Voldemort— who one could argue was the most powerful dark wizard of all time— want two Hogwarts students of just eighteen years old to complete?

It was dread that questioned her the most — when the clogs of her mind distorted, their outcry loud enough to irritate the edges of her psyche.

Her thoughts were boisterous, like miniature demons screeching in her ears until her cochlea rattled from the low pitches, and she tasted dust on her tongue, a feeling so utterly detached and devastating.

With a sigh, she made her way towards the door of Draco's dorm, putting her weight down gently on the wood, as to not make any more noise than she already was. The closer Athena got to the entrance of the door, the sensation of dread only intensified — and from what she could remember, if she had defied the Dark Lord's commands, her fate
may not be pretty.

Her mind surged from the inquiry of the Lord, then to what had happened between her and Draco on the train earlier that day. Although her skin absorbed every ray of caliginosity, the faint crimson tint that drew on her cheeks did not go unnoticed. She remembered the heat and the passion between their bodies that were ever so desperate for touch.

Touch.

His hands snaking around her hips, fingers tightening relentlessly around her waist. The feeling of his skin on her skin. The friction.

Her hand running through his soft hair, yet no matter how many embraces, no matter how much longing or need.

They would never have enough.

The only touch they could feel were each other's roaming hands, fingertips, scratching — caressing
each flaw and the satisfaction of his trace.

Dismissing her thoughts, she peered at Draco's door. A small 01 was engraved in silver writing. Above it was a flaming orange phoenix — an identical one stood boastfully right across on her door.

Recalling the earlier discussion with Snape, she was told to whistle to get into her private dorm. She assumed the same procedure was necessary to enter Draco's. Inhaling a deep breath, a short intake of air followed her lips as she pressed them into an O shape — a small whistling sound came out, like a miniature version of the sound a tea kettle made. Athena pressed her palm against the old wood of the door and she pushed it open before stepping into the covered room.

What a sight it was.

Draco stood by the doorway, staring at her. He had an amused expression plastered upon his face, his grey eyes lit up. "You're an awful whistler," he mused.

Athena crossed her arms over her chest. "You could've just let me in you know?"

"Yeah, I could have, but it was quite funny to hear you attempt that whistle."