𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐨

chapter eight

After fifteen minutes of sitting on the floor in shock, Draco moved to his bed and embarrassedly pleasured himself to the fact that Hermione Granger had just undressed herself less than three feet away from him solely for sport.

He skipped breakfast, staying in his boxers whilst painting the underwater view out his window. Watercolors felt right this morning. The paints were transparent, vivid, and dripped wet splotches off of the canvas and onto his floorboards.

Snape would surely scold him later, he thought, before realizing the world had changed and the potioneer he'd looked up to all his life was no longer alive.

A splash of red paint landed on his foot.

After satisfying his grumbling stomach by eating an old granola bar he found at the bottom of his bag, Draco threw an oxford shirt over his head, pulling a pair of uniform pants onto his legs.

Hair messy and unbrushed, he made his way to charms through the unoccupied halls, ten minutes late.

He opened the door to nobody's disturbance, about to slip into his seat with silent footsteps when his Professor stepped away from the board, turning towards him.

"Mister Malfoy," Professor Flitwick tsked, "I'm sure we're all ecstatic you finally decided to show up to class."

Draco grunted as the class erupted in a fit of giggles. How had he gone from bully, to death eater, to victim?

No, he was no victim. Draco had made peace with the fact that he was the creation of his own actions a long time ago. There was nobody to blame but himself.

He'd forgotten his fear of the dark mark on his arm and remembered the guilt. It churned in his stomach at a dull roar, waiting to finally be freed from this unsuitable body, spewed out whole in a fit of self forgiveness and liberty.

The lesson, despite his tardiness, was boring and repetitive of the basic training he went through as a member of the now outcasts of society, jailed and blacklisted, all alone with no one to understand.

Draco never wanted empathy, nor pity.

Just getting it off his chest would be acceptable, despite knowing that nobody was unbiased enough to listen.

When the bell rung he was forced to stay behind, receiving yet another scolding out of disappointment, and makeup homework.

Roaming the halls during his free period, sketchbook and pencils in hand, Draco wandered the castle until he found the familiar greenhouses.

There, Professor Sprout was lecturing proudly, Neville Longbottom her apprentice as he showed examples of her exclamations, a proud smile on his face.

Draco bit his lip as he noticed a head of tamed curls sitting near the back of the classroom, eyes diverted from the lesson, robe sleeve hanging lazily over her right shoulder.

He scoffed aloud.

Granger had more important things to do than learn about plants, such as pick at her nails.

So there he sat, crossing his legs on a bench across from the open window, and he began to draw.

He drew the good; the way the morning light bounced from her lightly freckled skin, brownish curls illuminating in a beautiful shade of pumpkin orange.