𝑆𝐴𝑉𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝐷𝑅𝐴𝐶𝑂 𝑀𝐴𝐿𝐹𝑂𝑌

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟐 - 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞

╭────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────╮

𝐃

And so, the era that started with the first lie was quickly established with the second one. Soon, what started as a one-time instance would become the serial killer of our friendship.

During the first times that we would torture ourselves in such a way, I briefly thought of the possibility that she might not know I was lying but I soon discarded that theory as unrealistic and untrue to Ophelia's character. She was not stupid enough to believe me.

No, she knew I was lying, probably from the moment it all started.

No, this would become our routine; I pretended I forgot everything and she pretended she believed me.

⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼

𝐎

December 8th, 1996

Dear Margot,

During the game on Saturday, Draco watched me cheer while wearing a borrowed Gryffindor sweater. Afterwards, he was waiting for Zabini to appear when he saw me congratulating Ron on his triumphant victory with a tight hug outside the changing rooms. If I'd ever seen his face change a thousand colours at once, it was at this one. It went from green of jealousy, to red of anger, to white of sorrow. He reached for his pocket, discreetly drank from his flask and took the long way back to the castle without waiting for Zabini at all.

The Slytherin table was hushed and quiet during dinner as the Great Hall was raging with red and orange colours to celebrate today's victory. Draco seemed to despise his surroundings – they were too bright for him – but he mostly seemed to despise the sight of me sitting with the Gryffindors, as if I was one of them.

"Will we read tonight? We can move onto Aristotle," he whispered behind me inconspicuously when he found me near the entrance of the dungeons.

"I have to go to a party."

"You're becoming quite the party lady. I didn't think you'd give up your philosophers to attend to some pedestrian and prosaic gathering..."

"Pedestrian and prosaic?" I said in a mocking tone and raised an eyebrow. "Draco Malfoy it sounds to me like you are jealous."

Draco's expression flattened and turned to iron.

"Jealous?" he scoffed. "I'm not that kind of friend."

The amount of self-restrain a civilized woman needs to master in order to not smack her hand across that man's face is astronomical.

How could he possibly call himself my friend after the nights we had spent together; nights that no one could forget after a few drinks. The process of calming down was eased when I thought that I was partly to blame for this. When I should have confronted him and called him out on his lies, I had chickened out and made myself small for him. Now it was me I wanted to slap.

I left with my jaw clenched.

When I saw him again after the party in Gryffindor Tower, he looked as drunk as ever. He was lousily sitting outside my room, his back on the blackwood, his legs spread across the corridor and with a bottle in his hand. He was waiting for my return.

"Finally," he said and stood with a stumble on his own feet.

"What are you doing here?"