𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 [𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧

DRACO mottled in guilt.

Regret coursed through his veins, his blood like never before. All because he uttered that stupid word. It wasn't stupid, he reminded himself, it obviously meant something—triggered something inside of Granger.

He shouldn't have said it, he knew that. He knew it was wrong, he didn't even know what it meant, but it subconsciously passed his lips, and he wished he had applied more power in biting in back—swallowing it completely.

He had shattered inside as he stared back at Granger, slowly fading into a broken woman, her eyes flooding with tears, her lip quivering, her face paling, everything. He wanted to retch as soon as he heard and saw what he had done. It killed him to be the reasoning for her conspicuous absence.

Draco would take it back if he could, even to only have a second with her.

He missed her so much—her pretty face and her mesmerizing eyes, her adorable dimples and crinkles by her eyes and mouth, their conversations, inside jokes. All of it, just her as a person. He wanted to see her so badly.

If he ever did again, he would apologize so many times until the words rolled off his tongue fluently, until he could never speak again. Even then, he would write them on every surface he could find. He would do anything for her to forgive him.

Anything.

If she asked for his heart, he would rip it out of his chest for her. If she asked him never to see Zabini again, he would forget the man in a second. If she asked for him to leave her alone for the rest of his life, he would simply kill himself, there was no life without her. She was his best friend—he was nothing without her.

Like Yin without Yang.

A wizard without a wand.

A rainbow without the colors.

A night sky without the stars.

Draco missed her so much, he could cry every time one spoke her name. He needed his friend—his only friend.

If only he hadn't uttered that word—that word he still didn't understand the meaning of. He wouldn't hate himself more than he already did, he wouldn't constantly be thinking about where she was, if she was safe, if she was eating enough, hydrating regularly, if she ever thought about him, and he wouldn't be lying in his bed the way he was and thinking about her when he could prioritize mending their friendship, that he alone ruined.

A crease formed in between his brows as his hands entwined, his gaze still focused on his ceiling illuminated in darkness. What was he doing? Lying around, and falling asleep would not solve anything.

With that he released one of his hands and grasped onto the sheets, flipping the corners up and away as he instinctively sat up and twisted his body around, his feet landing firmly on the cold floor, his toes grappling around for his slippers, which he eventually slid his feet into.

He hauled himself up a little too fast, his head heavy and his shoulders slouched. His eyelids threatened to glue shut, causing him to widen them and hold every few blinks. He walked stiffly towards the bathroom, his hands dangling lazily at his sides.

Draco stepped into the bathroom, an immediate chill pathing down his spine. He leveled his feet with the cabinet below the sink, about two inches between them.

He reached out for the faucet and twisted it, the metal cooling his hand. The trinkling water echoed throughout the tiny, eerie room. Draco stared at his reflection, he looked exhausted—he was.

He saw the distaste written all over his features, the vermin in front of him once that word entered his mind—the filthy one that left his lips without consent.