𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 [𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

DRACO had been planning.

Planning and plotting his escape, his freedom, he needed to—and he was going to, no matter the consequences.

Astoria had been gone longer than he expected. When she told him that Adrian was taking her out, he hadn't realized it would be for as long as it had been. Not that he minded, it gave him time to think. He always had time to think.

But this time, his mind centered on one particular thing—the route to his freedom.

His mind often jumped from the sanest ideas to the strangest ones in quicker than a heartbeat, but that kept him amused.

He didn't care to part from the craziest and most deathly ideas, he needed to get out of his captivity. Away from Astoria. To get to Granger and apologize to her until his lung caved. He had to, and he was going to. Even if he died afterwards. He had to tell Granger how deeply he was falling—

Mudblood.

He knew the meaning now—an incredibly offensive term for someone who was Muggle-born, often used by prejudiced witches and wizards. Racists.

And the reminder that he had uttered it so carelessly to Granger—against her, someone who he knew was a Muggle-born. Most people he knew were Muggle-borns.

Granger, Healer Scamander, Healer Abbott, the receptionist. They were all victims of a hate crime, one that was constant.

Draco had nothing less than a tsunami of guilt and disgust overcome him at his shameful realization, his reckless behavior. He hated himself for what he had done to her, tasting a bitter tinge on his tongue at the thought.

Not to mention it was illegal—now he understood why. He should've been arrested for it. He should've been killed.

He should've stayed dead during the war.

Draco's head dipped to the locks on his wrists, leaving only the slightest bit of room for him to wave them left and right.

The friction tore a hiss out of his throat, stopping every few seconds to let his wrists cool. Astoria had been smart about this—already understanding he'd try to escape, but she had no idea how far he was willing to go to achieve his ends.

Draco's hands jerked in another stupid attempt for freedom—but nothing, only tipping the chair on its hind legs. The air in his lungs evaporated as he did so, panic and fear of falling. He was lucky it only fell back into a sturdy position on the ground.

He held his mind straight, thinking to himself with basic logic about how he'd untie himself. This was difficult when he'd lost so much strength over time, no food, no exercise—no nothing. He was barely holding himself together. The only thing that coursed through him was hope, and not the hope one would expect; his hope was to apologize to Granger.

Draco's wrists twisted subconsciously, and he winced again, a flare within him triggering, the skin around it sinking with red and sensitivity.

It had caused something Draco hadn't noticed until now—heat. His wrists were hot where they met the entrapment. It hurt more than he imagined. His hands rubbed again, and again, and again. Why wasn't he thinking more clearly? This hurt him a lot, he shouldn't be doing it. It was going to destroy his skin.

And with that last thought, something clicked inside his mind—a hypothesis. Maybe his skin wasn't the only thing that could be destroyed by heat.

Air collected in his lungs as he braced himself for what he was about to do next. His idea was either incredibly foolish, or brilliant. He simply had to believe it was the latter, or that fire within would die.