𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 [𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

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Malfoy Manor

_____

DRACO woke up alone.

The sky was tinted a light pink as the sun emerged from between the hills in the distance, orange rays cloaking over the land.

His eyes peeled open, slowly, squinting as they adjusted to the lighting after hours of sleep. He felt creases form as he did so. His back was quite stiff and sore, the hard surface of the ground doing no good for his bones and muscles.

There were loud, cracking sounds as he stretched his body, his hand reaching to cover his mouth as he yawned, his eyes closing for a brief moment.

He straightened his spine as he sat up on his knees, taking note of the cloak that clung around his waist, of which he was sure hadn't been there when they'd fallen asleep. It was only then when he'd taken note of his surroundings.

Hermione was gone. Left him without a note, without a warning. Again.

His heart thudded, wildly within his chest, bruising the cage of it with its beats. His lungs stung as the air restricted. He raked his slender fingers through his blonde hair, his head snapping from left to right as he searched for her.

There was no use. 

She'd disappeared, dressed herself and apparated away, abandoning him whilst he was naked on top of the hill. His hill. His family's estate. The landlords of these ranges.

It hurt him more than he imagined. He shouldn't have been surprised. Hermione had left him before, and she'd told him things that shattered him inside, and even though she'd been wishing her apologies upon his skin last night, he had still been unsure whether to believe them, and now he knew his gut had been right. She was gone again, and had made him a fool.

He shouldn't have trusted her. He knew of it. Tears shredded in his eyes as goosebumps coated his skin, fisting his hand in the material of the cloak before draping it over his shoulders, wrapping it around himself, tightly.

He let her see him, all of him. He'd been so vulnerable with her and thought it had been returned. He thought she cared about him, that they had made a commitment to each other. Why was he always getting hurt? 

His chest jumped beats, the tears from the sockets of his eyes streaming over his cheeks and staining his skin, flushing his complexion as he dwelled in his stupidity.

How could he have been so reckless?

He bent his arms and covered the pads of his palms over his eyes, drenching his hands and down his wrists with all of his sadness.

He swallowed, toughly. Forced himself to breathe like one was supposed to. Stringing his composure together after Hermione had broken it.

He lunged forward, still balancing on his knees, and snatched the rest of his clothes, dressing himself as swiftly, as he could. He then stood, scoring a black attire, entirely, before collecting his blanket and striding down the hill.

With every boot down, he heard his own voice in his head: 

I deserve better than this. I know I love her, but that doesn't excuse her.

Over and over again.

He was unsure if he even believed that himself, but it repeated in his head until it committed to memory. He approached the gate and listened to it creak as he slipped through.

His boots walked over the cobblestone paths, his frame tall as he owned every inch of stature that made up who he was. He glanced around, briefly, focusing on where he wanted to be.