𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐆𝐨

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈

Time went by like a row of dominos, everything perfectly aligned as the days shifted from Monday through Friday. Weekends weren't much fun either, full of nothing but studying and pretending to study.

Most of the time, I would just have a book or some parchment in my lap while staring off into space.

Weirdly enough, it was Draco that occupied most of my thoughts. Often times wondering what he would be doing in that moment, or where he was, or who he was with—if anyone at all.

He seemed to be doing better, attitude wise. I rarely saw him sad anymore, and when he was, he hid it well. He wasn't angry much either, which surprised me. I suppose it had something to do with sleep—which he had been getting more of lately.

I grew used to the candle light while trying to sleep, keeping in mind that it was for Draco, and it wouldn't bother me if it meant that he was okay.

I understand now why he hates the dark so much. When I really think about it, it should have been obvious to me. His worst moments in his life happened in the dark. Darkness filled his life for a long, long time. It's nice to have a sense of direction.

It was late in the day now, mid November. The snow from Halloween was long melted, but it was still cold. I was expecting it to snow again soon.

I sat cris-cross on my bed, a heavy blanket around my shoulders causing me to slouch. I had no book, no parchment, no quill, just me.

Draco sat across from me on the armchair beside his bed. He did have a book in hand. I couldn't see the title, but I assumed it was Macbeth that Hermione lent to him. He'd become rather invested in it, not doing much else in his free time. Staying out of everybody's way.

"Is that a good book?" I asked suddenly. The silence was becoming unbearable, even though I usually enjoyed it. It was different with him.

Draco hummed in response, a single nod of the head.

"Do you like it?" I spoke again.

"Yes," he mumbled.

I don't know what brought it on, but I wondered what Draco would say about Dean and Seamus being boyfriends. He seemed to be trying his hardest to see Muggleborn witches and wizards the same as him, but this was another topic.

Something in me wanted to ask him. Another part of me though he would be upset. Another part of me thought that he would give me the answer I didn't want to hear, so I refrained.

That didn't stop me wondering, though.

Would he say it's okay? Would he be disgusted? Would he not care?

I figured that, for Draco, not caring was the best he could do. Typically, if it wasn't a bad one, he had no opinion at all.

Still, I found myself talking to him again.

"Can I ask you a weird question?"

He hummed again. He seemed tired, his eyes were heavy and dark, his head dropped slightly as he read, bring the book abnormally close to his face.

I was planning on asking him something related to Dean and Seamus, but at the last moment, I chickened out.

"Were you scared of Voldemort, much?" I said quickly. The question had been in the back of my mind for a while now. I assume it just spilled out rather than the question about Dean and Seamus.

Yet, it made his head shoot up in such a way, I thought he might give himself whiplash.

"Scared? Of Voldemort?" he said, sounding as if whatever it was was obvious.

I nodded anyways, as innocently as I could. One thing I did notice was that he called him by his name. He didn't say The Dark Lord, like he had before. He also didn't say He Who Must Not Be Named.

"Of course," he almost yelled, "I was fucking scared of Voldemort."

Again, I nodded, but more ashamed this time. To me, it wasn't a stupid question. I really wasn't sure what he thought.

"Okay. I just didn't know, really," I said softly.

"Why the hell would you think I wasn't?"

I shrugged weakly. "Don't know. I suppose just because–" I accidentally glanced at his left fore arm, "Well, you know."

"Because I was a Death Eater? You think I wasn't afraid because I have his stupid, fucking mark?"

I was quickly and silently regretting my actions. I made him angry, I hated when I made him angry. Especially when he had been doing so well.

"Let me ask you something, Potter." he said, bringing his voice down to a cool monotone.

I didn't say anything, an invitation for him to continue.

"On a scale of one to ten, how afraid were you of Voldemort?"

"A nine. Easily," I didn't really have to think about it. "He made me really nervous, but he wasn't my worst fear."

"Interesting," he bobbed his head, "Interesting. So, imagine that terror and fear that you felt on the occasional time that you saw him... Now imagine feeling that every day."

My eyebrows quirked, my lips formed a line. "Draco, I don't–"

"He lived in my house, Potter. For over two years. Of course I was scared."

I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. I couldn't think even. I felt so embarrassingly stupid, just sitting there criss-cross on my bed like a child, while there was a boy not ten feet away from me in compete tribulation.

In that moment, I loathed myself and everything to do with me. How I pitied myself, and dumped across everyone else's shoulders. How I crippled myself to my knees on a daily basis, just waiting for a fine moment to pick myself up. And here was Draco Malfoy who'd obviously gone through worse and was still upright.

I think he must have seen the troubled expression in my rigidness, for he was quick to act.

"Don't pity me," he grumbled, "Seriously. Don't. And don't think less of your own experience either."

"Draco. You had it so much–"

"Worse? Is that what you wanted to say?" he edged forwards on his chair, only sitting on it a fraction now. "Potter. My suffering took place within two years. Everything else before was just white noise. We don't need to compare our miseries. No, listen," he insisted when I tried to cut him off, "You've been fighting for something your whole life. I may not have treated you very kindly, but I'm not so arrogant as to not notice."

I didn't want it to, and I tried so hard to stop it, but a tear rolled down my cheek. I was sick of crying. I was sick of anyone crying.

"Why did you want to know?" Draco asked, softer than before when he caught a sight of the water in my eyes. "If I was scared."

I sniffed pathetically. "I guess– I guess I just wanted to know if you were really..."

"Really what?"

"I don't know," I looked to my thumbs on my lap. "The same. Human... Real?"

"Why wouldn't I be real?"

"'Cause you're just so different. So much that it's easy to forget how you were before."

He nodded, in what I assumed was understanding.

"Can I hug you?" I asked. It was stupid, but I wanted to feel his arms again. I liked his head in my shoulder and his breath in my neck as a reminder that he still was breathing.

"Why?"

"I feel like you need one."

"Well, I don't."

"Please?"

"No."

I think he lied.