𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐆𝐨

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐕

"Neville," Ron whispered, "What is that?"

"Hydnellum Peckii," Neville whispered back.

"Eh?"

"Bleeding Tooth Fungus,"

"It's bloody disgusting!" Ron scrunched his face into a fowl expression at the small plant in front of Neville, his nose forming a crease on the bridge.

Neville let out a breathy chuckle, "Well, yeah. Literally," he touched it lightly with his forefinger, letting a drop fall on his flesh. "It produces a blood-like liquid. Professor Sprout says that it's a main ingredient in blood-replenishing potions."

"But it's so gross–"

"Ronald!" Hermione cut off their conversation. "I wish you would stop talking! We all need to study if we want to pass!" She slammed her book down on the library table.

"But, Hermione! Would you look at that–"

"I don't care! Look," she said, gesturing to his blank parchment, "I know that paper is due tomorrow, and you haven't even started!"

"Oh, come off it, 'Mione. I'll get it done."

"No! You won't! Look at Harry. He hasn't been distracted once!"

It's not that I hadn't been distracted, quite the opposite actually. I stared at the pages of my Astronomy textbook in my hands, not really looking at them.

Over the top of the spine, Draco was perfectly in my line of vision. He looked to be actually reading. Head low, hair covering his eyes, perfect yet horrid posture.

"Why do you have that thing in here, anyways?" Ron asked Neville, not caring to whisper this time. Hermione shot them a dirty look.

"Theo yelled at me when it got on his bedsheets," he replied.

"Theo?"

"Nott. Slytherin. He's my dorm mate."

I looked at Draco again, tuning out their meaningless conversation.

I couldn't seem to wrap my head around this boy. His morals, his emotions. A thing so complex as him made no sense to me. But maybe he liked it that way, maybe he did it on purpose.

But there it was again, that little voice somewhere in the back of my head.

Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.

Where did it come from? Sometimes, I wondered if there might still be a piece of Voldemort stuck in my head, trying to catch me off guard into thinking that Draco Malfoy was beautiful.

I was sick of it. And just three months ago, I was sick of him. I wanted to hurt him. It felt good to hurt him.

But now it was all so perplexing.

"Oi, Harry," Ron interrupted my thoughts. "Speaking of Slytherins, what's up with Malfoy?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, still dazed and a little drowsy.

"He's all weird," he said, "I see him in Potions with you. He barely says one word. And if he does, it's helpful."

"He's trying, I guess," I shrugged lazily, bringing my textbook back up to my face.