From the Stars to the Stars → Draco Malfoy

xlvi. Hydrus

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     Golden was the Italian sun that kept trying to find its way to creep into the room through the little space that the curtains left. Draco had been trying to ignore the light that was seeping through, falling just on top of his face while he was trying to shield them from the brunette sleeping next to him.

      The blond got up, walking towards the curtains to close whatever excess that provided the sunlight to crawl into the room. The witch waited for him to finish talking to his family's solicitors until three in the morning, the least he could do was let her sleep in. They talked for an hour at least, they've been doing that a lot, and if he was honest, it started to become his favourite part of his day. The subject of their conversation last night – or morning, if they will, was how angels would survive trying to live as mortals.

     Draco thought they would be miserable; Orion thought they would enjoy it. After all, everyone, even the angels, sure would love to play pretend for a little while, didn't they?

     "Master, everyone is having their breakfast in their room, would you want me to bring yours now?" Mippy asked from outside of the door after Draco opened it slightly, he nodded to the elf. "Would you want Mippy to ask Dimmy to prepare Miss Orion's too?" Mippy once again asked, this time his tone was hesitant.

     "Yes, no dairy and coffee for her today," he answered shortly. "Chamomile would be enough, without milk," he added once again before nodding his head to the elf when he remembered how much coffee the witch had last night and how she complained about her stomach problem because of dairy for the past days. Closing the door behind him and walking towards the bathroom, Draco took a slight glance towards the antique clock in the room, showing the time, just half an hour past six.

     Five days had passed since they stayed in the Nott's Villa, not much happened, for Draco at least. He had to deal with the documents his family's solicitors had sent him prior to his father's trial for what happened at the ministry while his father was currently at home, on a house arrest. He tried to mask everything that had been bottled up, trying to show how it wouldn't affect him, but it did. His father might get locked up in Azkaban and his family solicitors had sent him every document out there to prepare him for any outcome, and if the worst was about to come, it meant transferring everything under his father's name to Draco's name.

      His whole life had his family prepared him for something like this, yet he wasn't sure if he was ready.

      Stepping out of the shower, he could feel his head start to pound. Hand clenching after he wrapped the bottom half of his body with the towel he sharply grabbed, letting droplets of water fall from his hair, he walked towards the sinks. He tried scrubbing his hands harshly, even after a long freezing cold shower, the black ink on his fingers was still apparent. He tried to avoid seeing his own reflection in the mirror, yet when he looked up, it was there.

     Staring back at him were the cold grey eyes he's familiar with, yet this time there were two faint dark rings around them. He was partly grateful that he was in Italy, if his mother saw the state that he was in now, she would be overly worried–he's fine, but of course Narcissa Malfoy would not believe that. His mother had always been the only person who had never been fooled with whatever façade he put up, for some reasons she had always been immune to it, always been able to know what's happening underneath them.

     His father had always been raising him to be bulletproof. You either be bulletproof or you be the gun, he would always say. Yet, right now, it felt like he was the one pointing the gun onto Draco's head. His father was the embodiment of tough love, that was all that Draco had known. He knew he was drowned by his father's love, yet he could never feel any of it; it was like being both full and starved at the same time. Lucius Malfoy's idea of affection had always been pushing his son to his best ability, which meant providing him with everything he could ever need and more; to be served anything on a silver platter. Anything but rhe actual act of love itself.