𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 |𝐃.𝐌

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐍 | 𝐣 𝐞 𝐚 𝐥 𝐨 𝐮 𝐬 𝐲

"𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲, 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞"
- 'better man' by Taylor Swift

──────────⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰──────────

DRACO

The verdant blaze of the fireplace along with the muddy green waters of the lake behind the arched windows cast a chummy greenish tint to the common room— one that the faint golden candlelight from the chandelier can’t rival in the name of rising as the dominant tinge.

Barely any warmth reaches me where I’m sitting on the black leather couch, with my back pushed against the pillows and my arm draped over the plushy armrest. The foot I've crossed over a knee shakes without a sense of rhythm, involuntarily signifying my lack of engagement that has begun to flow into the first stages of boredom.

With my attention scattered and my intention to piece it back together nonexistent, I settle for watching as the viridescent tongues of the flames savagely lick every inch of the logs that were thrown in them hours ago, looking nothing but immensely determined to turn the unfortunate pile of charred timber to ash. An inconsistent crackling sound effuses from the incessant battle.

However, the crepitation I'd even go so far as to call calming endures the disruption that Blaise's constant whining brings; the winces that abscond from his lips every time he applies too much pressure on his injured arm torment me with the temptation to rip the pillow cover off a cushion and shove the cloth down his throat to shut him up.

Perhaps I could find it in myself to be a bit more understanding than that, especially when I happen to be familiar with the blasts of stark pain a broken arm can cause. It's just that on this particular Friday night the patience and persistency required for digging up my remnants of sympathy for the idiot have missed me altogether.

After all, his tumble was nothing but the expected outcome of having Parkinson chase him down the stairs for stealing her last lavender bath bomb. Or better, trying to.

While Nott and I were dragging him to the infirmary against his will, knowing that he'd choose running away with a broken radius over having a healing spell cast on him any day, he admitted that he only got to hold the overpriced bundle of scented substance for less than two minutes before he fell. He claims to have miscalculated the weird of a step, skipped it, and found himself lying at the bottom of the staircase a heartbeat later and that alone makes me think of how much I'd pay to be a witness.

“Stop wailing like a fucking baby, Zabini.” Pansy snorts from the armchair, where she’s wrapped up in the thickest blanket known to mankind like a cinnamon roll. Her body is curled up in a ball with her knees held against her chest, making me wonder how I haven’t seen pearls of sweat glistening on her forehead yet.

Though I expect that to happen soon, I know she’s too cold-blooded—both figuratively and not—to ever complain about warmth. Always scolding us about open windows and drafts of cold air, Pansy is the type of person who won’t think about leaving her dorm without wearing at least four layers of clothes in the winter, turning her into a human-sized onion.

It's miraculous how she always manages to look stylish and posh while doing it.

“See this?” Blaise holds up his arm, as high as he can lift it, and points to the cast with the other. “This is all your doing.”

Pansy rolls her eyes and unironically slaps her forehead like someone told her to shove her feet into inexpensive trekking boots instead of her beloved Valentino Garavani’s. “I didn’t even touch you when you fell.”