𝗛𝗼𝘄 𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗧𝗼 𝗦𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘄 𝗔 𝗦𝗹𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻 | 𝗗.𝗠.

67 | ﴾ Semiaquatic Stalker ﴿

𝚆 𝙰 𝙽 𝙳 𝙴 𝚁 𝙻 𝚄 𝚂 𝚃

𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭; 𝘢 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝓁𝒾𝓂𝒾𝓉𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝘺𝘦𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘹𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥...

By this definition wanderlust had always been a key component operating within Draco Malfoy's complex psyche, however it's integral role would superficially vary depending on the reality at hand.

"What is true in one world, is often so in the next," Albus Dumbledore would cheerily quip, somewhere out of place and time himself.

In the Other World - as Guy Cosmos had so liberally coined it - wanderlust in Draco had presented as an intense fascination with all matters celestial; a bearing in the compass of a boy who sought escape from a tormenting oppression, somewhere far beyond comprehension, deep into the distant stars...

In this so-called New World - a demented misconfiguration of the prior - wanderlust continued to play an influential part in the eyes of Draco, yet in a vastly different shade.

Consistency could still be found in the authoritarian pursuance that he gaze upwards for reprieve, however the concept had inverted, polarized per se; the stars were now all that remained fixated and reliable, a symbol of stability, rather than a radical and outward fabric of endless escape.

For no matter where he roamed on the surface of the planet, with one crane of his neck, it was all the same dizzying array, a comforting morsel of familiarity, a home, overhead.

Now subjected to an involuntarily nomadic lifestyle, he no longer had a real home. And in such a circumstance the stars would do just fine as a replacement.

His newfound impression of wanderlust lay in actual exploration, finding that it was the only antidote which successfully muted the fierce and crippling poison of loneliness.

Generous as it was, wanderlust performed as an ingredient which provided both meaning and purpose in lieu of the natural born identity which had been robbed from him at the ripe age of fourteen.

Family and friends, preoccupations, memberships, even simple notions of patriotism - these were roots, dreams and delights now forbidden to Draco, who had been strictly instructed never to return to England lest risk recapture, torture, and inevitable reinstatement into the shadowy guild of Excetra.

By the brave actions of Narcissa-Black Malfoy, enrollment into Excetra was a fate Draco had narrowly escaped in the New World - meaning that in this peculiar reality, no serpentine mark would ever scald his left arm.

For his mother was a fierce witch who played by no rules aside from her own, and who under no circumstance would permit the transmogrification of her only child.

She alone had artfully weaponized the silken strokes of a feathered quill and in doing so swiftly diminished the disastrous rebound of Lord Voldemort, lesser known in her eyes as the sniveling, hypocritical, half-blood degenerate Tom Marvelo Riddle.

That fateful September morning in 1994 when Draco had received a rather soul crushing letter from his mother, it had marked a pivotal point in his life.

Years later, gifted with sage, insight, and distance from the trauma of it all, the concept of forgetting about everything and everyone he'd ever known in the United Kingdom would prove an easy enough pill to swallow.