SENTIR, malfoy

vingt

CHAPTER TWENTY

. . .

THERE is a certain kind of dread attached to receiving mail for Draco. Usually, mail either means further orders from his family, on what he was doing wrong and developments in what he had to do, or the occasional parcel he needed. The parcels aren't so bad because he's expecting them, but when an envelope lands in front of him, he can feel that dread bubbling away in the pit of his stomach. Sometimes he considers ignoring the letters, throwing them away, destroying them somehow, but he knows he can't. That would only make things worse.

This time, when he turns the envelope around, he sees his name scrawled across in... Biro? The blue writing is definitely not the typically quill and ink, and the handwriting he recognises―it's a letter from Enoch, written in his hurried way of writing, somehow still smudged despite his insistence that the pens help him write better. The dread lessens lightly, like the brunet is actually there, taking a little bit of the worry away from Draco. He slips the envelope away in his pocket, refusing to answer any nosy questions about it, and goes back to eating his breakfast.

"...I also have some information that I think you'll actually probably be interested in (maybe). Remus Lupin (he said he was a teacher at Hogwarts, but now he's not) came over for dinner the other day. He works with Mum, Mum has guests a lot. But anyway, the interesting thing is he smells like you―like petrichor! His petrichor is a bit different to yours (yours is a bit stronger, like really fresh rain) but it's the closest I've ever smelt. You might not care, but I thought you'd be interested in the update..."

The dread is back. The kind that creeps up on him, wrapping itself around him like a boa constrictor. He's glad he waited on reading this, until later in the evening while everyone is supposed to be asleep. The piece of paper is shaking between his fingers as he rereads the words over and over, as though willing them to change. He doesn't need this, doesn't want this. He can't handle this kind of information right now.

Before the overwhelming wave of emotions can completely crash down on his mask, he storms out of the bedroom, shoving the letter under his pillow. Someone in the dark, their voice groggy and tired, asks where he's going but he doesn't even acknowledge them. He barely even hears them as it is.

Draco isn't as careful as he should be, rushing to the girl's bathroom on the second floor. He's not even conscious of the fact that he's walking here, not until he's got the door closing behind his back and aware of the fact that he feels oddly safe. But the safety doesn't make him feel better, it's the kind of safety that seems to unhinge something―it lets his mask down, against his will, and he very nearly lets out a whimper. But not quite. He's not that bad.

Again, with little care for the fact that he should be in his dorm, his fist slams against the cubicle wall beside him. It doesn't create a loud noise―because it wasn't a hard enough hit―but it was enough to let out some of the tension filling his body. He feels stiff, muscles seizing up as he forces them not to tremble. He won't tremble.