WILD FLOWERS ✿ d.malfoy

34.

I don't attend classes today, it's Tuesday. I do go to Quidditch. Montague is delighted to see me but makes it a point that I can sit out whenever I feel like it. I don't. No pain no gain. Still, he makes me do less than the rest of the team.

The rest of the team makes me feel warm and welcome, except him. It seems like the person who visited me was gone. I must have been dreaming. Because now, all I got thrown my way were sneers and ice-cold glares.

Trudging back up to the castle, slowly, with my broom on my shoulders, I get pushed aside. Luckily for me, Warrington and the Fawleys are there.

"What the hell, Malfoy?" roars Adira.

"You're not so strong are you, Morgana?" Malfoy sneers, his eyes narrowed and cold. I clench my fists and don't look at him.

Malfoy is shortly joined by his little gang, roaring with obnoxious laughter.

"Such a little loser you are," Parkinson cackles, gluing herself to Malfoy. Malfoy's bodyguards and Zabini throw me dirty looks and laugh.

"We'll see who's -" thunders Warrington stepping forwards, I put a hand to stop him. He gives me a confused look, his face red.

"Leave them," I say shortly, standing up straighter.

"But," Andreas starts, "how can -"

"No," I say sharply, "we've got to be bigger than our pride sometimes."

They stare at me, flustered.

"Do you know why people like violence?" I ask them suddenly. I train my eyes at the clouds. They're grey and alive, moving faster than the wind. "It's because it feels good. Humans find violence deeply satisfying. But take the satisfaction out of it; it becomes a hollow act."

There's a stunned silence. The wind picks up pace. I shiver.

"Let's go in, shall we?" I say awkwardly, walking forwards. "I'm not in the mood to freeze my arse off."

They jog to catch up with me. "We'll get him later," Warrington smirks.

"We won't have to," I say breezily. "His bruised ego will do it for us."

They laugh.

• • •

I stare blankly at the blank canvas, my hand skimming the surface. The fabric feels coarse against my fingertips. My stomach seems to have gone nuts. Literally. I mean I did have nuts. Off topic. Anyways.

I spin a paint brush in my hands, feeling the soft bristles glide against my skin. Taking a deep breath, I try to steady my hands. I'm only going to paint or draw. It's not that big of a deal. Right? I wish it was.

The sunlight streams in the room like ribbons. The Room of Requirements looks different that the one I usually use. It has all the art supplies Caelum brought me. Thinking of it this way, he really didn't need to get me anything. This room would give me enough to last seven lifetimes. Or maybe more.

The paints seem to be alive, streaming around in ribbons. They colour the walls and ceiling and the windows and the sky the sun the light and everything. Their colours. I tie my hair back. I must do their memory some justice.

I call mum. She doesn't answer. Neither does Rosemary. The silence is deafening. I take deep breaths. And more deep breaths. Until I'm ready. I open my eyes and get a grip. On the perfectly cut piece of charcoal and myself.

And then I let myself lose.

My hands are flying across the canvas. The memory is so vivid in my mind, I can see them standing there. Every crevice and the turn of skin to the folds of the fabric and the twinkle of the eyes and the pale shimmering light around them like angles. Like angles. I'm not drawing the drawing anymore; it is drawing me. It's filling me.

It flows out of me. Emotions, motions, tears, everything. Its flow is so gentle, it feels like a river. Flowing steadily, guiding itself to a predestined path. Art is born rather than moulded. And I see my pain take shape.

I'm telling my story. Canvas after canvas. Paint after charcoal and then soft pastels. My strokes are telling story because my mind is not equipped enough to find words melancholy enough to do so. I paint and sketch and colour through the hours, all sense of time forgotten.

Until the moon is high above my head, and the stars are showering over me. The roof disappeared sometime in between. But under the stars, I'm with them. They laugh and sing and talk to me through every painting. I see mum's blue eyes twinkle and Rosie's smile stretches out miles and their happiness is the blanket I wish I cover myself with. I spin round and round, seeing their faces beam up at me and finally smile.

A lone tear slips from my right eye as I close my eyes. The wind whips my hair. The stars look like fairy dust spilt across the ocean of black. I open my arms wide and tilt my face to look at the heavens above. I open my eyes.

"Until the very end," I whisper. The stars seem to smile.