requirement | dramione

0.02

september 2, 1996

Draco's heart forgot it's proper rhythm as his feet shuffled to a halt in the middle of the dark corridor. He dismissed the light from his wand, but kept it tight in his hand.

His mind began to race with the sound. Thud. Thud. Thud. Growing closer as he counted the hundreds of possibilities of who it could be. Questioning what he would do if they found him.

The young wizard turned his head, searching for an escape; a hiding spot. There was a dullness in all of his actions; somehow both sluggish and frantic. Robotic, yet, unable to think properly.

To his left, her could feel the Gryffindor's eyes searching him. Like a magnet, she had absorbed his fear, likely wondering why he had suddenly gone pale enough to look sick. He had stared himself down in the mirror enough times so that he knew exactly what she was seeing: pathetic, gut-wenching, blood-draining worry.

He would have to kick himself later for looking so disheveled.

For now, he could feel the bile in the back of his throat. The same heavy set feeling that had been there for weeks, weighing down on everything he did. His eyes settled on a nook– nothing more than a crevasse between the paneled windows.

The Gryffindor seemed to follow his eyes, a mass of dark curls fanning behind her as she spun around. She reached the nook before Draco had even begun to move, but turned back to him before slipping inside.

"Malfoy." Her eyes were wide.

Draco's throat was dry.

She was back to him in a second, a small, girlish hand outstretched and reaching for him.

"Malfoy. Come. On." The Gryffindor spoke in a delicate whisper, but this time urgent amd commanding him to follow her. That girlish hand grabbed ahold of his wrist. She tugged him, hard enough to pull him from his spot, but her grip felt gentle against his skin.

She yanked him forwards, but the approaching footsteps were already upon them.

Think.

Draco pushed his hand into the Gryffindor's, even though she was still trying to pull him towards the nook. In one swift movement, he yanked the girl back to him. She spun against the force of his pull, falling into his chest in the most ungraceful way. Their bodies crashed together, his chest against her back, as Draco twisted his wand above their heads.

Draco's arms wrapped around her, keeping her close– keeping her from backing away and breaking his charm. The Gryffindor gasped into his shoulder; body stiff as she felt the sensation of his charm– a cold liquid rushing from their heads to their feet. Concealing them.

That very second, Filch appeared from around the corner.

Every one of Draco's muscled stiffened. His grip around the young witch's shoulder tightened as well. Her hands clung against his forearm and he felt the vibration of her breath.

Argus Filch was an ugly man. He walked with a limp that made him look incompetent and a grimace that was nastier than a troll's. The lamp in his hand seemed to amplify his worst features: untrimmed whiskers on his chin and age lines beneath his eyes. The squib breathed heavily and scanned the corridor. He'd heard them arguing. If Draco's disillusionment charm was anything but perfect, Filch would have them instantly.

But the old man spent nothing more than a slow, scowling second looking in their direction before scanning the other side of the hallway. In another eight sluggish, painfully slow paces, Filch had passed them by.

Draco turned, keeping the Gryffindor's body pressed against his as their feet shifted, watching the caretaker as he trudged down the hall.

Draco finally felt himself breathe.