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CHAPTER THIRTY: sweet dreams — børns
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( 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐅𝐎𝐘, 𝟏𝟔 )
Sometimes, when it was dark outside, when the snow had slowed to a trickle of stars, and the common room is quiet save for the crackling of an ember of fire, Draco missed Quidditch.
He missed soaring through the air on his brand-new broomstick, wind whipping through his silver hair and stinging his pale cheeks a rosy pink, hailstorms and lightning not bothering him in the slightest, sharp eyes darting about in search of the golden ball that brought him and his team victory. To be the hero of Slytherin, to be the one that they would all clap on his back and congratulate. Well, it wasn't exactly Quidditch that he missed, no, Quidditch never meant that much to him.
He supposed that it was the freedom that flying brought that he missed—the ability to take off into the vast blue sky above and simply be. He supposed that it was the thrill of life that Quidditch brought that he missed, the joy of spending his treasured school days thinking of nothing but homework and Quidditch and finding some fresh new way to torment Potter and his friends that he missed and desperately longed for these days.
These days, that old life of his felt so far away, so impossibly out of his reach. Between his slipping schoolwork ( a notion that would once have been unfathomable to the blonde as well as his puzzled professors ), his increasingly dark eyes due to his inability to fall soundly asleep anymore, and his important, if not life-threatening, secret task, Draco ceased to feel like himself. It was as if fifth year Draco who had joked around his friends, had bullied third years, and had fallen in love with a girl was merely a whisper of the past. A ghost. He missed that Draco.
