d r a c o
Draco had learnt to like the summer.
He had been homeschooled as a child, by a weedy tutor with wire glasses and a palpable fear of Draco's parents. He had sat with the tutor for six hours a day, five times a week - going over and over all of the different lessons that wizarding children had to learn. Despite learning alone, Draco still had the same academic structure as other children, which in summer was a two-month holiday. Two months a year spent alone, wandering around the Manor by himself.
It wasn't that he didn't like the heat, or the long, dry days. It was the unending circle of having nothing to do and no one to talk to. His parents had spoiled him, he knew that. But they had spoiled him with gifts, and flattery, and a false sense of self-importance. They hadn't spoiled him with their time. Or with companionship, or affection.
Being alone was something he had come to like. He had learnt, over time, how to make the most of summer days, if they were spent in only his own company. He became accustomed to spending hours sitting on top of the fountain in the garden, or by the window in his bedroom, staring out at the fields beyond.
He was good at being alone, because his parents had taught him to be. Which was why he found it ironic that even now he had moved out, they were still finding ways to control his time. That they were fine with him being alone, but only on their terms. That they could still force him to go for tea, to visit family, and now, to go on a date with a girl he had never even met.
He had thought that the strange relationship he had with his parents would pass with the end of childhood dependency: that when he stopped living under their roof, he would finally be free from their control and their values.
Clearly not.
He had been given clear instructions to dress nicely for the date. He had put on a smart pair of trousers and a grey shirt, which he rolled up to his forearms for practicality's sake. He was clutching a mug of camomile tea, his fingers wrapped around the hot ceramic. Heart beating fast, he was staring out of his window into the sky beyond. Still.
Because he had five minutes to go until his mother showed up, and a letter from Ginny Weasley was yet to arrive.
A week ago, when his mother had set a date for him to meet Astoria, he had written to Ginny to ask for a picture of Isobel. He had only had two or three pictures himself, and they had disappeared with the rest of Belly's possessions on the day of his trial - when his mother had "cleaned up." But he was sure that the Weasley girl would have one, and if not she, then one of Belly's other Gryffindor friends. It was something to do with ego that he hadn't asked sooner.
It had taken him five drafts to whittle down the letter to something suitably polite - for one thing, forcing himself to use Ginny and her brother's first names rather than one of the more creative nicknames he had adorned them with in school. He had hoped this civility would work in his favour, but Ginny was taking her time getting back to him, so he didn't know. It was possible she felt angry at him, he thought; blamed him for Belly's death. Maybe all of her other friends hated him too, now more than ever.
And then - he threw his mug into the sink and slammed open the window. As if on command, an owl was sweeping down in the direction of his apartment. He stretched out an arm to grab an envelope from the bird's foot - and sure enough, his name was written in a loopy scrawl that he didn't recognise.
He ripped open the envelope and skimmed the letter.
Hi Malfoy,
