Tainted - {d.m. & h.g.}

thirteen - dark curls | deep cuts

(TW: mention of gore/blood)

song: wires - athlete

DRACO

His sleep isn't plagued with nightmares for the next four days.

And he would normally be thankful for this, but he's hardly slept a fucking wink in that time.

The glamours his wand casts are barely able to cover the blue rings that wane under his eyes— coffee is barely able to keep them energized enough to stay open.

And he knows his appearance is beginning to show his mental state— his imperturbable persona is wearing extremely, extremely brittle.

The rumors are piling up high and mighty about him and his family— he's heard at least two new theories on his father's whereabouts just this morning at breakfast alone.

And he's never been more thankful for the ability to occlude, or he'd probably be well on his way to a reservation for a room in the psych ward at St. Mungo's— or worse, Azkaban.

He needs a release.

And that fucking godforsaken key?

That key that his father had made for him.

It's gone.

Vanished.

Missing.

The last part of his father he had.

A key that fits snuggly into the hole that unlocks the doors to the restricted section of the library.

His father had it replicated for him years ago because, quote unquote, "He'd be utterly damned if they kept his son out of any part of that blessed library."

What an entitled fucking fuck.

He's searched every pocket in every article of clothing he owns, every drawer— every nook and cranny of that damned Head dormitory.

He can't place that last time he'd seen it.

And he wants to ask her if she's seen it— but he's scared to— scared she somehow remembers his moment of weakness through her drunken state— has avoided her at all costs for the past few days.

It would be like her to find a key such as that one and return it to Madam Pince like the good girl she is.

Oh— he'd love to find out information like that. A reason to be vile— a reason to get close again.

But he can't help but thinking that this is the universe's way of completely ridding his father from his life.

-

It's now Wednesday.

He's seated in Muggle Studies, his last class of the day— she sits two rows before him.

Her ribbon— her velvet ribbon— has her hair tied messily into a bun— neck fully exposed above her white-collared shirt as she leans down to quill her notes into her parchment.

And although he can't see her face— he can imagine the dark curls that loosely frame her features.

Can imagine the way her tongue is curled upward around her lip as she focuses on her penmanship.

Can imagine the way her eyebrows scrunch themselves together as the professor drones on about muggle things she's already most likely fully educated on— topics she's merely pretending to be interested in for her scholarly image and its sake.

And his vivid imagination is making it rather hard to focus as his quill lazily dangles in his fingers instead of drilling into the parchment penning notes.