MAUVE VIOTTO is in her sixth year at Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a widely-loved Ravenclaw. She is a protector of those she cares about, and treats most people with relative kindness despite her sassy attitude. She's a free-spirit...
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Our night comes to an end as I look up at the bright stars twinkling in the darkness of the night sky. The majority of my friends are sleeping peacefully on the floor of the tower, buried underneath thick sheets of blankets to provide the much-needed warmth to fight off the frigid winter weather. I pull the fleece material closer to my chest, each of my small exhales frosting into a gray cloud. In the quiet, I hear soft shuffling followed by the sound of reticent footsteps, until a familiar-feeling figure is stood beside me at the railing.
I turn my head towards him but refrain from talking just yet. I absorb his appearance - the slight ruffle in his hair, the trace of tiredness in his blue dusk eyes. Have you ever seen someone so effortlessly beautiful?
"What are your parents like?" Draco pulls me out of my thoughts, staring ahead at the stars instead of facing me. His voice suggests he's been stuck in his head for a while, and the thoughtful expression that is written on his face only adds to this speculation.
Thinking of my parents, I smile lightly. "My mother is a poet. She's written a few books of poetry, mostly based on her own experiences. My father is a writer, and he helped write some of the books we use here at Hogwarts." Draco turns to me in surprise, clearly astonished by the new information.
"They're both writers?"
I nod, smiling. "They met at a bookshop, in the muggle side of London. My mum was signing her newest poetry book and my father was there to visit. He was apparently 'entranced' by her, and continued to visit."
"They sound lovely," Draco replies in a quiet tone, his sentence falling off at the end. I want to ask what's going on in his head, but I don't want to be pushed away. That would be too embarrassing.
I'm so lost in my thoughts that Draco notices the gears rapidly spinning in my head, and chuckles lowly. "You can ask about mine, Mauve. It's okay."
"I just... I didn't want to.. offend you, or anything." I sigh, a sheepish smile on my face.
He shakes his head, "it's fine. I'm... aware of how my parents are perceived, and how they are." Taking a deep sigh, he continues, staring out at the sky with a longing expression as he speaks. "My father, the most cunning of the cunning, is a cold person. He prioritizes blood purity, and status, and power. I— I hate the way I grew up."
My eyes widen at his confession, and I open my mouth to tell him that he doesn't have to talk about it when he cuts me off.
"It's okay, Mauve. You're uh— you're the first person I've ever spoken to about this." He gives me a lazy smile, and my heartbeat quickens.
"I'm listening," I reassure him, placing my hand over his. The corners of his lips pull a bit higher and he flips his palm around, intertwining our fingers together.
