"I'm going to fucking ruin you."
-
The Dark Lord conquers the wizarding world, Harry Potter is dead. Muggleborns are slaughtered. Halfblood's are shoved into imprisonment, conditioned to alter their beliefs and dictated to worship Purebloods.
Y/N Y...
Draco's bitter words rampage through the threads of my scalp, engrossing in between the fractures of my brain. Each letter, each syllable, each symbol of punctuation that is contained his sentence ripped through the flesh of my heart, imbedding themselves in my recollections of anguish and misery.
"That's right, run back to Vance like you always do."
My thoughts rattle in the organ behind my forehead, my analyzation venturing through the maze of my psyche. "I didn't run back to him," I mutter below my low breath. My fingers gripping my sheets above my shoulders, my body blanketed comfortably on the mattress. The pounce of my lungs, they're eager for my eyes to view the staggered expression plastered across his dumb face— the articulation caused by his wrongness in his speech and a realization of where I stand with my control of my sentiments for Vance.
"Y/N," Pansy's smooth grainy voice calls from the casing of my door. "Uh, Draco says he wants to see you, he needs to talk to you about something." Her volume journeys through the wooded material of the frame.
I scoff, flopping the heavy covers from my secured body. "Well," my joints tenses like jelly as my rested legs are in immediate motion, wandering towards the door. "Tell him I don't want to see him and whatever he has to say can be written on a piece of parchment and delivered to me." I say, a gust of the fine air rushing past the tissue of my bare skin as a result of the door swinging open.
"Draco says it's an emergency," she claims, her slim fingers tinkering with each other as she spoke with a sheer of worry coating the lining of her bright eyes. "He's actually in an emergency.."
"What kind of emergency?" I question, my tone shifting into a presentation of a concern. I desire to shove a trillion hexes and curses down the bones of my esophagus— whichever predicament he has tangled himself into isn't included in the slice of pie that represents my business.
Pansy nibbles on the inner tissue of her cheeks, "St. Mungos."
"Fuck, what did he do?" I inquire, unable to halt myself from the layers of care I had chained tightly into the profundities of my psyche.
