PRECEDENT : Draco Malfoy II

48

The door begins to materialize in front of me on the stone wall. I nod my head to Draco, who stands down the hallway. It's October, and I've only stolen him away once again. I slip through the door and step to the other side. As it swings shut, I move my foot, stopping the door from closing. I wait, peering into the dimly lit room.

This somehow feels more dangerous than the boathouse. Sometimes, people will come down to the lake, but no one goes into the boathouse. There's mildew and a terrible draft. When people do come by, Draco and I have hidden, pressed between boats even with all the wards we've put on the place which hide us and our sounds unless someone were to enter the boathouse.

After last year, a lot of people know about the Room of Requirement. Being in here is even less wise. Still, this place was what I had in mind when I asked the room to conjure it, so I'm sure no one else is in here.

Draco takes a step inside, slipping behind me. He shuts the door, and though it rests behind him I am sure it slips into nothing. Just the smooth stone wall.

"Interesting," he muses.

The room is small. Quaint. I suppose the room can adjust its size for what is necessary. It was larger for our training, but here the walls feel like they are closing in. There is a lit fireplace, a loveseat and a lounge chair. A basket has warm blankets. There is a cart off to one side with a kettle.

I step away from Draco and put down my wand on the cart with the kettle. There are tea leaves in tins, sugar, milk that is cold even in this hot room, and little cups.

"Tea?" I ask.

"You don't like tea."

He stands behind me. I wonder if he was punched by the Weasley twins again, days ago, or if he is just tired. His eyes look awful.

"Well, I'm cold," I tell him.

He rolls his eyes, pulling the green jumper I bought him over his head. He tosses it to me, and I pull it on. It shrinks to fit my body, which makes it feel less cozy. Until this year, I'd never thought of myself as that short. By standards of muggle men, Draco isn't tall either, but the height difference between us is ever-growing.

Draco takes over making tea as I move over to the loveseat. Just enough room for the two of us. My wand sits on the end table so my hands are free. I try not to picture them moving through his hair, the gasps of his breath, or anything else that might redden my face. I listen to the fire crackling. Draco moves over toward me and sits down next me. He brought me a tea, with so much milk it is closer to the colour of parchment than mahogany. I can smell his cologne.

"I don't know how long I can stay," he whispers.

My fingers tighten around the china. We've only just arrived. I haven't spoken to him in two weeks. He isn't with Pansy, at least not publicly. I stare at the fire.

"I understand," I tell him even if I don't. Lately, I don't understand much about him at all.

Even with the signed contract, the meaningless one, I can still hear him say Ron's name. Weasley, he calls him. Even I call Draco's friends by their first names now. It's rotten. Maybe almost two years ago, when all of this started, I didn't know. Certainly, I knew, but I didn't at the same time. I thought he could change. Maybe he can't. Stuff like that is supposed to matter. I should want to be with someone who is a good person, not someone who could have stayed silent, like Blaise, but didn't.

It would have even been better if he has said Harry Potter's name, since unfortunately, Harry is sometimes more of an idea than a person. A muggle-born too would be closer to an idea than Ron, I think. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I've been wrong about all of this.