PRECEDENT : Draco Malfoy II

50

In early December, we spend time in the Room of Requirement after midnight on a Tuesday. This time, I've made the loveseat into a proper sofa so we can lie down together, squished together on the cushions. He plays with my hair, twirling it on his wand. My fingers trace his collarbone. It's getting so late. I know he will leave soon, but I'm begging that he stays. Part of me hopes that maybe he'd even stay until the early hours of the morning, when he can sneak back to his dorm to get dressed.

I got here first, a full hour before him. My bag sits at the floor in front of us. I'd been pretending to read 1984 when he arrived. Well, I was reading it in the library today. Hermione sat across from me. We still aren't speaking, not really. She told me she never had time for fiction books. I knew her statement was her way of asking me if I'd read any other muggle books this year. I have. My Mum can't send me them fast enough. I devour books in one sitting. I don't paint anymore. My mind becomes too clear in the silence. I need to be as distracted as possible. I can't handle my thoughts.

If I don't fill myself with words, things happen.

Draco kisses my temple, and all I can think about is how I was reading a book about the thread of life and the red string of fate and how they connect. Wizards don't believe in soulmates, and I'm worried that I will be the first. I can't imagine leaving Draco, but I think part of what makes us special is that we are choosing this when the whole world doesn't want it to happen. If it is inevitable, out of our control, then it isn't really something we've built. I don't want inevitability. I want to be pushed to the bring and yet still cling to something all on my own.

Thoughts, seeping in my brain. Black. Inky.

I sit upright. Reaching on to the table, I grab my copy of 1984. The more I read it, the more I think Draco would like it. If Orwell knew about the wizarding world, I'm sure he'd write a book called 1996.

"You never stop reading," he leans over as I flip to my bookmarked page. He kisses my shoulder.

"It's fun," I tell him.

A lie. I don't lie to him. Never have made it a habit. I can't tell him that I smell the stench of fish and salt lingering when I am not distracted, the smell of all that there is in the deep parts of the Great Lake. I don't know how to tell him that I am so very worried about him every day. Everywhere. Everything.

"Do you have a favourite book?" he murmurs into my arm.

"I'm against favourites as a concept," I tell him.

"You said time and thought were your favourite branches of magic," he smirks against me.

I lean and put the book back, "I meant they were my ideal ones to work with in a career setting. I don't actually have favourites."

"Favourite colour?" he asks.

I shrug, "depends on the context."

He furrows a brow.

I sigh, "orange and pink in a sunset but not on shirts. Green like the Forbidden Forest but never lime green. Nothing neon. Brown like chestnut brown, not like sand on a beach or pine cabinets."

"Sounds like favourites," he points out.

"I just like things in different contexts," I explain, looking back over at him.

"What about me?"

"I like you in a lot of contexts," I roll my eyes. Then, I lean in and kiss him. He cups my face but I pull back. "Obviously not with Theo."

"I've noticed," he grits his teeth slightly.

His thumb brushes my cheekbone. I feel my heart tighten in my chest. Looking from his lips up to his eyes, I feel distracted again. No books to constantly narrate. There isn't a wireless here or music playing. In the silence, I feel like I'm properly here, with him.