entanglements | d.m.

43.peace&growth

September '96 | H I M

Draco has had the shittiest week. After the shitiest, after the shitiest, after the shitiest.

He never quite understood the feeling of being anxious. The worst he had was worrying what his father would say after the losing match against Gryffindor. Against Potter.

But that only lasted half an hour.

This... this is different. It sits in his bones. It's unshakeable but makes him shake. He wants out. He wants away. He could make a run for it right here, out the Entrance Hall doors. He could just bolt for it—

Blaise grabs him by the arm, reading the expression on his friend's face. "Won't help you now," he murmurs just for Draco to hear, who grinds his jaw until his molars scream in pain.

Together they follow Theo, Pansy and Daphne into the Great Hall for dinner. Draco doesn't feel much like eating. If it weren't for his friends prying into his life, he wouldn't care step a foot inside the same room the man he has to kill—

Draco avoids looking at the high table at all costs, and by that, his eyes land on her.

Her. Devyn. His Devil.

His heart trips. And then sprints.

Just for a one milisecond, his life seems alright again.

He'll need Blaise to hold him back again for he will leg it to her and rip her from her friend and squeeze the living daylights out of her.

Until he remembers what she did. And his blood starts to simmer.

When Draco realises that she won't look at him, too enraptured with her best friend, he sits down with his friends at the Slytherin table. His view directly towards her.

A week. Five days and she finally decides to grace the school with her presence. He had feared the worst, thought she didn't come back because someone got to her. Someone looked into Draco's head without his knowledge—even when his Occlumency exceed expectations—or they had received a letter that was meant for him. They had captured her and he had no way of leaving to safe her. Not a permitted way anyway.

And in one of his downward spirals about her well-being, Draco found himself talking to Malone, asking where the hell she is.

Sick. Dragon Pox.

That is what he learned a few hours ago—not enough time to let relief replace the burning rage.

For the entirety of dinner, Devyn won't look at him, even with plenty opportunity. Pansy is already giving him weird looks for staring, but he can't fucking help it. Not when it comes to Devyn Wood and her enchanting, infuriating soul.

It is when she is seemingly done with her meal—Draco's plate shines clean gold under the floating candles—that she finally meets his stare. The smile and laughs she so gladly offered to Malone are gone, a rigid, cold countenance setting in instead.

She's mad? Oh, he's madder.

No words need to be spoken. When she stands up, he knows he'll follow her, his anger rising with every step he takes because that is the easiest to feel right now.

How dare she leave him guessing for a week? How dare she make him fucking care enough to lose is head for a whole ass week?

In a desolate hall, he bounds onto her. "Why the fuck are you arriving so late?"

"You have fucking balls to be mad at me right now." She won't cower, won't back down. If anything, she seems taller from the last time he saw her weeks ago. Indignation roils her amber pools. "You left me without a note for the better part of the summer!"