DISCONTINUED--Letters I Can't Send (draco x reader)

49

Y/n's POV

"Grandfather," Draco remarks, obviously alarmed. I shift uncomfortably behind him. I know he doesn't particularly like his grandfather and I sense the tension in the room, thicker than molasses.

"Grandson," he replies, studying the blonde boy next to me in way that makes me question what will happen next. "Who is the lovely lady behind you?" I cringe at his wording.

"I thought you'd be with the party," Draco says, trying to change the subject.

"I thought you'd be with the party as well, Draco," he retorts in such a calm way—but there is something brewing behind those cold blue eyes of his. His eyes. They are an icy shade of rich blue—so much so, that they compete with Draco's. They could rival the ocean itself.

"It's almost over," Draco replies, swallowing thickly.

I move to stand beside him because I am not afraid to make myself known.

"So I'll ask again, who is this girl you happen to be spending the New Years with?" he coughs and I suppress a flinch at the sound.

Before Draco can say a word, I speak. "I'm Y/n. Y/n Ellis. I am an acquaintance of your grandson. We go to Hogwarts together." I hold out my hand for his grandfather to shake. I watch as his eyes darken when he hears my name. Like he knows something. I can't help but shift uncomfortably when he releases my hand, his long fingernails dig into my palm. It's unsettling.

"And what landed you an invite to this function?" he presses. He seems suspicious of me. And I can't tell if it's in a way to protect the Malfoy family and legacy, questioning every newcomer who enters the manor, or if it is to simply learn more about me.

Without missing a beat, I respond. "I am spending the winter break with the Malfoy's here in the Manor. I am the foster child of Amanda and Zachary Bronny." I say it so plainly, like nothing is truly wrong to have me fall into the care of a foster home.

Abraxas raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Oh?" he remarks. "What is your blood status? Pure? Half? Mud?" I have to physically stop myself from flinching at the shortened version of "mudblood." Calling their blood simply "mud" is so terribly disrespectful I have to force a content expression instead a disgusted one.

"Pure," I answer. "Both of my parents had a pure blood line."

"Had?" he presses even further and I'm so ready to leave this god-forsaken conversation. "Pray tell, what happened?"

This has crossed a line, I bet both Draco and his grandfather can see it on my face. "I don't believe that is any of your business, sir," I say, looking to Draco for a split second, for any reassurance, any help he could provide.

He is about to insert a comment, but his grandfather beats him to it.

Abraxas leans forward, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. The tone of his voice has changed drastically when he says, "Now, disrespecting your elders is never the way to impress a boy. I'm simply curious, girl—now tell me, was it a tragic accident?"

I must visibly gulp, because I swear I see Abraxas smirk.

"Grandfa-" Draco starts, but then someone comes bursting through the doors of the library. Draco's father has a frantic look on his face when he sees Abraxas, like he's befuddled beyond measure.

"Father-" Lucius frowns, rushing over to his father. "Draco-" he says angrily when he notices his son. "How in the world did he get in here? Get back to the party," he hisses, unable to string all his thoughts together thoroughly.

"He was—I didn't see him come in—" Draco tries to explain—he is obviously irritated. It seems Abraxas's care means a lot to Lucius.

"Just go back to the party, Draco," he spits out through gritted teeth.

Draco's mouth twists into something like frustration, but he turns to leave, grabbing my wrist, yanking me to the door.

He drags me along hallways after hallways, snaking his way back towards the party, but when we stop by a staircase, I stop, and his steps falter. I am deeply offended and hurt by Abraxas and am ready to forget about it until the morning. "I think I'm going to go to my room for the rest of the night," I say quietly.

He releases my wrist. "I—yeah. Of course," he rubs a hand down my tired face. "Let me walk you to your room."

We walk in silence to my room, both of us too full emotion—different emotions—to say a word.

"Thanks for walking me," I say in a voice so soft, I am almost whispering.

"Yeah," he replies in a voice matching my own. He can't seem to look me in the eyes and it's killing me. His fists are clenched so tight at his sides, I swear I can see the blood dripping from his palms.

Without thinking, I take his hands from his sides and unclench his fingers from his palms.

My thumbs trace the indents his fingernails left on his palms, and he flinches when I reach the bloodied areas.

I lead him silently into my room, push him down onto the edge of my bed and go to a bag in the corner of the room. I pull out an ointment and a bandage.

I sit next to him, and take his hands once more, spreading the ointment over the wounds he gave himself, in his fit of blind rage. I gently wrap the bandage around his left hand, then his right. And when I'm done, a bandaged hand goes to my cheek and he kisses me.