Yours in Mayhem |Dramione

12 fifth year: twelfth letter

What could have happened if I was Muggle born instead of a Pureblood? Or rather what would have happened if I was a Muggle? Would everyday be better?

What is better than my life?

My life is great.

My father had commissioned a Firebolt for me. Customized. The only one of it's kind. So what if Potter had one with a serial number but this one doesn't need that rubbish because it is one of a kind. It's the best and I only get the best.

The said Firebolt was charcoal black and had not spent a minute longer out of the casket that it came in.

Then why are you here in your room writing about how awesome it's going to be instead of out there actually riding it?

Because it's snowing, he answered his own reprimanding voice.

The snow has thawed, the sun is out and everything looked sparkly. It was the perfect weather for Christmas. Everything is perfect.

No noise. Of course, who would want laughter or talking on such a serene perfect moment. Who would want all the fuss? He has everything he could ever hope for and ask for here. Just imagine what anyone would give to be here in his room, to have all he has. Draco stared at the volumes and volumes of magical books in his bookshelves. All of them were read once because what else is there to do?

Will Hermione have liked it here though?

He bit his lip and shook his head, trying to chase away the thought.

But it's alright. It's all in his head. No one can see in there. He can make anything up in his head. Better than magic. Better than a picture show that he knows Muggles love because they don't have magic.

The room was cold and so was his skin but inside him, the season has just changed, a garden bloomed and there are pink and yellow roses all around. Suddenly, there was a girlish giggle as someone poured freshly brewed iced tea, someone was calling out to him, she's going to ask him for his opinion. She cares what he thinks. It's sunny. It will always be sunny here and there will be birds and she will be there. Hermione will be there. Hermione with her caramel skin, freckles like constellations and wild hair. And lips the color of apple skin. And she will wear a sundress. And the nights will never come. And the days will just go on and on.

And he let himself smile at the thought.

It's only in his head after all.

He will not do anything to make it a reality.

He's not mad. He'd rather go mad first.

He'd rather be barking mad than be labeled a Muggle lover, a blood traitor.

Lover. Traitor.

Was it really so wrong?

Draco pursed his lips and wet them with his tongue. He never dared to question his father because his father had never been wrong and if ever his father is wrong then everything is wrong. Everything about him is wrong.

But what if Hermione was in the right? She, after all, has never been wrong (except for her poor choice of company).

Will it really be all that bad to be in the wrong side for once? It looked so warm, didn't it? She looked so warm. Inviting. She'll welcome you. You can talk and banter and discuss. Even bicker intelligently. 

You'll get to touch her.

He looked at his hand.

It was pale, the blue and green veins visible under the almost moonlight pale skin, and it was soft- from a lifetime of privilege. It had been two weeks since he left Hogwarts to come home for Christmas in the Malfoy Manor and it had been two weeks since he last touched anyone else. His family was never one to show affection by physical contact. His father never hugged him and his mother believed that it was rather inappropriate for a boy to be severely attached to female affection even to his own mother. But his parents showed their affection through material means, the pile of elegantly wrapped packages was more than evidence for that.