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The sun streamed through the gauzy curtains, awaking him from a night of restful slumber. Draco blinked his eyes open, taking it all in. The same old room, with the faded fresco ceiling and the exposed walls. The window had been opened; presumably by one of his parents; and a sweet-smelling breeze danced around the room, rejuvenating him. Outside said window, the world came alive with the chirping and rustling of the woods, the splash and hum of the waterfall and stream, and the vibrant sunrise was something straight out of the fairytales that he used to read for fun.
But he didn’t have time to dwell on the scenery. He had a routine to adhere to.
He swung his feet out of bed and immediately jumped into what he did every morning. Make the bed, wash up, clean the room. One would figure that the cleaning would be the worst, but to him it was a highlight in his day. The room was a perfect size and didn’t require much to clean, but he still mopped, washed, swept, and polished like his life was dependent on the cleanliness of the room. To him, the tediousness was therapeutic, letting his mind escape the constant thought of wanting to leave this damn room.
At 7:30 exactly, the locked door in the corner creaked open, and in came his mother, carrying his breakfast tray. By then, the room was sparkling, he had dressed himself in one of the pressed suits in his cupboard, and sat in the corner chair, trying to read one of his books.
He didn’t know why his parents insisted on wearing suits and acting proper when he never left this room, but they always gave him the same excuse: he had to be ready to be the proper man society expected him to be. “Proper man, my arse” he’d always mutter when they left. What kind of society kept a kid locked up in a room for the majority of his life? One he didn’t want to join, that’s for sure. But the only thing scarier than confinement was his father’s wrath, so he learned to keep his comments under his breath and complaints to himself.
Looking up from the pages at his mother, he saw the same meal he expected: porridge, slices of toast, a boiled egg, and a cup of tea; the same bland foods he ate every single day. He tried to hide his disappointment, but his poker face failed him dearly. Judging by the face his mother made, she knew, and she almost looked sorry for him. He internally grimaced; he knew better than to complain. After all, they were at least feeding and clothing him. But still, would it kill them to add a little *oomph* to his food? Guess he’d never know, because he was too afraid to ask.
As his mother set down the tray, she took a seat in the other chair. This surprised him, because she had never been one to stay; she was always setting down his food and rushing off to whatever. But there she was, sitting in the chair, looking at him.
His only reaction was to shrink behind the book he was holding and pretend he was too engrossed in it. It was awkward enough to see his parents every time they barged into his room for a few, let alone be in the same room or have a conversation with them.
And his mother knew. She didn’t pry for a while; just sat in the chair until he was ready to talk. When he finally glanced up from his book, he asked, “Why are you still here?”
She answered without hesitation, “You’re my son. My only son; my pride and joy.”
“Pride and joy as a circus attraction all locked up in this room,” he muttered under his breath as he flipped a page in the book, “it’s a small wonder you even care.”
“But I do care, Draco. Why else would I be here still?”
“I don’t know, maybe to yell at me some more about what a barbarian I am because my tie is crooked. Or perhaps tell me that the room isn’t clean to your satisfaction and needs a second through cleaning. Who knows? The possibilities are endless!”
Her mouth set into a grim line, “Watch your tone, Draco. You might almost be 18 but that doesn’t mean you have the right to disrespect your own mother. You know that your father and I are only looking out for you.”
“Looking out for me?! Looking out for me! That’s real comical! If you really were, then why have I been locked up here for my entire life?! Surely there are other rooms I can explore?! Take a walk around the grounds?! Why am I confined to a room where all I do is eat the same bland foods and do the same stupid activites every damn day?! Did you ever stop to think about what this does to your pride and joy? It’s driving me mad! You don’t love me at all! I hate you and I hate this family!”
She kept her face calm, but her eyes couldn’t hide her emotions. Sadness. That’s what flickered in his mother’s eyes. And he immediately wanted to take back the words, but he couldn’t now. Not with his angry pride. Instead, he buried his face in between his legs and sat there, until he heard her footsteps carry her across the room and out the door, which shut and bolted with a secure *clank*. Even then, he didn’t look up and just sat there.
She didn’t come up with food anymore. The morning light shifted to afternoon, and the afternoon rays were fading into evening, and the only tray in his room was still the one with his breakfast. His stomach grumbled and his body almost craved the bland porridge, but he stuck to his pride and instead washed up and went to bed early. Not that he slept well, but it was better than
Still no tray came the next morning. He wasn’t surprised; he wasn’t even hungry anyways. All he could think about was how bored he was.
From an outsider's first glance, his room looked like a haven: shelves crammed with books, wizard’s chest sets, fresh bottles of ink, many quills, and stacks of parchment, art supplies, and even sewing and darning equipment. A person could entertain themselves for years in a room full of crafts like this.
But after nearly 18 years? He exhausted all of his books, wrote enough to rival Bathilda Bagshot, destroyed more than his fair share of wizards’ chess pieces, crocheted enough to clothe all of England, ran out of art supplies, and even chewed his fingernails down to the nubs; in other words, he had nothing else to do in this room. And it was driving him mad.
He flopped on his bed and stared at the ceiling, at the frescos he looked at every morning, in all its faded glory. Those frescos used to be beautiful, with the rich colours and twinkling stars of the night sky almost replicating what was outside. When he was younger, he used to spend hours trying to line up the fresco with the window, and if he looked just right, the edge of the fresco would seamlessly blend in with the real sky, making it look like his room was flooding with the overflow of the sky. It was the one small joy he had; it kept him sane as he continued to dream about leaving.
Each passing year, the damp English weather would seep in and slowly wear away his personal sky. As the stars faded, so did a small fraction of his hope of seeing the real world. By the time he was 16, the stars were gone and the inky sky had become an icky shade of blue that seemed to mock him for his childish fantasies of believing he had his own portion of the sky. And he was back to being alone, left only with the company of inanimate objects and his window.
Thinking about his childish whims made him feel hollow as he remembered the enthusiasm he had. He rolled over so face down in his pillow and groaned loudly, not knowing what he was going to do. He supposed he could look out the window, but the scenery was always the same. Besides, constantly looking out would bring back the tempting thoughts of scaling the walls down and running away. And knowing him? He’d absolutely go forth with the idea. But he didn’t have the strength or coordination; he’d plummet straight to his grave trying to free-scale the wall. He could try picking the door lock, but that was a futile attempt unless the heavy latch was lifted. And he knew it was always locked, so he was out of another idea.
Basically, until he found a solution or his parents let him out, he was stuck. This wasn’t a fairytale in one of his books where someone would swoop in and take the character far, far away, on an adventure. No, this was reality, and it was a cold, harsh one that kept him confined within the prison walls of what was supposed to be his own home.
Instead of scheming futile another escape plot, he opted to lay there, motionless, until he drifted off into a light sleep, dreaming that he grew wings and flew the fuck away from this ghastly place he was supposed to call him.
If only he knew that his dreams were about to come true.
He was partially awoken by a *thump* sound on his walls, but he figured it was coming from elsewhere, and curled even further into his sheets to resume his slumber. Then there it came again: a dull *thump* against one of his walls.
He sat up annoyed, sleepily rubbing his eyes. What the fuck was causing such an annoying thump? Was it his parents, struggling to open the stubborn latch? Or perhaps a maid aggressively cleaning? Maybe it was a rogue peacock that wandered in and was knocking things over? It’s not like he’d know nor were some of his ideas ideal, but the curiosity invigorated his mind and took away the bored thoughts.
But then a third *thump* came and he realised: it was coming from the wall with the window. From the outside. Outside.
Nearly tripping on his own two feet, he ran over to the window to peer out and around to catch a glimpse of what was causing the noise. He looked down: nothing. Left: nope. Right: absolutely, positively nothing. Upwards: couldn’t see, but nothing could be up there except for the birds. Perhaps a ghost? Or just the wind? Whatever it was, it was long gone by now.
Disappointed, he went back to his bed, thinking about ghosts. That’s when a fourth *thump* shook the floor and roused him. He lazily turned over to look at the window, and saw a cloaked figure climbing through his window and a bag on the floor. Thinking he was hallucinating, he went back to bed, until his brain finally caught up with his eyes and he bolted straight out of bed.
There was a person in his room. An actual living person . Someone who wasn’t either of his parents.
They were just standing there, rummaging through the bag in their hands, looking for something and muttering to themselves. Occasionally, they would peer out the window, then sigh in relief as they continued to rummage through their bag.
He couldn’t believe his luck. All this time he just wanted something interesting to happen so he could dwell about that for a few months to kill the boredom. And here he was, watching a complete stranger infiltrate his room and rummage through their bag. Obviously he had no idea who they were, but now he could make up his own stories and write them. Perhaps they were a curious passerby who scaled the walls for fun. Or a merchant coming to sell something to his parents. Or even a dangerous criminal on the run.
A dangerous criminal who could absolutely kill him.
Fear suddenly coursed through him. Of course it was a criminal; he had read stories just like this from his mountains of books. How was he going to get them to leave? They were obviously oblivious to the fact he was in here, so he had that advantage. But what was he going to do?
He started thinking of the very story he read, where the heroine used a heavy object to knock the criminal out. Yes, that was it. But what did he have that was heavy? All he had were books.
Thick textbooks.
He prayed there was one nearby and, sure enough, A History of Magic was on the floor a few paces away from his bed. Quietly as he could, he slinked out of bed to scoop up the textbook. Just as he picked up the textbook, a board under his feet creaked loudly and the figure turned around. Turned right around to see him.
In a panic, he chucked the book straight at the intruder. It was a perfect shot: the book conked them right in the head, knocking out the intruder and causing them to crumple onto the floor.
He smiled at the triumph of knocking out the intruder. Not bad for a coward who hasn’t seen real sunshine in 18 years, he thought to himself. Now, he needed to find something to tie this person up with so they couldn’t harm him while he tried to find As he scoured for anything, he heard more *thumps*. Now he was confused; if the original source of the thumps was less than three metres from him, what was causing them now?
Then it hit him: the thumps were coming from outside the door. The door that led straight to his room.
That’s when his mother’s voice floated up, “Draco? Are you awake? I’m coming in.”
Panic set in. Here he was with an unconscious person in his room, a million questions in his mind, and not enough time to hide them. The clink of the latch being fiddled with pinged through the room and his panic only worsened, as he frantically scanned the room with his eyes for a place to hide the person. His cupboard was too small, under the rug was too obvious, and there was no room under the bed. The second lock on the door made its *click* to signify it was unlocked, and he had less than thirty seconds to hide them or explain all of this.
He ended up scooping them up and hiding them under his bedsheets, praying that the lump created by them would just look like shoved aside sheets. He settled in his usual corner chair and tried to calm his anxious breath as the latch was unlocked and the door swung open, allowing his mother to walk in.
As usual, she brought in a tray of food, but her careful eye didn’t notice the still full tray from two days ago. But if she had any comments, she kept them to herself. He once again pretended to be engrossed in a book to avoid conversation, but his heart just wasn’t into it. His mother didn’t do anything wrong; she was simply following the orders of his father. He knew how much his mother loved his father, and while his father was a firm man, he treated his wife like she was queen on Earth (which in this case, she was an actual queen). The guilt of blaming his mother set in, and before she turned to shut the door, he blurted out, “I’m sorry.”
The door stopped and his mother walked back in. Her eyes were sparkling with tears as she approached him before gathering him into a hug. He immediately threw his arms around her in response, for he hadn’t had any form of parental love or attention in years (besides the trays of food). His mother smoothed his hair as she started speaking, “Every day I ask fate to come and steal you away, far away from this place. I want you to have your freedom, Draco. I want you to go out and experience the world for what it is; not what your father told you what it was.”
He looked at her, his eyes stinging. Many words formed in his mouth, but his tongue could not speak them, but he didn’t need to; his mother knew everything he wanted to say. Instead, she hugged him tighter, took his old tray, and left the room, locking the door. He couldn’t help but notice that the usual *clank* of the latch was absent, meaning he was one step away from freedom. All he needed was to find a way to pick the lock on the door. He started scouring the room for anything he could insert in the lock when he remembered the person he had hidden away on his bed.
Of course. The door was not his priority.
He immediately bolted over to his bed and yanked away the sheet to find that the intruder was still unconscious. Initially, he thought he had killed them, until he could see their body moving with breath. Thank Merlin, he didn’t have to dispose of a body. Instead, he scooped them up again and settled them in a chair, tying them to the chair with a length of some kind of twine he found in his room. Not the most effective, but it was all he could find at the time and he overwrapped and tied tight knots.
He sat in the chair opposite of them, just staring. He didn’t really know what to make of this person, until he decided he needed to remove the cloak hood hiding most of their face. He did just that, and a thick cloud of curls came cascading out of the hood.
That was something he didn’t expect. Now curiosity took the better of him and he started brushing the hair back from their face, when he realised that the intruder wasn’t a he; it was a she. And just then, both the light shifted to their face and they woke up, and he was absolutely floored by what he saw.
Behind those curls was a face perfectly structured with a sprinkling of freckles across her tanned face. Her eyes, mesmerisingly brown, had flecks of gold that were like drops of sunlight suspended in her irises. Her lips were slightly parted in confusion as she took in her surroundings. Her colouring was accentuated by the deep red cloak she was wearing, which made her look like a freshly bloomed rose from the gardens down below, outside his window.
When she locked eyes with him, his breath was stolen from him. This was either a blessing or curse. But he didn’t know; he was too busy staring at her, knowing full well that his jaw had dropped.
Suddenly, with no warning, he went flying across the room and landed hard on his back. She had kicked him. Hard. As he sat up, his chest ached from being kicked, he saw her straining against the twine (which surprised him, but credited it to the triple wrapping and the double knots). When she made eye contact with him, she nearly screamed, “Get this shit off of me!”
Her eyes were no longer an orb of light but a menacing storm of anger that wormed his way into his heart and made it go *ka-thunk*. In other words, while her anger did terrify him, he was strangely intrigued by the way she carried herself. She definitely wasn’t helpless; those eyes and expressions were calculated and guarded, and the way she spoke already gave off an air of intelligence, even if it was a stream of obscenities and angry curse words.
“Are you deaf? Untie me right now!” She continued to glare at him and yell at him as he hopelessly stared.
Another million questions ran through his mind, but his tongue failed again. It wasn’t surprising though; the fact that someone was in his room right now, with knowledge of the world outside these four walls, was too much for his brain to process. Instead, all he was able to say was, “What’s it like out there?”
Now she was confused. Her anger lessened and her eyebrow arched, “What?”
“I said, what is it like out there? In the real world?” he asked, gesturing to the window, “You know, outside. With the trees and grass. The scenery being reality.”
All evidence of anger melted away from her as she looked up at him with her own questions forming in her mind. She seemed to be studying him, and he nearly flushed red with how long she examined him. “Why do you ask?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t think I will then.”
It was incredibly stupid of him to crush on someone who had broken into his room, but he couldn’t help it. Not only was she breathtakingly beautiful, but she was the absolute antithesis of what he expected an intruder to be.
Trying to pretend like he wasn’t internally racing a million kilometres a second, he turned to his bookshelf and started organising, intentionally turning his back to her. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled underneath her gaze, but he ignored it as he continued to stack and shove books in place.
“When was the last time you were let out of this room?”
“Huh?”
“I said, when was the last time they let you out of this room?”
He really didn’t want to answer. He didn’t need this girl to know that she had stumbled into what was practically a prison, and that the only means of escape were a door that led to a minefield of servants and people who would drag him back or a window that might cause him to plummet to his death. Instead, he shrugged and stared out the window, hoping she’d drop the subject.
But she didn’t, and she pressed again, “My guess is you’ve never left this room?”
To shut her prying up, he nodded somberly, continuing to look out the window. The sun was starting to make a decent in the sky, streaking it with pastel tones of pink and yellow. Oh, how he longed to see it from somewhere besides this fucking window, to feel the warmth of the rays kiss his skin as he breathed air that wasn’t tinged with the smell of stone and plaster.
When he turned to her, she was still looking at him; it was like she was reading him like one of the many books behind her. “It’s not all cracked up as it’s supposed to be.”
“Huh?” he said, confused.
“Why do you think I climbed up your tower? I was on the run; needed a place to stay for the night.”
He could feel his eyes widen in a mix of shock and curiosity; he was a small child who was interested in everything his father had told him, ready to hang onto every word that came out of his mouth. But this time, he was at the mercy of the words of this girl, and the ghost of a smile etched on her lips made it clear that she knew she had him.
“Let’s just say there were a few bets I won, much to everyone’s surprise. My guess is they were upset that a woman outsmarted them; much less a girl at the young age of 18. Sent a heedy group of drunks after me. I might not show my face in Westminster for a few months until the memory loss kicks in.”
“Where were you headed? Why’d you stop here? Where did you come from.”
“A friend’s house. But unfortunately, Ottery St. Catchpole is quite a way from London, meaning I’m going to be forced to stop a few times.”
“So you’re on the run, actually on the run?”
She nodded, the ghost smile appearing on her face again.
At this point he knew his eyes were as big as saucers and he still had millions of questions. But she glanced over his shoulder, almost like she was pleading. He followed her light of sight to have it land on the tray of food his mother brought in. It was probably cold right now, but she didn’t look like she cared. “Is that steak and kidney pie? With mash?” she asked, mouth practically watering at the sight.
Without another objection, he stood up and walked over to the tray. He grabbed it and brought it over to where they were sitting, and he said, “You can take this.”
She tried to refuse, “I can’t take your food”, but he insisted, “I’ve eaten this every week for my entire life. Besides, your drooling is starting to rival the waterfall outside.”
Again, she tried to refuse, but he refused to budge on his stance. “You’ve been living off of that gruel,” gesturing to her bag, which was spilling bread onto the floor, “and I’ve been sitting in this room, fattening myself up with every meal.”
He took the knife off the tray and cut the twine holding her, and slid the tray in front of her. “All I ask is that you answer the questions I have.”
She nodded, joining him on the floor. She tried to hide it, but he could see the glimmer of excitement in her eyes as she dug in. He also noticed that she made a conscious effort to retain proper manners: using the proper utensils, cutting her food into bite-sized portions, the napkin always at the ready. Between bites, she would answer his questions one by one, starting with his most burning question: “What’s it like to have the freedom to roam?”
Question after question spilled out of his mouth, and she somehow had the patience to answer each and every one of them. What was England like? Was London all it was made to be? How often did she travel? What was it like to travel so often? How did she live off of whatever she packed?
She took those and more all in stride, answering between careful bites of her meal. She told stories of rows with passersby and thieves, scheming and scamming knaves and storekeepers, the sights and scenes, and the staggering differences between cities and the countryside. Tales spun so strongly with detail that he could almost immerse himself in every scene she painted with her word: he could taste the fresh bread out of the bakeries in Bristol, feel the salty breeze envelope him at the ports of Southampton, and bask in the dizzying afterglow of a night in Manchester.
By the time he had exhausted himself of questions, both the meal and the sun were long gone, replaced by the silvery sheen of moonlight. They were both sighing in content--her from a good meal and him from the vast number of answers--when he realised: he never asked the most simple question of them all.
“I never got to ask...what is your name?”
She turned her attention away from the fresco to look at him. “Hmm?”
“I mean, you’ve told me all these wonderful stories and I even gave you a meal, and yet I don’t even know the most basic fact about you.” he said.
That ghost smile reappeared on her lips. “See, usually I don’t tell strange men locked in towers my name. Safety precautions, you know? But for giving me that pie? I think you deserve it. I’m Hermione Granger.”
“Draco. Draco Malfoy.”
“Well, Malfoy, it was a pleasure infiltrating your tower. Most of my accommodations usually aren’t this cosy, and here you are spoiling me with good food and humorous company.”
The ghost smile turned into a grin, and he had no choice to smile back; it was contagious. They continued to speak into the night, with her continuing her stories on the run with her friends, Harry and Ron (it was Ron’s house she was headed for to lay low for a bit), and he offered up his opinions on the massive shelves of books behind him.
He noticed that at every given opportunity, she would steal glances at the mountain of books. “Do you read?” he blurted out, before he even thought about what he said.
Immediately, he clapped his hands over his mouth, internally cursing himself for being such an ignorant prick, but she waved it off. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that. I think it comes as a shock that a vagabond like me can read; much less one that’s a girl. But oh, I love books. Every town I stagger into? I look for a library.”
Her hunger for knowledge really awoke something inside of his brain. In all of his escape fantasies, he’d always thought that he’d be on his own or rescued by a ninny whose only personality trait was looks or brawn. But the idea of Hermione being the person he runs off with, travelling across the country (and possibly the world), gave him a weird yet welcoming sense of security.
So he did the only logical thing: hand her a book.
She nearly snatched it from him, looking at it like it was a precious element, dug from deep within the earth. She didn’t open it, but her fingertips traced over the cover. She looked up at him, eyes wide with hidden glee, “You didn’t have to do this.”
He shrugged, “I’m just being a good host. You’re welcome to take as many as you want.”
“But won’t you get bored?”
“I’ve read every single book on these shelves multiple times. I won’t miss any of them.”
She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes and she set the book down. “As much as I appreciate your much too generous offer, I can’t accept it.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off. “Living on the run means living light. There’s no way I can carry all the books in the world, and if the time comes, I wouldn’t be able to throw a book away for the sake of less weight. So, I can’t and won’t take books with me.”
They stood in silence, not really looking at each other, but the heaviness in the air was tinged with both of their sadness.
Suddenly, a thought tickled the back of his head; one that he didn’t know he had until now. He internally debated with himself, wondering if he was being too daring or bold, but he realised his chances of ever leaving were next to impossible if he let her go without asking.
“What if I wrote stories for you?”
She looked up at him. “Explain.”
“You said you can’t carry books with you? Well why just read them at stolen moments when you can write one with me too? I’ve written stories before, and with your knowledge, we can write books better than anyone has. Trade or sell them for supplies and passage, and, maybe, you could use them to finally settle somewhere if you ever choose to not leave that place.”
Her eyes bore into him intensely, and for a minute he thought that he was being an idiot for offering, until a Cheshire cat grin broke onto her face. “You might just be into something, Draco Malfoy.”
Relief flooded him as he grinned back, his brain on a euphoria.
He had done it. He found his ticket out.
But that euphoria was broken by a yawn that nearly split his head in two. Of course. It was night. They couldn’t run now. And there was Hermione, who was stifling a yawn herself. He couldn’t ask her to leave now; not when he could offer her at least one night of comfortable sleep.
And that’s exactly what he did. He yanked a bedroll and fresh sheets from his cupboard, took a pillow from his own bed, and handed them to her, despite her objections. But fatigue won over stubbornness as she made her temporary bed and climbed between the blankets, looking like she was in heaven.
“Good night, Draco.” she said, before rolling over and curling up tighter in the blanket.
He smiled as her light snores filled the room. With that, he changed into his night clothes and climbed into his bed, sleep coming easy with the sense of security that tonight was his last night as an inmate.
In the morning, sunlight roused him from his restful slumber. He sleepily rolled out of bed, with the small joy sparking in his head that he would be leaving soon. That joy fueled him to clean the room and wash himself for one last time, until he spotted the bedroll he had given her.
It was empty and folded, with no Hermione in sight.
That woke him up fast.
He rushed over to the window, nearly toppling out with how far he stuck his body out to look. Up, down, left, right he craned his neck. But in whichever direction he turned, there was no sign of her.
His second thought was that maybe she had picked the lock to the door and left that way. But upon checking the door, he noticed that the heavy weight of the latch was back. A maid or his parents must have put it back, sealing him in here once again. So there was no way for her to have left this way.
And just like that, all his dreams were dashed.
Stupid. That’s what he was.
Offering a bed and meal to a complete stranger and expecting them to break you out...you’re an idiot, he thought to himself, of course she’d dash as soon as she could. Why would she let an irritating nuisance like you tag along? Selling your stories for money? Idiot. You’re not even an accomplished writer.
Defeated, he sank down on the floor and sat. There he was again, staring at the very fresco that represented how he felt right now: disintegrated.
He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there when a familiar *thump* shook his walls. Then a very familiar voice floated through the window, “Malfoy! Ready to go?”
His head jerked up to see Hermione’s upside down head outside the window. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief, thinking he was just imagining things, but nope. She really was here.
Hermione swung herself right side up and climbed through the window. She was still wearing the same red cloak, but her hair was tied back and her eyes were sparkling with excitement. “Ready to go?”
“Go?” he nearly shouted with excitement and disbelief.
“Mmm, I decided that I’d take pity on you and rescue you from this place. Just like one of your fairytales, yes?”
He didn’t really know what to say but she laughed. “Kind of came across the stories you wrote last night, while looking through your books. Remembered what you said about your writing and had to see for myself. Ended up reading a few of them. Couldn’t help myself, but they were just too good to put down.”
Now he was blushing. He thought of them as stupid childish fantasies he had written with his own longing, and it was kind of embarrassing to have someone read them; he figured that people would just make fun of him for writing them.
But Hermione didn’t look like she was teasing him. In fact, she genuinely looked like she enjoyed them.
“You know, you could write so many more stories if you weren’t here, limited to daydreams and the same scenery.”
He looked at her quizzically, but she wasn’t finished. “Come with me. Get out of here. Become a travelling writer and sell your stories. Let the world know your name as they live through your words to paint a masterpiece in their heads. And of course, you’ll let me read them too.”
His disbelief came back. “Are you sure? I just figured that you didn’t want to, because you weren’t here…”
“Supplies, you boggart-head,” she said, gesturing to her bag, which did look much fuller, “if there’s two of us on the run, we’re going to need a lot more than just a few loaves of bread.”
Words were still processing in his mind when she said, “You have a gift, Draco. One that shouldn’t be chained to crumbling walls and stale air. You have to go.”
The excitement built up in him again as he looked around for his own bag. You’d figure that he’d pack essentials, seeing he didn’t have plans to come back, but no. He only packed a spare set of clothes, all his parchment, quills, and ink bottles, and, oddly, his Hogwarts: A History book.
After all, it proved itself to be a good weapon, and he never knew when he’d need one.
Yanking his coat on over his suit and slinging the bag over his shoulder, he felt more sure than he had ever before. The only obstacle left? The climbing down. He noticed that she had tied a rope to shimmy down, but he wasn’t sure if he could hold on for that long; rope burn and the slick stone of the manor walls would work against him.
He didn’t even have to voice that when she took a weirdly shaped piece of metal from her bag: a harness. She clipped it around him, clipped it to the rope, and smiled, before shimmying down herself. He watched as she effortlessly slid down the rope, using the cloak to protect her hands, until her feet reached the bottom.
“Come on!” she shouted, her hands waving wildly.
Taking a deep breath, he carefully climbed out the window until all that was left of him was hanging onto the window were his feet, which were on the edge of the windowsill.
He took one last look at the small room: at the scattered books, the faded ceiling, and years worth of his mediocre paintings. He gripped the rope tighter, almost hesitating his decision, until his mother’s voice floated into his head.
I want you to go out and experience the world for what it is.
And with that, he knew what he had to do.
His feet left the windowsill with a jump and for a moment he was suspended in air, until he hit the tower walls as he ungracefully started to shimmy down. He couldn’t believe it: he was leaving. Fresh air filled his lungs and wind whipped his hair; it seemed to invigorate him as he climbed down faster, each step more confident than the last. He felt like he was flying; the cocoon of the walls had finally been broken and his free spirit was no longer caged.
Then, as he was nearing the bottom, he slipped and hit the ground, eating a face full of dirt.
Laughter tickled his ears and he looked up to see Hermione cover her mouth with her hands to stifle the sound, but her eyes were laughing loud enough for the both of them.
And he laughed right alongside her, spitting out the flecks of dirt in his mouth. But he didn’t mind.
Everything looked different from down here, where the rest of the world was. It was no longer a forbidden painting, hanging out of his reach, but he was the artist, feeling every blade of grass, overturned leaf, and flower anchor into him, becoming an essence of who he was.
When he finally stopped laughing long enough to stand up and unhook the harness from the rope so he could shimmy out, Hermione took it from him before shoving it in her bag and offering him her hand. “Ready to go?”
He looked at her hand. By taking it, he would be asserting that Malfoy Manor was no longer his home. There would be no comfort or assurance that he’d be fed, clothed, or entertained. And he didn’t even know if he'd come back, unless it was to take his mother away from this golden cage.
Hesitation filled him, making him deliberate whether or not he actually wanted to go through with this. A life on the run, where the only consistency was his present company. It would be a new city or town every night, becoming a mastermind at scheming and sweet talking, and roughening himself up. Freshly pressed suits and table manners wouldn’t matter anymore, nor anything else his father pressed into him.
His father. He was only a few steps away from his iron grip, where he could laugh without looking at the door in fear of him barging him to tell him to shut up. Away from the cold, unrelenting stare that shrivelled him up internally and left him feeling hollow. Away from the very man that left him to choke on stone-tinged air and become a ghost of high society.
And with that, he made up his mind.
He reached out for her hand, gripping it as if it were a vice. An electric shock went up his arm, leaving him feeling tingly, and he just stared at their intertwined hands.
When he looked up, he could see that she was doing the same thing, her rosy blush intensified just a little. She looked up from their hands and looked at him, and although neither of them had words, their eyes spoke for them.
That famous ghost smile returned before she said, “Come on.” and tugged on his hand as she broke into a run.
He followed, not letting go of her hand and trying to match her stride. With every pounding step, the stone walls faded into the fog until he could no longer see the manor; it was now just a memory to him.
He had no idea where she was taking him or whether or not he’d like it, but right now? He didn’t care. It was like a surreal dream; one where his biggest wish came alive; and his brain couldn’t quite keep up right now. And when it did, the rational voice would come back and yell. There would be self-doubt, regret, and maybe remorse as he left behind everything he knew for a completely different style of living, and he’d eventually have to wade through those rough emotions and come to terms with his decisions.
But right now? The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and the breeze was alive. Nature was awaking with the morning and welcoming him to the real world, which was brimming with adventures to come. And every single bit of it was captured in his mind; a snapshot that would help set the background in his stories. Even though his head was in the clouds, the weight of his backpack and Hermione’s fingers entwined with his own kept him anchored to the ground, which his feet pounded into with each freeing step. He was no longer just a shadow under his father; he was Draco Malfoy. An aspiring author. Traveller. Friend and accomplice to Hermione Granger. Everything from here on out was a complete mystery that not even the books he read could answer. And speaking of books? This was nothing like the vivid escape fantasies his fairy tales had conjured in his mind.
At that moment, she turned her head to see how he was doing and was rewarded with a real smile. That’s when he made up his mind about this spontaneous escape. It was unexpected, underplanned, and was a move of sheer insanity for someone who didn’t know the first thing about living on his own.
It was so much better than he ever expected.