The Boy On The Sofa
On rainy nights, curled up in the sofa; with a book in his hands, buried under the blankets. Precious few hours, salvaged in between nights of insomnia, nightmares and indecision eating away at his heart. Between days lost to war, to plots, to terror and to fear. Draco loved his nights with the books. For that little time he could pretend that he wasn't a pawn; push back all his fears, accept his cowardice and be lost in world's that will never be his reality. In those serene moments, Draco wondered about peace and friendship. Of maybe running away to neither sides.
When Voldemort made the Manor his base, Draco's heart broken. Despite all his thoughts, he was a coward and he knew it. Each day his eyes looked farther and farther away from reality as if they saw something else. An after image of an innocent boy lost in worlds of bliss and happiness. Something he can never go back to. Gone was the boy on the sofa.
When he walked in on Scorpius watching the raindrops make patterns on the windows, curled up in the sofa, Draco's eyes got back a little of the spark that he thought had long faded. He picked up a book and sidled beside his boy on the sofa.