CH 12 4,956
Draco Malfoy sucked in deep gulps of air as he made his way back down to steerage. No matter how desperately his lungs worked, he still felt like he couldn't fucking breathe. He stumbled clumsily down the corridor, the floor spinning beneath his feet and the walls caving in on him.
This ship was going to sink. The Titanic was going to sink. It had before, and it would again. All of his friends would be dead in just two days time. The image of Hamish, Tommy and Sam bobbing lifelessly in the freezing Atlantic Ocean flashed through his whirling mind.
Draco stopped and squeezed his eyes shut, running his fingers through his hair, attempting to clear the scene away.
What in Salazar had he been dropped into? He thought he had been fucked before, but this was something else.
He thought of Hermione. She had known all along. How could she have kept it from him that whole time, only to ruin the night with such devastating news? She had seduced and bewitched him until he had felt something for her, and then she had turned around to reveal herself as nothing more than a liar.
Perhaps she hadn't lied, per say, but she had definitely omitted the truth from him. He thought of all of the opportunities she could have told him: on their first day, that night on the bow of the ship, their hidden interaction in the first class gymnasium, before dinner, after dinner, before their kiss.
Their kiss…he thought of the way she had melted into his arms, soft lips pressing into his in the most heavenly way-
No. He shook himself. Someone who would keep such an important thing from him and someone who had considered escaping the ship without him obviously didn't care for him. He wouldn't fall for her lies again.
She thought he was a Death Eater. She let him believe they'd actually make it to the USA. She had allowed him to grow close with corpses.
When he finally found himself back in his room, he pulled off the rest of the borrowed tuxedo and threw it carelessly on the floor before flinging himself into his bed.
The racket must've startled Hamish awake, because an alarmed: "Nick?" traveled up from the bottom bunk.
He ignored him and squeezed his eyes shut, praying to Merlin or Salazar or whoever that he would wake up tomorrow morning in his bed back at Hogwarts with Flint banging on his door to wake him for their early morning Quidditch practice. He didn't want to be on this ship. He didn't want to face where he was and what was destined to happen.
But above all, he didn't want to face what he had done with Granger that night or the way his feelings had changed. His stomach rolled violently and he resisted the urge to vomit. Who was Draco Malfoy becoming?
. . .
Hermione hadn't slept a wink that night, she had simply buried herself under her covers, replaying their fight over and over again in her head. Could there have been a better way to tell him the truth? He had claimed that she could have done it before that night, but she genuinely hadn't seen an opportunity. Each time she had begun to explain the situation he would pick a fight with her or change the subject…and by the time things had gotten out of hand with their... kiss… she had realized her mistake.
She wondered what he was thinking. Did he regret kissing her? Her heart thumped painfully inside of her chest. Of course he did.
"Annabelle. Why are you still in bed?" Martha's voice hissed from the doorway. "Get up. You missed breakfast."
The young witch sat up slowly, head throbbing painfully as she looked towards her mother. She wondered distantly if she had a hangover or if the headache was simply from lack of sleep and an abundance of stress.
"Good morning," she greeted dryly.
"Don't 'good morning' me," the woman snapped, "what do you think you're doing? Lottie was supposed to fetch you."
"I suppose it's called getting my beauty sleep," Hermione said and stretched, omitting the fact that she had done no sleeping at all. Lottie had attempted to drag her out of bed around seven AM that morning to meet her mother for breakfast, but Hermione couldn't bring herself to get ready for the day.
"A lot of good it did you. You look absolutely dreadful," Martha said, crossing to the cabin's wardrobe and throwing it open. She plucked an emerald green day dress from the rack and threw it on the bed. "Get dressed. Mr. Andrews was asking about your tea time. I told him you'd be ready by eleven."
That woke Hermione up. She blinked at Annabelle's mother, remembering the hastily extended invite to sit down with the Ship's Architect. It was a good thing she had reminded her, otherwise she just might have forgotten after the chaos of last night.
"Thank you," she murmured, throwing off her covers and moving to stand. Her ribs ached painfully and she rubbed at them. Martha's hawk-like eyes registered the movement and wasted no time to throw a cruel remark her way.
"Serves you right."
Hermione said nothing, not willing to play into the older woman's cruel games. She picked up the beautiful chiffon dress and admired it's handiwork.
"He'll be here in an hour," Martha informed her, "I thought it would be best that you aren't seen talking with him in public. I don't understand why you'd want to sit down with him in the first place, but I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea."
"Thank you," she said again, just waiting for her to leave at that point. She could feel the woman's glare on her as ran her fingers across the material of the garment.
"I don't know what's going on with you," she snapped, "but you better have it all sorted by the time we meet Winston."
Hermione brought her gaze up to the woman and said: "I promise I will be all that you want and more by the time we dock in New York."
That seemed to take her by surprise, and she stood in the doorway for several moments before finally nodding firmly.
"Good," she said and turned on her heel, off to whatever social function was next. Hermione was just thankful she wasn't being dragged along this time.
For a sad moment, Hermione allowed herself to think of her own mother. She could only be described as the complete opposite of Martha. Where Martha was cruel and uncaring, her mother was kind and loving. Where Martha thought only of status and rising to the top of the social ladder, her mother only cared for Hermione's well being.
Her mum was back in her time, Hermione thought, and most likely worried sick. Surely her parents must have been alerted of her disappearance by then... The thought made her heart ache.
She must have been worried sick. Both of her parents must have been. The painful thought twisted her stomach and caused a hard lump to form in her throat.
She could imagine her mother pacing back and forth in front of their fireplace, anxious to hear any sort of news about the whereabouts of her daughter. She would be wringing her hands in anxiety, too distressed to even make a meal or tend to her garden. She could see her father stopping her ceaseless back and forth with a comforting embrace, whispering words of reassurance in his wife's ear.
With a heavy heart and a hardened resolve, she made a silent promise to get back to her time so she could give her real mother a hug and never let her go again.
. . .
"Ack," Tommy cringed after taking a sip of his black coffee, "it's cold. How is your's hot?"
"You waited too long," Sam said, blowing the steam rising from his own cup.
"What the shite are you talking about? We were served at the same time."
"Maybe you don't deserve hot coffee."
"Maybe you deserve a foot up your arse."
Draco sunk lower into the table in response to their bickering. His head was pounding.
"Lord, what's wrong with him?" Tommy asked, peering over his cup at the young wizard.
"I already checked him for a pulse," Sam informed him, "he's alive."
"Barely," Hamish said from a mouthful of porridge, "but I'm not surprised. He rolled in at 3 AM last night."
Draco ignored them, head in his hands. He hadn't slept that night. How could he have?
"3 AM?" Sam asked and nudged Draco with his elbow, "you were with Hermione then, weren't you?"
"Lucky bastard," Tommy said, placing his coffee on the wooden table with an aggressive thump, "if I'd have had an hour alone with that girl-"
"Shut the fuck up," Draco snapped, looking up at the Irish man. "Seriously."
The table silenced at his outburst. They all gazed at him in surprise.
"Jesus Christ," Tommy laughed after a few moments, "relax, mate. I'm just taking the piss out of you."
"Did things turn sour with her then?" Sam asked, a puzzled expression taking over his face. "You guys seemed to be really getting along."
"Aye, they couldn't keep their hands off of eachother on the dance floor," Hamish grinned mischievously.
"None of that matters now," Draco said. "She lied to me."
"About what?" Tommy asked.
Draco wanted to say: "She pretended to care about me, but neglected to mention the important fact that we'll all be dead in two days time."
He wasn't ready to dig that grave yet, so he just said, "She's engaged."
Sam and Hamish winced, but Tommy shrugged nonchalantly.
"So what? That isn't married," he rolled off, "there's nothing wrong with taking a turn up her petticoats."
The image of him and Hermione shagging on his bunk flashed through his skull, but he quickly banished it to the recesses of his mind. He sat back in his chair, running his hands over his face in frustration and disgust. How had she infected him so thoroughly in just a night?
She's a disease, he rationalized to himself. It was the only explanation as to why she had been the only thing he could think of since the fateful night he had pulled her back on board. Why she had invaded all of his senses whenever she had been near him: he could only see the way her eyes lit up when they sat at the table shoved in that forgotten corner. He could hear only the delightful tinkle of her voice as she giggled when he spun her round and round. He could smell only the natural scent of her skin, sweet and warm as she pressed her back into his front as they gazed at the stars. He could only taste her lips as his tongue had slipped past-
He didn't let himself finish his distressing thought.
"Drop it," Draco barked, "I'm not seeing her again."
. . .
By the time Hermione was dressed, hair pinned, and light makeup was applied, she still had fifteen minutes to wait for the ship's architect. Lottie gazed at her through the mirror of her vanity. She stifled a yawn, looking as tired as Hermione felt.
"Think we can skip lunch and take a quick doze?" Hermione asked humorously, turning around.
"I don't think that's such a good idea-"
"Don't worry. I was joking," Hermione soothed, guilt seeping into her heart once more as she observed the panic in her eyes and the dark circles beneath them.
"I don't think we should be joking about anything like that," she whispered.
"Lottie, it's alright. No one is listening," she said and stood from her vanity, walking over to the maid's place by the foot of her bed. The maid looked at her expectantly and Hermione took the girl's hands in her own. "Thank you for what you did last night."
"You're welcome," she said, smiling tightly. "Are you going to try to see him again?"
Hermione thought about it for a moment. Did she want to seek him out? Should she wait for him to come to her?
"No," she said, a hard lump settling in the pit of her stomach, "I don't think he'd want to see me."
"What were you fighting about? I thought you liked him," Lottie asked, eyes searching her face.
"I told him something that he didn't want to hear," she whispered.
"About Winston?"
"Something like that."
"I'm sorry...you must really like him."
"It doesn't matter now," she said, trying her best to shake off the feeling of regret. Why did she care so deeply? Why did his rejection of her sting so much?
"Anna-"
"I have a task for you," Hermione said quickly, wanting to change the subject. "I need you to fetch Molly's suit back from Draco."
Lottie stared at her. Hermione blinked after realizing what name she had let slip. Merlin, it must have been the lack of sleep.
"Nicholas. I meant Nicholas," she backtracked, but the damage had been done.
"Why do you keep calling him Draco?" She asked suspiciously.
"It's a nickname," Hermione dismissed, hoping she wouldn't dig any deeper. People in this era had nicknames too, didn't they? It couldn't have been that much of a stretch.
"Okay," Lottie said, eyeing Hermione warily, "I'll go pick it up."
"If you can't find Nicholas, you might be able to find his large friend, and he can help you," she paused, something occuring to her, "When you get there, take lunch off and spend some time for yourself."
"A-are you sure, miss?"
"I'm positive. You deserve a rest... Oh!" She straightened up and snapped her fingers, looking around her room, "don't forget the jacket!"
The young witch scanned the floor of her cabin, not there. She looked around. Not on her desk. Not on the bed. Where had it gone? Had she misplaced it?
She crossed the room to the door leading out into their shared living space. She might have accidentally dropped it on her way in last night. It wasn't out of the question, she had been quite distraught…
When she opened the door, she immediately regretted her decision: Horace was sitting in the armchair nearest to her, Draco's jacket dangling off of one of his fingers and a stoney expression upon his face. Hermione froze.
"Looking for this?" He asked, dragging his gaze from the garment up to Hermione's eyes.
. . .
"Another beautiful day," Hamish sighed, craning back his neck until his face was bathed in sunlight.
"It's a good sign!" Sam said from his place on the guardrail next to Draco, who was hunched over, glaring down at the ocean. "We've got fortune on our side."
"Aye," Tommy nodded in agreement, squinting up at the Native American from his spot on the sturdy oak bench. "I bet we'll make it to New York a day early."
Draco's stomach churned uncomfortably, and he edged away from Sam. He was trying to distance himself from the three young men. Literally and figuratively. He could barely even look at them.
"I think I'm going to go back," Draco announced suddenly, and straightened up, eyes still locked on the incredibly blue ocean before him. For the first time since he had boarded, the vastness of it unnerved him. Not another ship in sight. No land for days. Just them alone on a doomed, 52,300 ton ship. Another nauseating fact he had picked up from Granger on that pointless walk with that Molly woman.
"I feel sick," he explained.
"Was it something you ate?" Sam asked.
"Maybe it was something the wee lamb drank," Hamish teased, nudging Sam, who was seated on the bench next to him. "Oh, nevermind. He only had one beer."
"Blimey, didn't know you were such a lightweight." Tommy rolled off.
"I don't know," Draco murmured, finally turning towards them. "I just need to lie down."
When they realized that he was being serious, the three men looked at him with pitiful eyes. He wanted to curse at them again. If they knew their destiny they wouldn't be looking at him with pity. They would be clamoring to find a way off of the ship.
At that thought, something inside of him flipped like a switch. A way off the ship...why on earth should they sit there waiting around for the ship to drag them down to their watery grave? They could just find a way out beforehand!
With a fire beneath his feet, Draco left his friends sitting at the bow of the ship.
. . .
"Well? Who's is this?" Horace asked, raspy voice sending a shiver through Hermione's body. She could sense Lottie frozen in fear behind her as well.
"I- I'm not sure," Hermione whispered, knowing that she was on the cusp of an interaction with the older man that could go very, very wrong.
Horace sighed tiredly, and clasped the jacket in his fist before standing from the armchair.
"Come here, girl," he said, black eyes bearing into Hermione's. She swallowed hard, reminding herself that Gryffindors did not cower in fear. They stood proudly and stared steadily back in the face of adversity.
Mustering up as much courage and strength as she could, she crossed the space between them. When she was about a foot away, he pulled up his arm and she resisted the urge to flinch away.
"Look closer," he ordered, holding out the garment for her inspection, "I think you'll recognize it."
Hermione dragged her gaze from his face down to the jacket. She already knew that it was Draco's, but she pretended to study it for a moment.
"I'm sorry… I don't know who's it is," she said again, hoping her voice came out calm, because she was trembling on the inside. This looked bad. Really bad. As if Draco had come home with her last night…Hermione looked away, the implication of this forgotten jacket weighing heavily on her shoulders. It looked as though he may have snuck into her cabin in the middle of the night to…
She couldn't finish the thought, her traitorous face blushing at the scandalous idea.
"Do you take me for some kind of fool?" he snapped, his voice raising, "look closer!"
When she didn't look, he took her jaw roughly in his hand and turned her head forcefully towards the jacket. She sucked in a panicked breath, fighting the urge to launch herself away from the man and flee. That would only make matters worse.
"I don't know!" She insisted. The damage the truth would do would be worse than the repercussions for a lie…she knew it for a fact.
"Liar!" He roared.
"I know!" Lottie cried, stepping forward from her spot in the doorway to Hermione's room. "I know whose it is!"
Horace looked in annoyance to the maid, who made her way over to where they were standing, her petite hands balled into fists. When she looked at him, her freckled face was scrunched up in determination. Hermione stared at her, what was she doing? Was she going to tell on her?
"It's Jeffrey's," she lied, voice trembling only slightly, and Hermione felt foolish for ever think Lottie would betray her.
"Who in the bloody hell is Jeffrey?" He asked impatiently, still holding onto Hermione's face, who was busy looking at Lottie in surprise.
"He's a butler… for the A-Applewood family," she lied smoothly, "Yesterday he saw me struggling with a big basket of China I had washed…and he helped me."
Horace glared at the young girl, obviously trying to sense any sort of deceit in her eyes.
"Why would he leave his jacket?" He asked. Hermione's face was beginning to grow numb from his powerful hold on her.
"H-he must have forgotten it, since he stayed for a little while," she whispered, "I wanted to thank him for helping me with a spot of tea… I hope that's alright."
A knock came at the door, and Horace immediately flinched, releasing Hermione. She stumbled back and crumpled into the armchair he had just been sitting in. It had all happened so fast it took her a moment to realize she was no longer in his crushing grasp. Once she felt the warmth return to her limbs, she rubbed at her face, shock coursing through her. Lottie rushed to her side, kneeling and inspecting her for any signs of damage.
"Are you okay?" She whispered.
Hermione nodded, unable to speak. She would never get used to being handled so violently.
"Who is that?" Horace asked, looking at the two girls. "At the door?"
Hermione noticed that he looked…nervous? That made her pause; perhaps the man servant was not infallible. He must have been afraid of being caught handling a young girl roughly.
"Mr. Andrews," Lottie informed him harshly, "he and Annabelle have a scheduled tea time, and you've gone and soiled her makeup."
"Then go get her cleaned up," he snapped, "I will see Mr. Andrews in."
He threw the jacket at Lottie. It landed against her side and slid loosely to the floor.
"And return that jacket."
"Yes, sir," Lottie said, sounding characteristically meek…yet, when she looked at Hermione, there was an undeniable sparkle of triumph in her eyes. He had believed her! She had lied and it had worked!
They didn't have time to celebrate, as they only had precious seconds before Thomas Andrews would be ushered into the sitting room. They quickly gathered themselves along with the discarded jacket, and stood. Lottie took her by the arm and gently lead her into the room.
Once they were safely inside, the door clicking shut quietly behind them, Hermione pulled Lottie into a shaky hug. She could feel the young girl's heart beating wildly in tandem with her own. That could have gone very, very differently.
"Thank you," she whispered, face still throbbing in pain.
"It's alright," Lottie said, obviously quite surprised at the show of physical affection. She rubbed reassuringly at Hermione's back.
When Hermione pulled away, she saw that the young maid's blue eyes were pooling with unshed tears.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, sorry. It was just scary," Lottie responded, rubbing at her eyes. "I'm okay."
"You're quite brave," she breathed, appraising the girl with a new sort of admiration. Surely she would have been placed into Gryffindor had she attended Hogwarts. "You keep coming to my rescue."
"I wish you would stop needing to be rescued," she grumbled back, straightening up and folding the borrowed jacket. "Something about this trip has changed you, Miss…you never get in this much trouble."
Hermione was silent for a moment, aching to tell her the truth. She quickly clamped down on that desire.
No, she reminded herself. It wouldn't do anyone any good. It would just frighten her.
"I'll return this later. Now, let's get your makeup tidied up."
"It's alright," Hermione said hastily, "I can fix it myself. You take lunch off."
"No," Lottie retorted, "I won't leave you alone with him."
"I'll be fine. Mr. Andrews is here and will be for a while."
Lottie didn't move, just held onto the door handle, looking particularly troubled. In truth, Hermione didn't blame her. She would also have been stubbornly by her side if it had been the Gryffindor in her position.
"Go," Hermione said, "and stay there for lunch. That's an order."
After a drawn out moment of hesitation, Lottie left the room. She must have been quite frightened of facing Horace again, but she walked out with her head held high. Once the door was shut, Hermione pressed her ear against it.
She heard Lotties' faint greeting, "Good morning, Mr. Andrews."
"Good morning," a male voice returned. Despite it being muffled by the oak wood of the door, Hermione could tell that it was pleasant and warm. "Will Miss Paige be joining us soon?"
"Oh, yes-" Lottie's muffled voice began, but was quickly cut off.
"Annabelle is powdering her nose," a lower, more gravelly voice came. Horace's. "I'm sure you're familiar with young women's grooming habits. Can't go two minutes without looking in the mirror."
Hermione's hand resting against the door balled into an angry fist.
"Quite," Mr. Andrews said, seemingly unwilling to humor the older man's cruel statements. "Do you have anywhere I can spread these out?"
"I suppose we can clear away the tea set," Lottie murmured. Hermione heard the tinkling of fine china being rearranged and the shuffling of something being spread out.
"What are they?" Lottie's bell of a voice came after a few moments. Hermione strained to hear.
"Do not bother Mr. Andrews with your questions," Horace chastised, "run along and deliver that jacket."
"No, it's alright," Thomas quickly reassured the maid, "They're blueprints for the ship, my dear."
At that, something in Hermione's heart lightened and she forgot all about the pain in her jaw and the horror of her morning.
Yes! Yes! Yes! That was what she had been hoping to find, and it had quite literally fallen into her lap! She couldn't have gotten any luckier than this.
"Oh, how interesting!" Lottie said.
"Go, Lottie," Horace barked.
Hermione couldn't hear anything else. Just some quiet shuffling and what she assumed was the click of the front door of their cabin.
She crossed the room to her vanity in record time, digging around in her drawer and carelessly patting on some pigmented powder. It hurt a little to apply, but she didn't dwell on it or let it slow her down. She glanced quickly at her reflection, studying the skin of her jaw. He had grabbed her roughly enough to ruin her foundation, but not enough to give her a bruise. She was thankful for that…it was one less thing to worry about.
When she entered the sitting room, she walked across the room with her chin held high. She gave Thomas Andrews what she hoped was a gracious smile.
"Mr. Andrews," she said, dipping low in a curtsey, "I'm so glad you could join me for tea."
"Annabelle," he tilted his head in a polite greeting and motioned to the stunning green dress her mother had picked out for her, "you look lovely. I'm relieved that you're well enough to meet with me."
"Ah, yes," Hermione said, feigning embarrassment, "it seems as though I may have been getting over a little bug this morning."
"It must be those bitter Atlantic winds," he said in his charming Irish accent, the corner of his eyes crinkling in a smile, "make sure you stay bundled up when you go outside."
"Don't worry, she won't be going outside anytime soon," Horace informed the naval architect and Hermione stiffened. Despite all of the violence he had shown her in response to her insolence, she had to actively clamp down on the urge to throw a withering glare his way. It seemed that her stubbornness and pride would never take a backseat to her instincts for self preservation.
"I'm sorry, I never got your name," Thomas said, suddenly turning all of his attention towards the butler.
"Horace."
"Well, Horace. I was under the impression that our tea time could be a more private affair," Thomas said, an edge of hardness in his voice, "I'm sure you understand."
Hermione's eyes widened as she looked from Mr. Andrews to Horace and back. The authority in his voice was unmistakable, and by the look in his eyes, the Architect had already decided that he did not like or trust the scarred man before him. Hermione could have sagged into the nearest chair in relief; she had been wanting him to leave for so long, yet hadn't had the authority to demand such a thing.
"As you wish, sir," Horace said after a long moment, his face a stark blend of indignance and embarrassment. "But I will be right outside the door in case anything arises."
"If that's what you see fit," he responded curtly, standing with hands clasped behind his back until the Butler retreated and the front door clicked shut.
Surprising Hermione with his brazenness, Thomas crossed the room and locked the door behind him. She gaped at him and he smiled at her.
She took a moment to glance at the end table beside the door. Upon it sat Horace's forgotten keys; he was actually locked out. She couldn't believe how quickly her fortunes had changed.
"Thank you," Hermione whispered.
"He's quite loathsome, isn't he?" He quipped and gave her a trusting wink. "I've seen him following you around for quite some time. At supper. On the decks. Down the halls..."
"It seems as though he doesn't trust me," she admitted, in the back of her mind she was floored at how honestly she spoke about the man outside of the door. For some reason, deep in her gut, she knew that she had an ally in Thomas Andrews.
"Why?" He asked, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.
No sooner had he asked the question a deafening crash resounded from her room. Hermione jumped in shock, eyes darting back and forth from Mr. Andrews to the door.
"What was that?" He asked.
"I haven't the slightest idea," Hermione said truthfully. Had she left something dangling precariously off of the surface of her vanity? No. She wouldn't have done that. Nor would any inanimate object make such a loud racket falling to the floor.
The front door started jerking as Horace tried to open it, surely in response to the loud noise.
"What was that sound?!" He barked from the other side of the oak door, "let me in at once!"
Hermione looked in panic to the front door, expecting it at any second to burst from its hinges under the wrath of that horrible man.
"Stay here," Mr. Andrews said and edged toward her room's door.
Hermione wrung her hands in nervousness. Once he stood before the door, he gently pushed it in until he had a crack to peer through. Had someone broken in? Who on earth would do such a thing?
"Unlock this door now, Annabelle!" Horace demanded from the hallway, shaking the handle with a feverity to rival an earthquake.
"Oh! It's Nicholas," Thomas Andrews said quietly in relief, pushing the door all the way open. Hermione stared in shock at the man. Did he mean Draco? Her Draco? Surely there must have been some mistake.
When she approached the doorway to investigate for herself, sure enough, she saw Draco Malfoy collecting documents and supplies strewn about on the ornate rug. He must have knocked them from her desk when he had dropped in from the open window above it.
When he looked up at her, a light blush dusting the porcelain of his cheeks, everything seemed to go quiet: she no longer could hear the distressing sound of Horace pounding at the front door. She could no longer feel the aching in her jaw or the presence of the man beside her. She could only see Draco Malfoy.
"Draco," she whispered. Never in a million years would she have imagined such a scenario after how they had left things.
Why is he here? The question echoed incessantly in her head. Isn't he upset with me?
He was speechless for several moments, gaping at her and Thomas. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he seemed to come back into his body.
"That didn't go as smoothly as I would have preferred it," he grumbled, resuming his clean up of the scattered papers and journals.
A/N:
I love scared Draco. I love stubborn Draco. I love caring Draco. I love clumsy Draco. I love every Draco.
Do you guys know what I mean? Even when he's being a little prat, I still love him. The next chapter will start with this little spill from his POV and I just honestly love it. He's hilarious.
This story is going somewhere good, and I can wait for you all to read it. Let me know what you think in a review!
