Chapter 3: Angry
For eight days Draco was silent. For eight days he sat with no other company than Luna Lovegood, and the only noise she made was her light humming.
For what seemed to be an eternity, Draco was angry.
He thought that Luna knew it, because she left him alone, they had not spoken a word to each other since Draco's first day here.
He had woken in the dark, the freezing stone at his back, Luna sitting beside him, her pale eyes wide and fearful.
"You didn't have to do that." She said. "It was really brave of you, but—"
"Brave?" he interrupted her. "It wasn't brave it was stupid. Now look! I'm a prisoner in my own house, because of you! Being a Death Eater comes with a license to kill, whether you want it or not." He pounded his fist against the floor, tearing flesh and letting the blood flow.
Luna didn't speak again after that, as Draco yelled. She just bowed her head, the tears falling from her eyes, realizing what it had cost Draco his freedom to buy her time.
That night, the eighth night, Luna spoke.
"Draco?" she said, her voice seeming as loud as an explosion in the dead silence. Draco continued to stare at the wall, as if hoping he could bore a hole in the wall to escape through.
Hatred.
That's why he wouldn't speak, he felt too full of hatred. Hatred for Voldemort, who had cast him here. Hatred for his parents for not speaking on his behalf, hatred for Bellatrix who had sneered at him as she led him to eight damn days of solitary. Hatred for Luna for being the reason he was here. But most of all, Draco felt hatred for himself for being duped into believing he was on the right side of the war. The winning side perhaps, with the Ministry under their control, and the Wizarding World at their disposal.
Hatred. Anger. Resentment.
That's what he felt.
That's why on the eighth night, he spoke for the first time.
"You were right."
