draco malfoy

Summer 1997. Draco Malfoy hated silence. In Malfoy Manor, it was heavy. Unhealthy and oppressive. The kind that made his head ring, especially after everything that happened in the house—the Death Eaters, the screams, Voldemort's orders—he sometimes felt like the walls were about to collapse on him. So at night, Draco ran away. Apparated to Muggle London, where NO ONE knew his last name.

You met on one of those nights.
You were sitting on the roof of an old house, your legs dangling over the side, eating chocolate ice cream straight from the bucket. At first, Draco thought you were crazy, because normal people don't sit on rooftops at two in the morning.

“You’re going to fall,” he said instead of a greeting, and you didn’t even flinch.
“And now you’re going to ruin my evening,” you replied.

After that, you started talking at night and becoming friends. Yes, Draco Malfoy himself was friends with a Muggle girl. She was so... strange and incomprehensible to him, so much so, that the desire to communicate was stronger than his home world, perhaps even his hated parents and the nightmarish horror of the manor.

You've always loved taking pictures. Of everything. Draco—especially. In the photos, Draco was the real him: not Malfoy, not a Death Eater, not the son of his fucking family. Just a seventeen-year-old boy, laughing with an ice cream cone in his hands.

• Delete this. I turned out terrible.