Chapter Text
Let go
I don't wanna let go
~~~~~
Draco Malfoy had no true interest in astrology, astronomy, divination, or anything similar. Stars, planets, predictions. It was all meaningless. He had a cousin, an older cousin, who, when they were children, had once told him to find the brightest star in the sky and make a wish on it. She had done so already. She was only ten at the time, three years older than him, and had wished that some boy she had a crush on would like her back. Draco didn’t remember if it had worked, but he had remembered making his own wish. Silently, in his mind.
He wished he wouldn’t turn out like most of his family. Dark, bleak, miserable.
He was old enough now to know that that wish had not come true.
So as he sat in the quidditch stands late one night, he stared at the stars with something close to disgust. He didn’t blame the stars as much as he blamed himself for ever thinking that doing something as mundane and cliché as wishing on a shiny star would accomplish anything. For thinking that he wouldn’t turn out just like his father. A naïve, childish wish. He was embarrassed to admit that sometimes that wish loomed in the back of his mind. But he was, legally, of age now. He was already formed. He couldn’t change.
He sighed and moved to stand, then realized he didn’t really want to, and also had no reason to. He bent down to pick up his freshly polished and trimmed Nimbus and looked back into the air. It was an unseasonably warm fall night. It was clear, and not windy. A great night for a fly, but he didn’t even seem to have the mental energy for that. Ever since the summer, he had been on edge. Jittery. He felt out of control. Manic. School and hobbies held little interest in him, and he compulsively spent money during Hogsmeade trips. He always splurged on unnecessary things when he was under stress, chasing the high of instant gratification. The only time he ever felt even somewhat calm or at peace was when he was alone. Sometimes if he was having a nightcap with Blaise, that would bring some stillness. His brain would no longer run at the speed of a snitch. But even though Blaise was his best friend, his favorite friend, and Draco could talk to him about anything, even he couldn’t help. Not really.
After a few moments of silence where he simply sat, gripping the handle of his broom tight enough to turn his knuckles white, he heard muttering. He looked around, and the moment he did, the voice went silent. Now he was staring right into Ron Weasley’s irksome baby blue eyes. He was also holding his broom like it was a prop, rather than the reason he was there. When he noticed Malfoy, he stopped walking, stopped talking, and rolled his eyes, moving to turn around and walk away. Then he hesitated and narrowed his eyes.
“What are you doing up here?” he asked suspiciously.
Draco smirked and scoffed. “You aren’t the brightest, are you?” he replied, indicating his broom. “Same as you, Weasley.”
His automatic response was to be rude, of course, but he really didn’t even want to waste energy on that, so he simply turned away, and looked back up into the sky. But as he did, a thought crossed his mind. “Why are you in the Slytherin stands anyway?” he asked, not turning around, he heard the Weasley scoff in response, and say nothing else. “Alright, don’t tell me. Not my business.”
Something in the air felt tense. Something other than the fact that they disliked each other and were in the same vicinity. Curious, Draco turned around again, and watched Ron sink onto the wooden bleachers, dropping his broom to the ground, and leaning over. He rested his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands. Draco faced forward again, and they both sat in silence.
To his surprise, the silence turned from tense, to almost comforting, or something more like acceptance. Draco supposed that had happened when they both realized neither of them had any real interest in arguing or insulting each other. After all, their friends weren’t around egging them on solely with their presence. So they both seemed to just let the night go on. Minutes passed by. And then Draco felt that an hour was probably approaching. He turned around again, his curiosity getting the best of him. Ron was still sitting there, and he was looking up into the sky now as well. He sensed Draco’s gaze and lowered his eyes.
“What are you doing up here?” Draco threw his question back at him.
The Gryffindor shrugged. “I had a lot on my mind,” he said simply, and glanced around, “I didn’t even notice these were the Slytherin stands…I wasn’t paying attention.”
Draco wasn’t sure how to respond. It was an honest answer, one without sarcasm or malice. He couldn’t help wondering what exactly was on this Weasley’s mind that he had to escape his friends to process. What was bothering him so much he didn’t even notice where he was walking, or why? So he faced back forward.
“D’you…”
Draco turned back around as this stuttered statement escaped the Gryffindor’s mouth, but then Ron just as suddenly stopped speaking. Draco raised his eyebrows, and the redhead spoke again.
“Do you ever think it’s not fair that you’re forced to like, or dislike, certain people?”
Shocked, Draco felt his forehead wrinkle, which he hated. He tried to relax his face. He was mostly so caught off guard because he had just been thinking something similar. He had not anticipated Ron to say things so close to his own thoughts.
“No,” he finally conceded, deciding to continue with a tame conversation, Ron had spoken with sincerity, he supposed he could, too, “Because if you’re told to not like someone or something, it’s from people who have experience with that person or that thing. So they would know, really.”
“What if the people with experience have unreliable knowledge?” Ron replied, looking thoughtful, “Shouldn’t you be able to find out on your own?”
It felt odd. Talking with him like this. But Draco strangely did not feel any pressure to turn this into a debate. To hear someone else’s opinions was actually refreshing. Even if he didn’t agree with them. He supposed this was probably the first actual conversation he had ever had with Ron Weasley.
“Why?” Draco responded. He fully turned around in his spot. They were a few feet away from each other now. “So you get a chance to experience how awful they really are first? Why not just skip that part.” He was annoyed at how much he wanted to get more information. “Who are you being forced to dislike?”
Ron shrugged. “It’s not important. It’s not…I’m supposed to like them…” he sighed, and shook his head, “It’s not important,” he repeated, picking at a sliver of wood peeling off the bleachers. “I’m surprised you think that way.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “Why?” He severely disliked being judged.
“Well, you know,” Ron replied, tilting his head slightly, “Don’t you ever want to think differently than your friends? Or your family?”
Draco felt something inside of him snap uncomfortably. In two fluid motions he was standing in front of Ron with his wand out. “Don’t talk about my family you fucking blood traitor,” he snarled. It was instinct. A pure knee-jerk response. He didn’t even think the words first, he had just said them. But as he stood there, a position he’d been in several times before, and often with the same person, it felt different. It bothered him in a deeply irritating way that felt like guilt. And what was worse is that the youngest Weasley boy was not even looking back at him with anger or disgust, but with confusion, and…disappointment. He hadn’t even pulled out his own wand.
“I was just asking,” he said in a resigned voice, not even looking at the wand that was pointed at his throat, “I don’t always think the same things as my family. Or my friends. I just thought maybe…maybe you felt the same way.” He gave a shrug. It was as if he sensed he wasn’t really in any danger.
Draco felt his hatred rising. It almost seemed like Ron was reading his mind. And it was an uncomfortable feeling, having someone inside his head like that. He didn’t want to admit to this Weasley that he had similar thoughts. Similar beliefs and opinions. He didn’t want to be like Ron in any way. He shouldn’t even be here, having this stupid, pointless conversation. Weasley’s were blood traitors. They were inferior to Malfoy’s. They always had been.
They always would be.
“I’m a Malfoy,” Draco snapped, twirling his wand back and tucking it into his pocket. His skin prickled with displeasure, and his face burned.
“So?” Ron asked, tilting his head in that annoying way again; he had not stood, allowing himself to stay at a lower position than Draco, and it almost seemed like he was doing this to convince him to stay calm, “You’re still a person. You have your own mind.” He was talking gently, which made Draco’s blood boil more than anything.
“You know nothing,” he snapped. Sneering, he spun around and grabbed his broom. As he walked past Ron, he said stubbornly, “Leave me alone.”
He hated that he did not sound firm, but instead pleading. Asking him to stay out of his head, rather than telling him. He walked stiffly as he maneuvered back to the castle, and wended his way to the dungeons. By the time he crossed through the dimly lit Slytherin common room, ignoring Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were still up late as well, and went to his own private suite next to the study area, he was still very much irritated.
He tossed his broom into the corner and ripped off his robe, then yanked his tie over his head, swearing is it caught painfully on his ear. He crumpled it in his hand and tossed it on his bed. As he went to unbutton his shirt, his door opened and closed.
“What’s got you in a mood?” Blaise asked, plopping onto the black wooden chair next to his desk and looking at him, amused.
“Nothing,” Draco muttered, ignoring his aggressive state of undressing and dropping down into his cushiony, emerald chesterfield chair, rubbing his temples.
“Alright then,” Blaise responded, and he instantly moved over to Draco’s wardrobe, opening it and moving Draco’s robes aside to reveal the decanter set hiding behind them. He poured two glasses of scotch and brought one to his friend. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Draco said, and took a large sip. Then he considered the strange night he had just had, and asked, “Do you ever think it’s not fair that you’re forced to like or dislike certain people?” He echoed Ron’s words and wondered what had been on his mind when he had asked them.
“What?” Blaise asked, looking confused, “Who’s forcing me?” he was staring at Draco like he had just sprouted horns.
This made Draco fall silent. He had instantly understood Ron’s question earlier. And Ron had clearly assumed he would have an opinion. How did Blaise not understand? Did he not get pressure from his mother as to who he was allowed to like, or befriend, or trust, and who he shouldn’t? Surely being pure bloods, and friends with the Malfoy’s, he had to have grown up having the same opinions on blood status.
“Nevermind,” Draco said with a sigh, and polished off his glass. Blaise gave him another scrutinous look before following suit, and then changing the subject.
Draco did not like that it was possible to have something in common with a Weasley. Other than their lineage. Apparently they were distant, very distant, cousins twelve times removed or something ridiculous. But this was different. Something personal, and emotional. Even if he did not know who Ron had been talking about, it was still a situation that was clearly problematic for the both of them.
Sometimes Draco did not know if he really felt that purebloods were superior. Everything he said, everything he said he believed, was all mimicked from his fathers mouth, and even his mother. Musings he heard on a daily basis. Of course he would grow up repeating them. Of course he would eventually think he felt the same. Of course he would defend his family for believing this way. But at times, when he heard the way his parents spoke about half-bloods or muggles, he felt…embarrassed. He often caught himself questioning them. However, more often than not, he would simply ignore these feelings and thoughts, and shove them down.
But what, or who was it that Ron had been asking about? Something or someone he was supposed to hate?
As he sat there for another hour or so chatting with his best friend, he slowly started to forget about his conversation with Ron Weasley. The scotch washed away all his discomfort and curiosities. And the red haired Gryffindor became forgotten.
At least for the night.