𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 [𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧

_____

St. Mungo's

_____

DRACO followed Nathaniel through the corridor of Grimmauld place, remaining close behind him.

His sights floated over the walls, the igniting candles clung to the hooks screwed there, the patterns that coated the height of it, the colourful portraits and the long drapes decorating the hallway.

Though he always reverted back to the the curls looping on Nathaniel's head, growing from his skull, also noting the way his shoulders swayed as he walked along the wooden of the planks that plastered over the floor.

The chatter of the other guests vibrated through his ears as they passed by, and he could feel the stares burning underneath the depths of skin, capturing a few of them and grimacing at the several different features contorted in disapproval.

They lefted a corner, swiftly, carefully avoiding the pointed ledge protruding from the wall. Nathaniel squared his shoulders to a tall door on the right, arching his neck as drank in the height of it.

Nathaniel stretched his arm toward the knob of the door, closing his palm and slender fingers around it before twisting and shoving it back, his right foot lunging forward, stepping through the wooden frame.

Draco came to a halt, reluctant to carry forth with his motions, a little nagging voice echoing in the boot of his brain telling him to stop. 

Nathaniel peered over his shoulder, his eyes dragging up and down the expanse of the blonde's figure. He arched a brow, inquiringly. And with that, the nerves bunching inside his abdomen and chest began to unravel, and he pushed forward, underneath the doorframe, through the entryway.

Draco pressed his palm against the flat surface of the door, collecting the muscles in his arms and forcing the wood into place, listening for the click of it before allowing himself to soak in his surroundings.

The room illuminated in shadows, the light shining from the moon seeping in through the pane of the window, between the divide in the curtains.

The planks in the floor creaked, angrily with every shoe over them. The blonde winced, the thudding in his chest threatening to crack through the cage of it.

"Lumos!" Nathaniel mumbled, his left hand, veined and slender, latched onto the wood of his wand, a blue whisp of light rippling from the tip of it. 

There was a grand shining, and Draco found himself in awe of the wall to his right. It was like a tapestry, cloaked in paint of faces and names and pictures in the shape of a tree. 

Written across the top: 

The Ancient House of Black

His silver glistened as his mouth fell agape, his sights stumbling and reading all the way through the many different names in hope of recognition.

But only one name stood out to him — his own.

His heart constricted within the cage of his chest, his head snapping in the direction of Nathaniel, who had seemed to be waiting for his gaze whilst wearing his usual wise and knowing look.

"Draco," he said to the blonde. "Let me tell you everything I know about you and your life before your coma."

And he did, Draco had been listening in and absorbing every scrap of information Nathaniel had been providing him with.