I Can See You But I Could Never Reach You

Sorry not sorry

The pink dawn found Draco jogging along the black lake, music floating around him with a spell that he surprisingly conjured. It was a classical piece, he believed.

It was actually Hermione's piece, or so he called it. He did plan on adding a few instruments of his own.

Unbeknownst to other wizards except his family, Draco was an artist himself. He knew the art of playing various instruments, including the piano, violin and the magical instrument of Quen, which his family invented.

The interesting thing was that, even though the Malfoys hate Muggles and everything to do with them, they had been passed down, by their ancestors, an Grand, old piano, which belonged to Queen Mary.

I mean, after all, if you had to use muggle technologies, might as well use the most prestigious ones, thought Draco.

The cool breeze gently caressed his face. He smiled. What a lovely day.

The sweet music filled the air, and many magical flowers turned towards him as he jogged past.

Draco sat under the Elder tree that overlooked the lake. Sipping his Blueberry juice, hoping many a times that the world could just... Stop.

And here, it did.

No one would wake up early. No one could find him here. No one could judge him, no one could condemn him. Not his parents who heard about his friendship with Hermione, not the teachers who always shared a look whenever he was with Harry, not the students who contemplated cheering on him during Quidditch games.

No; Here he was alone, and frankly, a little lonely. Not that he was going to admit it, though. He was still a Slytherin after all.

A proud one.

Downing the blueberry juice Kreacher made especially for him, he formed the Quen out of thin air. It was a magical instrument proudly used and mastered (and made) by the Malfoys. It would cast notes and strings with keys of all sounds in the air, thin and very delicate. This also required wandless magic.

After casting the spell, he put down his wand. He let Hermione's piece play in d background while he ever so gently tapped and waved his hand across the keys and strings, translucent, floating in the air, while harmonizing to Hermione's piece.

(Listen to the piece I attached above.)

That sweet, sad and yet hopeful melody floated and around, so rich and full that Draco himself was shocked he did it.

But then again, he smirked. Of course I did that. What else would I expect of myself? Nothing but the best.

Oh really, Draco? Asked his head. You made that piece? Wasn't it Hermione's piece? It asked.

Draco coughed. Yes yes, it is her's. I agree. He said. Then he sighed. Can't get rid of my ego that easily, can I? 

The voice just laughed.

No one asked you to, Draco. Well, no one of importance, It said, and Draco could hear the smirk behind it.

He grunted.

Whatever.

The song continued to play as he continued his jog.

Why don't you show Hermione this piece? The voice asked.

Draco stoped in his tracks. Don't even think about that.

A letter fell out of Draco's pocket. He sighed and picked it up. He frowned. The letter was addressed to him.