The Failed Education of One Draco Malfoy

Wordless Days

Each tray was hovered through the bars, dropping at the feet of hopeless prisoners. Yours landed in front of you, masking a book. It was hardly more than twenty pages, barely anything but philosophy with some scribblings in the margins. Regardless, he watched you cling to it with fright and curiosity.

Hopefully, you'd understand.

But you were weak, exhausted, frightened, unsure. You couldn't see the words on the pages as you had in Hogwarts, couldn't trust that Malfoy had given you something genuine. It must have been a trap. You knew it had to be.

Thankfully, in a crescendo of screams and broken glass, you'd landed in some safehouse in the middle of nowhere by Harry Potter's side. The Gryffindors saved you. They'd taken you with them.

You'd made it out alive.

▪◾◼◾▪

Despite everything, Draco felt like he could finally breathe for the first time in weeks.

You'd escaped. Thank Merlin, you'd escaped. Even if you hadn't used his help, you'd managed to get out. All he could do was hope you stayed away.

He couldn't dream of you forgiving him; surely that would never happen. He didn't deserve it. But you were free. That was all that mattered.

However, whenever he thought about you relying on Potter and Co., worry pooled in his gut, weighing him down like lead. They had gotten themselves caught. But he tried not to think of that, tried to focus on the thought of you alive and safe and well instead.

You may never trust him again, but at least he could trust you. He took deep breaths and counted the first five things he could see, following your book's instructions, steadying his nerves. You'd stay safe. You had to.

Thankfully, you did. The Gryffindors seemed to have a little more faith in you after the rescue. Maybe the smears of blood across your shirt and the tender way you walked were enough to convince them that you weren't on Voldemort's side, that you'd endured enough without their ire. Either way, you were safe.

The first few days, you stayed curled in a chair in the safe house's parlor, exhausted and numb in the aftermath of Bellatrix Lestrange. Hermione was similarly quiet; you'd heard her screams, too. Ordinarily you may have tried offering her comfort, but you were too consumed in your own issues to even attempt it. Everything hurt, and your mind moved like a body dragging through tar.

Eventually, you pulled the book Draco had offered out of your pocket and traced the cracked spine with unsure fingers. Nephele. You'd never read his works before. Maybe it was time to start. You were feeling better, capable of reading. Debating whether or not you wanted to risk devouring the contents of the book, you took a peek at the interior, pages worn and well-used. Could you trust Malfoy? Should you dare read another work he'd given you, especially when it had been provided from outside the bars of a cell?

He'd betrayed you.

But he hadn't.

It only took a few hours to work through the entire book. You finished, hands shaking and scrambling to close the cover. He'd given you a map. A map to escape your prison. The words were outlined, hinted at in the margins. He'd given you directions. He'd explained how to flee.

He risked his life for you.

But why? Was it his way of repaying you for the book you'd gifted him? Surely not. That wasn't worth dying over.

Had he understood what you'd been trying to do all along by leading him through the library? Was this his answer to the question you'd been dangling in front of him for years? Surely not. As soon as he realized more about you, read between the words on the pages, he wouldn't care about you. He couldn't... could he? He was Draco Malfoy, after all, rife with pomp and circumstance. You, while wonderfully intelligent and lovely in your own way, were hardly anything like Malfoy. How could he find himself caring about your well-being? It seemed impossible, especially given the situation.