October '98 | H E R
Devyn sits glaring at Malfoy.
He glares right back, his knees too close to offer personal space.
"Answer already. I promise it won't hurt."
Prick. "I'm good."
"Stop being stubborn and play by the rules."
"Still good."
"I know it was. Now tell me which one exactly."
Her glare magnifies. Him and his innuendos and twisting her words will cost him his balls one day.
"Are you thinking about my balls? How badly you want to cut them off?" His grin is heartstealingly gorgeous and fullforce infuriating. "Shift that thought just for the sake of getting on with this assignment."
"I don't have to answer you," she states calmly.
"You quite literally have to."
"From the list," she points out. "Ask me a question from the list."
"The list is a bore," he swipes it from the table before she can. A list professor Sparks has curated that the class can choose from. 21 Questions is the game for the week.
Devyn doesn't know what she expected of this cursed course but it surely wasn't being one on one with Malfoy. It's brainwash is what this is.
"Your favourite season?" he reads with an eye roll before answering, "Spring and fall. Who in your family are you closest to? Your mother. Favourite thing about yourself? Brains and tits—the order varies. I still don't know on what factors. Favourite type of dessert? None. You rarely consume anything with added sugar, but you will eat your mother's apple cobbler whenever she makes it because she means a lot to you." He puts the list down with a flourish. "I know all of these, Wood."
Holy shit.
"Now answer my productive question."
Absolutely not. "Your question won't get us any farther in... this."
"You're making quite sure of it."
Don't kick him. Don't kick him. "Can you tell me why you're such a fucking dick today?"
"Answer."
"No," she balks, about to claw his fucking eyes out.
"I'll call professor Sparks."
Her eyes narrow to slits. "You won't."
"Watch me." His arm raises and Devyn shoots off her chair to hold it down. Immediatly, she knows that this is the danger zone, that too much touching is happening and personal space is a gone friend, but he can't get the professor and let him tell on her. She needs the grade.
Devyn has tried to talk herself out of trying to be perfect in every subject she takes, but it's a losing game.
Nose to nose, she tells him through bared teeth, "Take another question."
"What is your favourite sexual experience," he insists.
And he can only mean an experience between them, because it hasn't happened with anyone else, as far as he knows. Well aware of Emrys sitting a row before them, enganged in a rather dry conversation with Padma, Devyn keeps her voice low when she grumbles, "The pond."
Malfoy's brows rise. "Really? Hm. My personal favourite is the first."
Now his answer deserves a really? The first had been lovely—as much shit as Devyn likes to give him, he had been a dream then, considerate and patient and kind—but it was not even close to what kinds of things they discovered the times after it.
Realising that she is still on him, Devyn sits back down on her chair. If he's not going after the list, fine. Let's talk about shit we don't want to. "What is one thing your parents don't understand about you?"
"Too much."
"Humor me," she echoes dryly.
"They don't understand why I love green apples so much."
Deep breath. "Be serious."
Malfoy rolls his eyes, arms lazily crossing over his broad chest—nope, she definitely didn't look there. "My sense of fashion."
Devyn gives him a look.
"It's a serious answer. You haven't been in the room when both attack me with their strategic little backhanded compliments," he grouches. "Now your turn."
"Nothing. My mum is very insightful."
Malfoy's gaze snags to her chest that is covered in her uniform blouse and cotton vest. "So you told her then."
"It's none of your business," she fires back, bristling, and that's all he needs to know.
"Right. I'll give you a pass on that one—" the absolute arrogance, "—now what's the wildest thing you have ever done."
"Entertaining you," she snaps, needing more time than usual to rein in her temper.
"So wild," he agrees with playful nonchalance. It's a tactic to keep his front up, to not show how much her words are hurting him. She has seen how deep she can cut if she formulates her statements the right way. "You certainly have been wild while entertaining me." There is the word twisting again. "For me, it would have to be repairing the cabinet and attempting to kill our headmaster."
At this point the word wild might as well mean regret. Devyn can't deal with the load he just unpacked despite his efforts to lighten it. She can't deal with feeling sympathetic to a guy she has been villainizing for months.
Swallowing thickly, she looks past his shoulder before gathering herself. The next question is more than obvious to her. "If you had the option to restart your life, would you do it?"
"No," comes the quick reply, suggesting that he may have given it some thought before. Tightening his crossed arms, he steels himself. "Would you?"
Admittedly, Devyn doesn't have big enough regrets in her life, nor made any unsolvable mistakes that make her want to get a new shot at life. What do they say; Every step I took led me to this moment. While some moments particularly pertaining this guy right here led to pure heartache, what matters is that she came home safely to her family who is alive and thriving.
"No."
Pleased or relieved, Malfoy's entire frame loses tension. He falls back into that pretend, flirty-casual facade, smirking a little. "Morning or evening?"
Sweet Merlin, he's giving me a headache. "Morning or evening what?"
He does a suggestive sweep of her body.
Damn it for the tingle that trails in its wake.
"I know we did mostly evenings," he adds, "but that was circumstantial."
His eyes sparkle at her reddening face. Her mouth opens, ready to shut him down when professor Sparks is rounding their table.
"And what are you two talking about?"
"Oh." Malfoy blinks between the teacher and Devyn, not an ounce ruffled. "I was just asking what she thought of our first kiss."
Devyn is making the stellar impression of a fish. Malfoy urges her with a molasses smile. You can't get out of this one without your grade slipping, Devil.
Professor Sparks is looking at her expectant, so very ignorant to the Slytherin's mindgames. His attempt to make her think back to their rather innocent beginning moments. As though she would soften a little because of it.
But Devyn has to be careful of her phrasing. If they are graded on status of relationship or even chemistry, she'll act her part to get the bloody grade. It's just words anyway.
"It was bad," she replies honestly. "I didn't know what I was doing and he just... froze up."
"So you initiated it?"
Devyn may or may not sparpen her eyes at Malfoy. "I did mostly."
Sparks looks between them. "And how long have you been together?"
"Since our fifth year," Devyn replies before he can. Might as well let her believe in a fairytale.
"We had a little break," Malfoy interjects anyway, "but we're working on ourselves."
"I have noticed some hostile looks you throw around," the old woman mentions suspectingly.
"Well, that's normal, isn't it?" Devyn grasps for straws. "The honeymoon phase is long over."
"What matters," Malfoy adds overly charming, "is that we choose to stay with each other."
Squeeze his neck, nice and slow—that's what I'll be dreaming of tonight. Until the light leaves his eyes.
"What a mature way to look at it," Sparks praises. "And how did you feel about the Law, if I may ask?"
No, you may not.
There is no way Devyn can put it into words, neither the truth, nor any fabricated lie.
Malfoy's eyes take on a shine that is hard to look away from. "We think it proved that we were meant to be."
Cruel—this is cruel. The earnesty.
Her little hopelessly romantic heart has been wanting to hear this for years, and she is close to believing it because he is such a good little lying fucker.
But he left. Remember that, Devyn. You haven't been enough. You could never be enough. This is all just some game for him.
"Oh," Sparks swoons at those convincing words, frankly too invested for her own good. "Go on ahead then—don't let me disturb you."
As she drifts away to stick her nose into other couples business, Devyn locks eyes with Emrys. The knowing, amused glint in his eyes tells her that he heard enough to detect the lies Malfoy and her have dished out, and the next beat he is silently sharing his sympathies to be stuck with Malfoy.
A smile is curling on her lips when Malfoy sneers, "Get your own life, Malone. A kid doesn't have to be told as much."
Says the guy who keeps on listening in on Devyn's conversations...
She kicks his ankle when Emrys returns to his conversation with Padma with a deep frown on his face. Malfoy's brows are drawn together in a glower. Devyn glowers right back. That was unnecessarily rude.
"Your turn," he gripes, and she could swear he is scooting down on the seat which puts his knees closer than they already are.
Not to interpret too much, but it got a possessive feel to it. Couldn't be. If anything, he's doing it subconsciously.
Screw cutting his balls off. She'll squash them with the heels of her shoes.
Exhaling heavily, Devyn relaxes into her seat. Don't let him rile you up. That's what he's going for.
The smartest move right now is going the direction of nothing having to do with them. At best something that gets under his skin.
"Will you ever accept that loathing people is not a personality trait?"
He chuckles, surprising both of them. "I knew you could be funny."
"Too sad it never rubbed off on you."
He actually flips her off, but the ghost of a smile curves his mouth. "Your favourite childhood memory."
Stunned for a second at this not a dirty question instead, Devyn thinks back for a long moment. Julia has made her childhood an adventure worth telling and deserving a lifetime of being worshipped, it's hard to pick.
But there is one thing that stands out.
"Scavenger hunts my mum used to make for me." Devyn tamps down the reminiscent smile. Even if Malfoy looks genuinely invested, which he usually is pertaining her mother, he is not derserving of any pleasant expression on her face. "Yours must be gutting any small animal that dared touched your lawn, after looking into every mirror you pass."
Amusement dances in his eyes. He once said no one can talk to him like does. "I do do that—the last part that is, but no. My favourite memory is flying around with my broom and being stuffed with scones and tea after by my mom whenever I ate shit."
As close as Devyn has been to him at some point, the Malfoys have always been a family of high value, close to royalty in the Wizarding World. Untouchable.
Imagining them in day to day scenarios felt criminal. They breathe better oxygyn, and that's a fact.
But oddly enough, Devyn can picture it; Draco crying over a small scratch and his mother lovingly fussing over him.
Damn her if Devyn doesn't crack a small smile.
She bites down any desire to detail the picture she has of him and his family in her head. Instead, she asks, "What is something that cheers you up everytime?"
His face splits into a shameless grin. "Head."
Yeah, I walked right into that one.
If she wonders wether he needed some cheering up in the summer or all the times she wasn't at direct disposal, she doesn't let on.
Devyn fights to keep her face impassive because of how much her truth will annoy him. "For me, it'll have to be Tarquin."
As expected, his grin falls immediatly, a muscle ticking in his cheek, but he doesn't waver in his relaxed recline or grow red. A smirk tugs at the corner when he finds his next question. "What is your favourite thing about me?"
Oh, hell no.
He continues, "It can't be my appearance because I'm so 'watered down', and it can't be my wretched personality," the sarcasm is on point, "so what is your favourite thing about me?"
"Your ability to turn everything to your favor without shame." She nods at his incredulous look. "It's admirable, truly. You almost had me living in your delusions, too."
"While I do love your tits and legs, my favourite thing about you," he leans in close, elbows on his knees, silver eyes locked on her amber hues, "is your little dark, twisted heart."
Shred his balls. That's the final verdict.
Shred his FUCKING balls.
Satisfied about what he must be seeing on her face, he leans back, urging her on with a nod that only frustrates her.
Seeing that they only try one-up one another with their own questions and Sparks only has their best interest at heart, Devyn snatches the list from the table and reads the first thing her eyes land on. "Have you ever experienced..."
The last of it is stuck in her throat.
"What?"
Her mouth has gone dry, heart upping its pace. "Nothing."
"Say it." He probably thinks it's a sexual question he somehow missed but it's way way worse. "C'mon," he coaxes, "you never back down, Wood."
Fuck it. If he is pushing. Lets get my heart broken on a random Thursday, why don't we? "Have you ever experienced true—"
"MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS!"
Thank Merlin for the interruption, is Devyn's first thought. That's Tarquin, her second.
"OR WHAT?"
And that's Zabini.
The two are standing face to face with only a table between them, both tense with emotions. Loud, ugly emotions. Tarquin rarely gets furious to the point of physical altercation but he is the one to make the first blow.
"Holy shit," Devyn gasps, jumping to her feet.
Malfoy is alert as well. "Shit indeed."
They both move as Tarq and Zabini become a mass of flying fists and spewed insults and threats. A circle has formed, Sparks at the edge of it, demanding they stop right this instant, too scared to get into the middle of it.
"You're not worth even half of her," Zabini growls, serving a right hook to Tarq's face.
He staggers. Devyn tries to grab him then, seriously worried, but he throws himself at Zabini and punches him in the gut.
"You think I care about your fucking opinion, you stuck up prick?" Tarquin fires back, and then gives a second punch to Zabini's side as he's hunched over.
Devyn tries to pry her idiot of a friend away, wondering what the hell has him acting like a caged animal and Malfoy has his nuch stronger hands on his friend.
"That's enough," Malfoy snarls at the both of them.
"If she wanted you, she would have had you already," Tarq spits, easily shrugging Devyn off and the taunt has Zabini ripping out of Malfoy's hold.
They both clash in the middle, everything happening so fast. More fists and elbows and feet, a kick and Zabini tumbles to the floor, groaning loudly.
Tarq is on him, grabbing the front of his shirt, about to punch him in the face when Malfoy yanks him away, to his feet.
"Don't fucking hit a man down," he reprimands Tarquin, absolutely furious and concerned.
"No more hitting," Sparks says, her voice shaking. "Mister Malone and Mister Zabini, you'll have detention under my supervision and be aware that I'll have to report the incident to the headmistress."
Tarq wipes his mouth as Malfoy is roughly releasing him, blood staining his white shirt. Malfoy goes over to tend to Zabini who groans on the floor and it is only then that Devyn notices him writhing in pain, his eyes squeezed shut. There is more blood on the stone floor and he looks close to passing out.
"First visit the hospital wing," Sparks orders, her face set into a deep frown. "Class dismissed."
Malfoy is getting Zabini up with the help of Nott and together, they haul their injured friend out of the classroom. As they pass, Devyn can hear Zabini mumble weakly, "No... hospital..."
—◇—
Shortly after, Tarquin and Devyn are some of the first to stretch out on their claimed seating in the common room.
He refuses to see Madam Pomfrey for only a split lip and bruising cheekbone, so he says. Though something tells Devyn that he doesn't want to get an earful from the matron.
He washed his face in a bathroom on the way up here, but his hair is still a bigger mess than usual and his mood is unreadable. There is something tense under all his fleeting smiles.
She pokes his thigh with her foot when he shuffles a stack of cards from the coffee table. "What was that all about?"
Tarq shrugs, avoiding her eyes by watching the tricks he can do. "He was talking funny. I didn't care for it. Here we are."
"Nothing else?" she pokes not-so-discreetly.
"Nothing else, Devyn."
She squints at the side of his swollen face. "Are you sure?"
"Are you sure you hate Malfoy that much?"
"Hey." She gives his thigh a shove with her foot. "Don't twist this around. We're talking about you here. I rarely know where you stand with any girls."
"Because I don't kiss and tell."
"Not even to me?" Her forehead creases, appalled.
A small smile lifts at the corners of his full, split mouth. "Not even to you."
"Criminal."
"But you," he says, glancing her way through his thick hair, "you girls like to talk."
"I don't talk. You ask and I answer."
His smile gets bigger. "Case in point, Devil."
"Don't," she warns softly. The nickname is like a cold plunge when he says it. Well, also whenever Malfoy calls her by it nowadays, but Devyn never liked anyone calling her like that than him.
Tarquin rolls his eyes but in a lighthearted way, makes eye contact with their group of friends that just entered the common room and starts to dealing cards on the table, his bloodied sleeve moving back and forth. "You're too sentimental for your own good."
"I'm not," she refutes, starting to cross her arms and resisting.
"You are." He gives her a pointed look. "You can't let go of things."
Her jaw falls open, the necklace heavy against her the top of her chest. "Okay, at what point did this turn into a Devyn roast, and how do I make it stop?"
His laugh is a harmonious bark. "Roast me back and call it even."
She doesn't need to think long. "Your feet stink."
"Got me there, sweetheart," he says drier than the sahara. "You want to play?"
Devyn does a give-me motion with her hand right as the Ravenclaw bunch stretches out around them in beanbags.
No sign of Slytherins anywhere, she notices. Greengrass and Parkinson trailed after the boys and wherever they have gone, they remain.
"A fight, Tarq?" Michael cuts to the chase as he picks up one of the small stacks.
"Gotta keep 'em surprised," Tarquin drawls passively, clearly not into discussing it further.
Michael shows his white teeth in a handsome grin. "You think you can brush it off like that? You just floored another bloke for a girl—not just any girl but Miss prissy Parkinson—and you think we'll accept a half answer—a quarter answer, if we're being honest here."
"Listen, lads and ladies," Tarq starts lightly, leaning forward to lay his first card, "there is nothing to fuss over. What happened—happened so lets just get on with it."
"You fought for her," Mandy states, an edge of reverence to it. "It takes a lot to rile you up, Tarq."
"Brocky," Tarq says her name with a load of affection and gentleness, "I did not fight for her."
Not buying it, and an absolute sucker for good romance, she insists, "What was it about?"
Sue looks ready to pull the answers out of Tarquin's mouth, too. He shakes his head at their enthusiasm.
"If you lot would show your own lives this much invested, your problems would lessen by at least a half." He cuts a look to Devyn. "I mean you especially."
She gapes yet again. Damn, people like to give out today.
"I'm doing swell," Michael says by way of excusing his nosiness. His eyes tighten at the corners when adding, "Apart from the fact that you maybe cost me my player."
"He provoked," is Tarq's excuse, shrugging. "Not my fault he has to be such an annoying busybody."
"He should recover until Halloween," Anthony mentions, and it sounds not for the first time that he is reminding dear captain of the Hogwarts Hots.
...so ridiculous.
Scratching his jaw, Michael grimaces. "I don't know. He's really weak, as much as he tries to hide it. I don't know what his fucking problem is but it's making me antsy. And his attitude is whole other thing." He takes his turn, which has Anthony draw four cards from the stack. "I might have to switch him."
"With who?"
Lifting his eyes to meet Padma's, his grimace deepens. "Smith."
"What about Emrys?" Everyone's eyes turn to Devyn—Tarquin especially. She gives him another shove for that look. "It's Chaser, right? He was one and he played for Gryffindor for a while."
"He didn't try out as Chaser," Michael thinks out loud. "But I guess I can work around it—but I do need the best player—"
"Which would be Blaise Zabini," Parkinson, appearing out of literal nowhere, states with little room to question. "He's on a little rough patch, but it'll clear soon."
"So he says for weeks," Michael retorts calmly.
Ignoring him, Parkinson walks around the legs circling the coffee table and stops short before Devyn, raising an expectant brow. Her arms are crossed over her chest with that Slytherin attitude; they all have it, one more than the other.
She expects her to move.
Reluctantly, Devyn tucks her legs in and stands, only centimeters above the raven-haired witch.
Bored is the only word that captures their exchange of looks before Devyn climbs out of the tangle of limbs and positions herself between Sue and Mandy who don't bother to hide their cards from her.
Because like Devyn, everyone in the circle is shamelessly focused on Parkinson sitting next to Tarquin, holding their breaths when she gently touches his cheek, right where a bruise is blooming.
Devyn is getting a bad case of déjà-vu.
"It's not so bad," he rasps at the deep frown on her own face.
Parkinson schools her features to neutral safe for the downturn of her mouth. "Well that was incredibly stupid."
He doesn't argue.
He doesn't seem to be doing anything other than gazing at her with a guarded front. His fingers that still hold the cards are twitching.
"Don't touch my friends again," she says as though she's laying down the law, but addressing him, it has less venom in it. "And you better change before dinner."
With that, she rises to her full height and does a mildly disgusted sweep of the gawking group. "The show is over. Get back to your mindless games."
Tarq is the last to snap out of his stupor and when he does, he sets down his set of cards and stands.
"Where are you going?"
"Changing."
—◇—
H I M
Blaise blinks his way into consciousness, blinks at Theo, Daphne and Draco hovering over him at the first sign of life.
"Why are you fuckers all up in my business?"
"You passed out," Draco states flatly.
Blaise rubs his gaunt-like face. "I gather."
Draco leans his forearms on his knees. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't get you some damn proper help, and be clear because it is the only chance you get."
"My body. My choice."
This fucker... "It's not much of a choice when you pass out and lose control to make the choices, idiot."
"You're running a fever, Blaise." Daphne, sitting at the edge of the bed, feels for his temperature.
"I'm fine." Swatting her hand away, he tries to sit up but fails miserably, his face contorting in pain. Defeated, he stays down and massages his brow, looking ready to scream at the world.
Daphne is stroking his chest in a soothing manner. "Do you need anything?"
By the way Blaise is side-eyeing her, it would have to be only one thing. He wants her to be another girl. He wants Pansy. That is what this is all about; the fighting, the threats.
But she has left a while ago.
Likely to see someone else.
"Pomfrey at least," Theo advises. "Mate, I'm all for everyone knows what's best for themselves, but this is getting out of hand."
"I said I'm fine," he grits out through clenched teeth, his eyes sharpening to an iciness that has them not worrying what he'll do to them, but what Blaise will do to himself. "Just—in my drawer. Give me one of those, Daphne."
Because he can't reach for it himself. Because he's too weak.
Fucksake.
Daphne pulls a vial put of the bottom drawer of the nightstand, and with the pull and shove, it sounds like there are a lot inside. The glass is colored dark and when Daphne means to hand it to their demanding friend, Draco snatches it before Blaise can get his fingers on it.
"Give it," he growls.
But Draco has popped the lid already and a pungent smell comes from it, like something rotten. Theo turns away couching from just a little whiff.
"What is this shit?"
"My stuff," Blaise says shortly. "We have training in an hour, now give it so I can pepper the fuck up."
"That is no fucking pepper up potion," Draco retorts, capping the vial and pocketing it before pointing a finger at his friend, "and you rest."
"No—"
"Yes! If you don't keep your fucking ass down, I will tell Corner that his concerns are valid and I will march my healthy ass over to Pomfrey, or better, to McGonagall herself."
Blaise glares icy daggers into Draco's soul.
Good. The only thing that keeps Blaise going is Quidditch, which is why it is so hard to keep him from the one thing that made him wake up in the morning when he should heal, phyiscally.
"I'll go Saturday," he argues.
"Fine," Draco barks, turning to leave the room. "Fucking child."
It takes the whole way down to the Great Hall for Draco to cool down. Blaise's recklessness is getting more scary as the days go on.
The whole twenty minutes that he had been passed out, Draco and Daphne considered just taking a look at the wound Blaise must have. Daphne kept mentioning things like him possibly losing his leg or getting an infection bad enough that it'll reach his heart. Somehow, Theo was able to talk them out of alerting the teachers of their friend's state—for his mental health, he argued. Blaise needs to be clear enough in the head to want to heal physically in the first place.
Now, it sounds stupid, but in their heated discussion before Blaise came to, it made sense. As far as they dare to push, he'd see it as the ultimate betrayal, not as genuine concern. Same goes to sneaking a peak at what Blaise is hiding under long pants and limping that seems to suck the life out of him.
Entering the Great Hall, Draco is still torn. Pansy is the only one to sit at their usual spot at the Slytherin table. Like the graceful thing that she has been raised to be, and the regal queen that he is convinced lives in her soul regardless, she sits with her spine straight and head held high, not showing any sign of distress.
She is drinking from her goblet when Draco claims the spot to her left.
"Pansy Parkinson," he greets her with an easy, slightly teasing tilt of his lips, "tell me, darling, how does it feel to have two guys fighting over you?"
At that, she breaks. Setting the goblet down, her hand angles that she can run her temple. "I shouldn't have slept with him in sixth year."
"You think so?"
She cuts him a look. "Don't give me that attitude when you have that mess of Wood to deal with."
He can't argue, nor is he in any mood to discuss anything concerning Wood.
"What happened anyway?" Draco prods, genuinely curious. "How did you get Malone to fight for you?"
A glare, but it's mild. "We had a good conversation, like actually good—nice and civil and I didn't feel like ripping his head off—and Blaise wasn't having it. He went off the rails when we started to talk more... sexual." She rolls her eyes. "Just petty stuff."
Draco puts a chicken thigh onto his golden plate, along with some mash and gravy. "His penchant for you is nothing new."
"Penchant takes it lightly," she snorts. "You'd think he catch get a hint—I mean, I haven't been with him since."
And it had been everything to him then. It had been what pulled him through during their time at the Manor last year. He would never admit such a thing out loud, but his questions had been targeted on her.
The thing with the goblet, the Marriage Law, it had to have been a blow that felt more personal than it was meant to be.
And out of all people, it had been Tarquin Malone to be paired with his dearest Pansy.
Draco couldn't possibly put himself in his friend's shoes. To have Wood—no.
"So you didn't outright tell him that you're not interested?" he questions.
Pansy looks guiltyly down at her pot pie.
"Well there you have it."
Another glare, followed by a defeated sigh. "I think he doesn't even really—I think he just wants to hold onto the past because everything right now is so..."
"Fucked?" Draco provides.
"Fucked indeed. Why else would he never confess anything? He acts all protective over me which was cute at first, even the jealousy—as a friend—but even then, even with the many opportunities, he gives nothing."
Blaise really would never admit anything out loud. That guy has been fawning over Pansy ever since Draco can remember, rarely paid any other girl heed and yet he never went the full way of committing.
They are just dancing around each other.
"Or confessing might be too painful."
"Because he knows the answer," she concludes dejectedly.
Woah. That might not hold true for Blaise alone. Draco swallows a rock. "Yeah."
That.
—◇—