Draco wasn’t one to make mistakes.

No, The Malfoy’s didn’t make mistakes. Every little move was calculated and thought out, performed multiple times before launching the idea, deciphering which path was truly the greatest to go down, until they finally found the one that fit snugly in their palm, and that’s when they would pounce. That’s how they were. Perhaps it was the Black bloodline seeping into their veins, but, they wouldn’t admit that.

So, why did Draco make a mistake? It wasn’t on purpose, of course, and he didn’t intend to start something that would brew a harsh storm inside of his soul. Yet, it rattled around inside of him, bouncing off the walls of his ribcage, and it was annoying him.

What was annoying him, you may ask? Everything, and anything, he would have not guessed.

With everyone getting petrified, turning into cold corpses that still managed to attach themselves to their souls, unable to cry and scream about what they had witnessed or what had happened, Draco was almost proud at himself for not becoming one of them. It seemed like everyone was just severely unlucky, right? And he wouldn’t care for them. No, that was their problem, and their problem alone. Never his.

But then you became one of the victims to become a hollowed out shell of who you should’ve been. Cold, lifeless, unblinking, frozen in time like some relic that had been cursed to roam the Earth for all of eternity, and something in him just . . erupted. As if a volcano had overspilled and poured out without him being able to stop it and patch the hole that had formed up.

It’s not like he meant to find you, either. But he did. And he almost wanted to hate himself — no, hate you for making him terrified from the sight. That was his mistake; feeling himself start to panic and care. Merlin, that wasn’t in his dictionary.

Now he felt sick.