"A strange place, Draco? You know what I say about unfamiliar things and places." He glares at his son. "What is this place which you have been, making you late for your appointments?"
"Sometimes you get really good ones in New York." She tilts her head back and smiles at the sky. "I like going out and listening. Lightning has way too much fun. Some of the trees get nervous, though."
There is a faint, nose-tickling scent of chalk dust in the air. The kind that tends to evoke memories of the schoolroom, of note-taking and lectures and exams and yards of essays written.
Occasionally, one of those essays might be returned drenched in crimson ink, with the words SEE ME written across the top in bold, decisive capital letters.
In fact, such an essay is being held before Draco's eyes right now. And the white-haired man brandishing it is wearing academical dress, looking every inch the cross old professor.
The crimson ink is fresh. So fresh that it might be starting to drip, running down the paper.
'I expected better than this of you, Mr Malfoy.' The scowl deepens further. 'Your reasoning is fallacious, your conclusions are inconclusive, and your writing style desperately wants improvement. One might think you were trying to fail.'
"But I did research. Look." Draco starts looking for books and scrolls, but they turn to dust in an instant. And in his fumbling, he stabs himself with his quill, now looking more like a silver needle.
A knitting needle to be precise.
"No, this isn't right. I'll, I'll tell my father about this." But he was in prison, and what did he expect of him really?
(ooc: Mun *DIES* You win everything! <3<3<3) Draco blinked and stared at the sight. Somebody here had taken leave of their senses. And he had a funny feeling it was him.
He then shook his head, and made a mental note to have some words with Tim about exactly what he did with these flipping mushrooms. Either that, or the sun had fried his brain finally. He decided to continue walking instead.
Draco stumbled as he walked, the last of the mushrooms leaving his system. He was about out of water, and food now. He had slept in fits, in between the visions. His throat was dry, his white-blond hair hanging down in oily, unwashed strands. His clothes seemed a little worse for wear, and dusty. He was tired, beyond tired.
He had faced several inner demons, and now it seemed only one certainty remained for him. If he ever wanted his life to improve from where he was, he had to change. If he followed his father, he'd end up in jail, or at this rate, dead, along with anyone he cared about. Only his path now was unknown, and more difficult than anything he ever imagined. But at least this time, he had some say in the path he chosen.
He took a few more steps before collasping to the ground, unconscious.
Comments 161
"You are late, Draco." His tone is cold, unwavering.
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He stopped himself from commenting how glad he was to see him released from prison.
Instead he bowed his head respectfully, "Sorry, Father. I was away in a strange place, and I couldn't return. It won't happen again."
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Draco started to explain, but realized his father would never believe him.
"Never mind."
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"Have you ever sat outside and watched a storm?"
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Draco then wondered, "Listening to the thunder and rain, you mean? And how would you know about the trees? You have talking ones?"
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Occasionally, one of those essays might be returned drenched in crimson ink, with the words SEE ME written across the top in bold, decisive capital letters.
In fact, such an essay is being held before Draco's eyes right now. And the white-haired man brandishing it is wearing academical dress, looking every inch the cross old professor.
'Well? What do you have to say for yourself?'
Reply
Odd, considering he never had this professor, but he immediately found himself in that mode.
"Yes, sir? I don't understand? Is there a problem?" He calmly inquired.
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'I expected better than this of you, Mr Malfoy.' The scowl deepens further. 'Your reasoning is fallacious, your conclusions are inconclusive, and your writing style desperately wants improvement. One might think you were trying to fail.'
Reply
"But I did research. Look." Draco starts looking for books and scrolls, but they turn to dust in an instant. And in his fumbling, he stabs himself with his quill, now looking more like a silver needle.
A knitting needle to be precise.
"No, this isn't right. I'll, I'll tell my father about this." But he was in prison, and what did he expect of him really?
Reply
(The comment has been removed)
Draco blinked and stared at the sight. Somebody here had taken leave of their senses. And he had a funny feeling it was him.
He then shook his head, and made a mental note to have some words with Tim about exactly what he did with these flipping mushrooms. Either that, or the sun had fried his brain finally. He decided to continue walking instead.
Reply
He had faced several inner demons, and now it seemed only one certainty remained for him. If he ever wanted his life to improve from where he was, he had to change. If he followed his father, he'd end up in jail, or at this rate, dead, along with anyone he cared about. Only his path now was unknown, and more difficult than anything he ever imagined. But at least this time, he had some say in the path he chosen.
He took a few more steps before collasping to the ground, unconscious.
Reply
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