Persistent Bastard :: DraMa

5 October 1922
Thursday 9:30pm

When it came to school, Tilly liked most things, except classes. Which was unfortunate since classes were a large part of the school experience. Her grades were good, but nothing that would win her awards. Unless they were talking about Herbology, in which case she would be a better teacher than their current waste of space.

The current bane of her existence was Transfiguration. Not one of her best subjects. The homework was pretty straight forward, answering questions on some reading they were assigned, then a short essay summarizing the material.

Looking over the questions, Tilly read through the pages, flipping back and forth, letting annoyed little noises escape as she searched.

She had taken over a small couch in the common room, glaring at anyone who tried to sit near her and talk. There were other areas in the common room they could go, this little alcove was hers. It was later in the evening, nearing 9:30pm, a yawn escaped as her eyes closed and watered with how tired she was, but she needed to get the assignment done.

It was assigned a week ago and due in the morning, so there had been time, but every second of her free time was taken up with the Greenhouse, the Library, the Hospital Wing, Prefect duties or the occasional getting to know you session with Drago. She had stopped avoiding him, it was useless. No matter where she hid, he found her.

Persistent bastard.

It had taken some time, but more of the real Matilda was coming out in his presence. She didn’t worry so much about appearances or what he might think when she showed her true personality. She laughed more, smiled a lot and even made a batch of her chocolate chip cookies for him to try. Not JUST for him, she made them for all her friends, it just so happened that she found him first when they were still warm.

Another yawn escaped, Tilly rested her head on the back of the couch, shutting her eyes briefly. All she had left was a few questions and the three paragraph summary.

Before sitting down to study, she had changed from her typical uniform to a more comfortable outfit. She wore a pair of red plaid flannel sleep pants, typically worn by men. She didn’t care, they were fantastic when it was cold out. With it, she wore soft wool socks and an oversized ivory sweater that had slipped slightly, showing off just a bit of shoulder. Her hair was in a long lose braid, hanging over one shoulder. The picture of casual.

Being cozy was mandatory after a long day. Opening her eyes, with another yawn, she covered her mouth with the hand not holding her quill, then tried to focus her eyes on the page again.

The noise in the main portion of the common room was quieting down, which should have meant she heard the steps of the person walking up behind her, but she didn’t realize he was there until he spoke. Which caused her to jump and yelp with surprise.

“OH MY GOD!” She said, clutching her heart. “I need to get you a bell so I can hear when you're coming.”

It wasn’t like he was following her.

He just happened to cross paths with her more often than might seem normal, the places she frequented coinciding with his own schedules. Between classes and sharing the same common room, walking into Matilda was one of the easier things at Hogwarts. She seemed to be everywhere.

It was good however. It gave him more opportunity to comply with her agreement to get to know each other better, although the endeavour felt thoroughly foreign to him. Nonetheless, he pursued her — spending time together during meals, borrowing books at the library when she was scheduled there, claiming the spot next to her in lessons, walking her from class to class.

He thought it might be working. She was beginning to be less reserved around him.

It was still a view he tried to understand, this real Matilda, as she had put it. Unlike anything he had imagined, and breaking through her masked exterior more often since they had spoken in the greenhouse. It was disconcerting and sometimes jarring, while simultaneously he found himself trying to draw those moments from her more often.

He could feel the contradictoriness of it himself, and he didn't quite know what to do with that.

Although at times, she did managed to shock him speechless.

Like when she sat curled on a couch like a cat, wearing strange clothes that were anything but feminine, revealing a shoulder as though it wasn’t inappropriate.

Drago stood where he’d just entered through the portrait, regarding her from across the room, Serik by his side. Vacillating between reprimand and curiosity. When she leaned her head against the back of the couch, Drago shoved his broom and duffel bag at Serik.

“Bring that up,” he said gruffly, looking around at his younger brother who seemed like he was about to protest. He gave him a light slap on the back of his head, jerking his head. “Go.” Serik was gone a second later, grumbling to himself.

Without delay, Draco walked up from behind where Matilda sat, peeking over her shoulder at what she was writing in her lap. A book lay nearby, drawing his gaze for a brief moment before it landed back in her scribbles.

“That is incorrect, Matilda.”

“OH MY GOD!”

She clutched her heart, jumping the way he had grown familiar with by now. It no longer surprised him. He expected it.

Undeterred, he moved around the couch to sit next to her, pointing a finger at one of her answers. “This is wrong,” he repeated, looking up to her face. “Your theory is off.”

Gaze sliding sideways to her shoulder, he couldn't help himself. He reached over to pull the fabric of her sweater back over her exposed skin, gentle but deliberate, fingers barely grazing.

“That is incorrect, Matilda.”

SWEET BABY MERLIN, how did he keep sneaking up on her. He was not a small person. Tall muscular… very muscular. All of them, the muscles, on display in a quidditch uniform. Craaaaaaaaaap.

“This is wrong. Your theory is off.” She looked at him. Blinked a few times, something was wrong?

Oh.

OH!

“Oh, yeah, ok. I can… um, work on it.”

She sighed, putting her parchment, quill and book on the table in front of the couch. Yeah, she could care less about her homework with him sitting next to her looking like a quidditch champion just coming off the pitch from a win.

Her rambling continued as he very gently… Ohhhh, so gently, fixed her sweater, which had fallen, exposing her shoulder. Grazing the skin ever so finely. Shivers ran up her spine, the hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention.

Matilda turned, putting her back to the arm of the couch, and her legs bent between her and Drago. A barrier, keeping him away from her… Or her away from him. At this moment, it was anyone's guess.

Absent-mindedly, she plucked a small leaf off his uniform that had wedged itself between the fabric and an arm pad, flicking it to the ground then wiping her hand over the spot a couple more times to make sure she got it all. The casual touch not even registering. It was something she would do for any of her friends. Familiar. Kind.

Matilda’s hair, while secured in a braid, was a mess of small pieces escaping around her face. Her sweater, again, fell a little, exposing her shoulder. Her socks, one pulled up to her shin, the other had fallen around her ankle. She was a picture of perfect disarray.

Matilda hugged her legs to her chest, while her toes poked Drago in the leg, the couch was small for two people. She bit her lip, looking at him before opening her mouth to talk. The air around them wasn’t filled with tension and loathing like it was at the beginning of the term. Now the tension was a charged chemistry. She could feel it in the air.

“So, Stalker, what were you doing tonight? Judging by the outfit I’m guessing there was a broom involved?” There was no animosity or anger in her voice, but a teasing jab with the new nickname. It was an appropriate moniker, since he seemed to always show up where she was and then scare her to death.

She said she could work on it, but didn’t. Instead, she placed her things on the table and turned, leaning against the armrest of the couch, legs drawn to her chest as though trying to ward him off. Keeping him an arm’s length away like she always did.

He never commented on it, only quietly took note. Metaphorically inching his way closer nonetheless, persistent and undeterred, simply by refusing to give way. Her toes poking into his leg were enough sign for him to remain. If she really didn’t want him here she wouldn’t touch him and she wouldn’t let him disturb her studying.

And she definitely wouldn’t pluck at his sweater, drawing his gaze for a moment, her hand brushing over the spot a few times as though straightening out creases he couldn’t see.

The juxtaposition slid a small smile onto his lips.

“So, Stalker, what were you doing tonight? Judging by the outfit I’m guessing there was a broom involved?”

His eyes fell back to her shoulder, exposed once more, lifting to her face a second later. “I was teaching Serik some manoeuvres,” Drago said, refraining from reaching over to pull her sleeve up again. “Work off energy. He gets into trouble otherwise.” One more reason to resent the school’s decision on Quidditch matters.

Now he had another thing to worry about.

A beat of silence passed as he crossed his arms. His legs spread a little wider and the one her toes rested against slid further over her foot. “I am no stalker,” he declared decidedly, still looking at her. “I am getting to know you and you are getting to know me. It is what you wanted, yes?”

That’s what she had said in the greenhouse. That’s what he’d been determined to do. Whatever it took to make her accept him as her future husband.

She didn’t need to, not really. What Lev had said was true and he knew that. In the end she didn’t have a choice anyway, their arrangement had been agreed upon and that was that.

Unlike Lev however, Drago cared for the type of marriage he would enter. He preferred his betrothed actually liked him — or at least tolerated him — before she became his wife. From what he could tell, Lev was a far way from reaching that with Liliya.

With a resolute nod, Drago moved on. “I am here to get to know you more.” He didn’t lose one second, bluntly barging on. “Why are you wearing men pants and too big sweater?”

“I was teaching Serik some manoeuvres. Work off energy. He gets into trouble otherwise.”

Tilly nodded, settling into the sofa as their conversation continued. “You can always send him to me in the greenhouse. Picking weeds for 8 hours will help keep him in line,” she laughed. He’d hate it, but that was the glory of the punishment. They never ran out of work in the greenhouse.

“I am here to get to know you more. Why are you wearing men pants and too big sweater?”

Matilda stared at him for a beat. Then another. Her brows slowly lifted. Smile slowly growing.

“These?” she asked, sounding vaguely shocked. Lifting the fabric away from her knee, she looked down at herself, suddenly reassessing the outfit. Honestly, she thought she looked perfectly cozy.

“These, are glorious.” She said, motioning down her leg. “First of all, they’re warm. Second, they’re comfortable. Third…” she held up a finger, “women’s sleepwear is horribly uncomfortable.” True, it was unconventional, but she didn’t care. Tilly shifted slightly, tucking one leg beneath herself as she settled more comfortably into the couch, braid sliding over her shoulder.

“And oversized jumpers are mandatory when studying. After a long day in uncomfortably tight clothing and heels, all I want is to get cozy in front of the fire, and that’s impossible in skirts and dresses.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you telling me you’ve never relaxed in soft pants and a sweater?” The corner of her mouth twitched. Ideas for his Christmas present started jumping into her head. He’d probably hate it, but she would force him to relax if it was the last thing she did.

“Also, I’m tired,” she admitted with a dramatic sigh, leaning farther into the armrest. “When I’m tired I become aggressively comfortable.” Her toes nudged lightly into his leg again before she caught herself doing it. not moving them away. Merlin. That was becoming a habit.

Blue eyes flicked toward him again, lingering briefly.

She did want to get to know him more. He was correct about that, so in a show of good faith, she decided to toss him a nugget of her history. “Also…” her voice softened just slightly, casual and quiet, “I like covering my legs.”

Her fingers briefly smoothed over the fabric absentmindedly.

“I have a scar on my leg. It’s hard to miss in skirts. I usually wear stockings to hide it, but after a long day, I just want to relax.” A small shrug followed, intentionally light. “Some days I don’t care. Other days I’d rather not have people stare.”

Before the moment could settle into something heavier, she pushed him a bit with her foot. “I told you something, tell me something about you.”

Drago listened to her reasoning, brow slightly creased in a concentrated effort to understand.

Warm made perfect sense. Women tended to get cold, he’d noticed that.

His knowledge on the comfortability of women’s sleepwear was rather limited however. As it was on heels, skirts or dresses. He hadn’t ever wondered about that either — the women he knew had never given him reason to believe their clothing might be uncomfortable after all, not in his presence anyway.

It was a rather strange concept to think about. Clothes were clothes. Men had theirs and women too. Uncomfortable or not, it wasn't something to ponder on, things just were.

“Are you telling me you’ve never relaxed in soft pants and a sweater?”

Drago gave a half hum, half grunt in response, gaze falling to where her toes disappeared under his thigh. He supposed he did, although ‘relaxing’ itself was somewhat of a stretch in any case. He had never considered her in the same attire as him though.

“Also, I’m tired. When I’m tired I become aggressively comfortable.”

It was so far from what he knew, it was difficult to grasp. How casual she was. Uncaring for what was normal. Once again he felt himself confronted with the contrast that was her habits born from a foreign upbringing, and the life he knew himself.

His eyes lifted back to hers, contemplative.

“Also…I like covering my legs.”

Another crease formed between his brows. Wasn’t that what she was supposed to do anyway?

But the explanation that followed cleared that confusion up within the same breath, and yet again his gaze lowered. This time to her legs, an almost overwhelming curiosity prickling beneath his skin, hands itching to slide the fabric of her pants up so he could see. A bit unsettling with the kind of intensity this urge announced itself.

The nudge of her foot drew his gaze back up.

"I told you something, tell me something about you.”

Drago shifted uncomfortably, fixing his eyes to the stack of homework on the table before him. He might have agreed to let her get to know him better but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it one bit. Anyway, he was running out of things to tell, there wasn't much more to him beyond boxing, Quidditch and his family.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted, looking back around. “You already know everything.” He nodded at her leg. “What got you the scar?”, he asked instead.

“I don’t know. You already know everything.” Tilly scoffed then snorted a laugh. The things she knew about him would barely fill up the first chapter of a book. Nope, she wanted the whole novel.

“That sir, is bullshit. I barely know anything. Lets see, what all have I learned…” She said, tapping her finger on her chin with a cheeky smile. “Your favorite color is dark blue, you like caviar, which I’ve never tried and honestly scares me a little. You like Jazz music, your secret is still safe with me on that one. You like quidditch, sparring and boxing and wake up at the most ungodly hours to run, no matter the weather. You like snow, are from Russia and you’ve told me about your family.” Matilda ticked off each thing on her fingers as she pawed through her memory. It wasn’t much.

Where he was closed like a vault, she was an open book. With every answer came with it a story, full of color and humor. They could not be more opposite.

Pushing on his leg with her foot, nudging him to drive her point home, Tilly got a bit more serious. “If this is going to work, I want to know you. Not just the one word answers to my silly twenty questions, but you. Not just that you love quidditch, but why? Is it the wind in your hair that makes it exciting?” She said teasingly. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you a pass today. I don’t need your entire life story tonight.”

The scar on her leg was another of those topics that her verbal filter would stay scarce. Showing the scar was a bit harder. When someone said they had a scar, an image was conjured in your head. Raised, maybe pink. Healed it would be more silvery, less noticeable. Her scar was highly noticeable.

Matilda looked down at her leg, rubbing her hand down to her ankle. Just that simple action brought back memories of the attack. The phantom pain and throbbing, still vivid in her memory.

“The summer before fourth year my grandfather took me and my friend Benji on a trip to the Amazon Rainforest. It was supposed to be a chance to study native plant life. Things we don’t have in England."

She stopped, still looking at her leg, lost in memories of the late night bonfires and long days hiking in the jungle. “It was pretty amazing, but there are parts of the jungle that are more magical, more dangerous. The local tribes ward off muggles, but we were there to observe and study. There is a plant. A vine. The locals called it Arms of the Devil. Appropriately named honestly.”

Just the thought made a shiver run through her body. Shaking her arms out a bit, suddenly restless, Tilly made eye contact for the next part. Wondering how he would take the news of her almost dying. “The vine feeds off magical energy. It sensed us in the area, I was closest. It wrapped around my leg and pulled me towards the host tree. The vine had barbed teeth all down the stem and leaves, it sunk into my leg and latched on. It typically leaches all the life and magic out of its victim. They saved me before that happened, but not before it sunk its teeth in. It injected me with a neurotoxin, causing convulsions, fever, hallucinations. I was in St Mungos for over a month. Unconscious for over a week. They wondered if I would make it for a few days. It left me with a very unique and large scar.”

Sighing, Matilda wondered if now was the time for the show portion of show and tell. It might make him run away screaming, which she realized, might be just the thing she needs. Might as well rip off the proverbial band-aid. If this did gross him out enough to run to daddy, this was definitely not meant to be.

Pushing down her sock, she brought the leg of her pajama pants up to her knee. The scar was a muted green color. Not as bright as when it first happened, but still very noticeable and very green. The scar wrapped around her calf, ending a few inches below her knee. It was clearly shaped like the vine that tried to end her life.

“The color has dulled a bit. I’m hopeful that in time it will be less noticeable. There are times when it still throbs, but overall it’s just a visual reminder now.”

She would wait to explain how she was left with the ability to feel the essence of plants. And even heal them. Tonight was already heavy enough.

Matilda’s head tilted to the side, eyeing the man sitting next to her, and wondered what was going on inside his head.

“That sir, is bullshit.”

Hadn’t she rambled right on, Drago might have actually scolded her. Instead, only a brief flicker of surprise crossed his face, her blunt choice of words quite unexpected, eyes blinking at her for a second.

Girls didn’t speak like this. Not even his younger brother was allowed to swear, let alone his sisters.

But she continued undeterredly, listing all the things she knew of him, apparently put to memory the moment he did tell her something about himself. Surprisingly, a smile tugged on his lips, followed by a nod when she finished her list. “Yes,” he said, waving a hand before crossing it back over his chest. “Like I said. You know everything.”

Her foot pushed into his leg, pulling his gaze there for a beat, her more serious tone dimming his smile back into neutrality.

Why did he like Quidditch?

His brows narrowed thoughtfully. He'd never questioned his reasons.

Before he could even begin to think about it though, Matilda was telling him about her scar and Quidditch was swept off his mind. His eyes didn’t leave her face as she spoke, watching the emotions playing out there, and then meeting her gaze when it lifted back up. Silent. He didn’t know what to say, it wasn’t the kind of story he had expected to hear.

Maybe an accident, as a child. Falling off somewhere, cutting skin on something sharp. Anything but a tropical, magic-sucking plant that had almost killed her. Nothing so impactful. For some reason it made him still.

Her hand moved to her leg then, pushing away fabric, revealing the leftover of that attack.

Drago's attention snapped downward, immediately fascinated. He’d never seen something like this before. His own body was littered with scars but none of them looked like hers.

Then again, he’d never been attacked by plants.

Without thinking he extended a hand, wrapped it around her ankle and pulled it closer. Until her foot rested against his farthermost thigh, allowing him to lean in and inspect the scar with the naturalness of a doctor examining a patient.

As though this wasn’t wildly intimate.

Only after a solid half minute of tracing the vine-like marking with eyes and fingers alike did he realize.

Where curiosity had briefly softened his features, awareness quickly tucked the feeling away, posture straightening. He carefully slid down the pant of her leg, avoiding her gaze but keeping her leg where it was, loosely grasped in his hands.

He still didn’t know what to say to all that, so instead he circled back.

“I like Quidditch because I’m good at it,” he admitted. The one thing he was better at than anyone else in his family. Even though it didn't mean anything to them, it meant a whole lot to him. “I like moving, feeling sore afterwards. I like to focus on exertion.”

His head turned to look at Matilda. “It feels nice.”

He didn’t have any other way to explain it.

Matilda forgot how to breathe. When his hand took her ankle, stretching her leg against his lap, her body went rigid.

When she told her story, the last thing she expected was for Drago to inspect her leg. Touching her skin while he looked over the intricate details of the green vine like scar.

Meanwhile, Matilda was approximately three seconds away from spontaneous combustion.

Her brain could not keep up with the feelings and thoughts running through her body.

His hands are warm. Why are his hands so warm?

Merlin, he’s touching my leg. Why am I letting him touch my leg? Why do I like it? NO, I don’t like it… But yes I do. Far more than I should. UGH.

Her stomach dropped somewhere near the dungeons. The butterflies that inhabited her belly taking flight through a tornado.

She knew, deep down, how inappropriate this must have looked. But she couldn’t seem to find it in her to care. Her eyes darted around the common room, looking for eyes that might be on them. Surely someone was watching them, his hand touching her skin, then holding her leg.

Actually, no. No one seemed to care.

Watching him trace the vine like scar, careful, curious, almost clinical. Not horrified. Not uncomfortable, no avoidance. She had expected him to run away in disgust. Call off the arrangement, send letters to his father to get them out of it immediately.

This wasn’t happening.

Something in her chest loosened unexpectedly. Almost happy with this new development. Something to keep her up at night later, overthinking and analysing.

When he finally seemed to realize what he was doing, posture straightening as he gently tugged her pant leg back into place, Matilda suddenly found herself fighting the urge to protest.

Which was ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous.

“I like Quidditch because I’m good at it.”

Oh, gotcha. The elephant in the room was going to be pushed in a closet for now. To be dissected at a later date.

“It feels nice.” Her mouth twitched.

“That is a very Gryffindor answer. Seems like the hat put you in the right house.” her voice was low, not wanting to break the bubble they were in.

Her eyes dropped briefly to where his hands still loosely held her leg before quickly flicking back to his face.

“I get the moving part.” Her fingers absentmindedly toyed with the edge of her sweater sleeve.
“The greenhouse does that for me. When my brain gets loud or everything feels…” she gestured vaguely, “…too much.”

“Digging in dirt helps. Taking care of something helps. Baking is the same. I imagine flying does that for you.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a second longer than intended.

“I think I’ll stick to the garden.” She chuckled. “Here’s something else for you to know about me. I hate heights. Full on panic. You won’t be catching me on a broom.”

It was getting late and she still hadn’t finished her assignment. Looking over at her book and parchment, not wanting to move, feeling entirely too comfortable, she took a leap, ignoring the blaring alarms in her head. Untucking her other leg from under his thigh, Tilly extended it out over Drago’s lap. Now both legs were resting across his lap.

Reaching out to grab her things, Matilda rested her book on her lap and the parchment angled so that Drago could see. As if this were the most normal thing in the world, she pointed at the question he said was wrong.

Clearing her throat, she asked “So this one is wrong?” Nerves clear in her question, a tremor could be heard as she tried to regain her composure. With every passing day, it was becoming increasingly difficult to pretend she hated him, when that was so far from the truth.

“That is a very Gryffindor answer. Seems like the hat put you in the right house.”

A small smile twitched over his lips and he hummed quietly, gaze lowering to her leg. He wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a good or a bad thing, this whole house concept was still confusing to him. They didn’t do this at Durmstrang. But to him, physical exercise had always been that — relief. If that made him a Gryffindor, he supposed he was fine with that.

“I get the moving part. The greenhouse does that for me. When my brain gets loud or everything feels…too much.”

His gaze found back to her face, another tiny drop of understanding putting another puzzle piece into place. The monotony of losing oneself in something. For him it was muscle strain, and for her it was gardening. He might never truly comprehend her choice of distraction, but at least he could understand her reasonings.

“Digging in dirt helps. Taking care of something helps. Baking is the same. I imagine flying does that for you.”

“Flying, and running, and boxing,” he added, half-grinning.

“I think I’ll stick to the garden. Here’s something else for you to know about me. I hate heights. Full on panic. You won’t be catching me on a broom.”

Drago snorted in amusement, fully grinning now. “We will see.”

Before he could threaten her with flying lessons, Matilda was suddenly moving, extending her other leg right across his lap to join the one already resting there. His hands lifted on automation, a little bit shocked, a little bit apprehensive.

For a beat he sat like that, as though afraid moving might scare her away again, or touching her legs might change her mind. He’d been surprised she hadn’t pulled her leg back the second he had begun to inspect her scar, or at the very least once he was done with that.

Finding her relaxing into his space was unexpected. Welcome though. Whatever he was doing seemed to be working.

As she grabbed her homework from the table, Drago lowered his hands, letting them come to rest atop her shins, lightly but relaxed. By the time she was angling her parchment for him to see, asking him about one of the questions, a small smirk had snuck his way onto his lips. He looked at her a moment longer, a spark of mischief dancing in his eyes, but decided not to say anything.

Slow. It’s what she’d said. He assumed that meant no teasing yet.

Eyes dropping to her writings he nodded. “Wrong, yes. This is backwards.”