I can read, kind of! Private Draven Mirador Closed

Draven's mind was blissfully quiet as he sat draped across the bleachers of the quidditch field. The seats were uncomfortable, so he'd opted for the stairs instead. A cup of hot chocolate and a paper straw slowly turning to mush inside said cup sat beside him. The chilly December air hugged Draven, kissing his pale skin red. The tips of his fingers were numb with the cold as he flipped through his book, eyes half closed against the sun's glint. The great lake was just visible in the distance, from the hight of the bleachers, shining like a mirror. It's surface was still as death, undisturbed even by the slightest breeze.

Draven looked up at it occasionally. His dorm was situated underneath the lake. He wasn't used to seeing above the water, where all was clean and quiet and still. Underneath the lake's surface reigned a forest of kelp and strange creatures. Merfolk with bulbous eyes and webbed fingers, the giant squid that liked to slam its tentacles against the windows just hard enough to freak out Slytherins passing by unsuspectingly. Fish, tiny crabs, and strange plants - some glowed in the dark. A particular weed had taken root right underneath Draven's window and decided to fill the room with light like a beacon. He wanted to open the window and rip it out, but alas, the Slytherin dorm windows hadn't ever been opened.

Draven blinked, looking down at his book. His eyes had been passing across the words, but he hadn't understood a single one, reading them almost on autopilot. He'd practically memorized Robinson Crusoe, but it still felt rude. Draven furrowed his brow, looking back to the page he'd just finished, determined to read it right. It had been far too long since he'd been able to sit in peace and read a book. A good book, especially.

Good books were hard to find, especially in the muggle world. Not because they didn't exist, but because Draven didn't know who the good authors were and had no one to recommend them to him—nor time to read them, nor money to buy books.

He sighed, realizing his mind had once again skipped over the page.

Sliding his finger between the book's pages, the boy reached over to the cup of hot chocolate, taking a sip. A particularly brutal gust of wind rifled through the boy's hair. Since that first year girl had re-cut it, the weird patches where he'd messed it up himself had disappeared. The buzz had allowed his hair to grow back in, full and dark. It reached almost past his ears now, his mother's curls and his father's dark locks springing back to life.

He liked the scarf, too.

Draven's fingers picked at it. He'd gotten it as a Saint Nick's present from his mum. A strangely thoughtful gift from her, that, if Draven didn't know better, would have said was the work of some boyfriend or other. She'd had good boyfriends. One in particular, Draven had liked. He was a tall man, built like a mountain. Spoke softly and checked in with him whenever he was around. Draven missed the man, strangely.

"Hi there" A bright, chirpy voice spoke up from behind Draven. The boy startled, hitting his elbow against the bleachers in his haste to turn around. "Merlin," he groaned, cradling his arm. "I didn't even hear you coming."

The boy was young and curly haired, with dark brown eyes and a dimpled smile that shone in the sunlight. A dam broke as soon as Draven looked in his direction, words spilling cheerfully out of him. "Wow-" he said, shaking his head as if he could make the boy slow down. Was he rushing somewhere? "Wait. It's early and I'm stupid." Draven sighed, "Slower, por favor mi amigo¹."

Setting the book down, Draven pulled off the paper cup he'd stacked underneath the original one, to shield against the heat, and halved the remaining hot chocolate, handing the boy the steaming liquid. "Okay. Respira². Breathe."
₁please, my friend. ²breathe.

He hadn't meant to scare him, truly, but as the Slytherin hit his elbow on the back of the bleachers and let out a curse Dean had heard one too many times at home, he knew he'd messed up, a little. His smile went funny, a little crooked around the edges. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, uncertainty ringing in his head. He couldn't quite read the Slytherin's mood on his face and now that he was close, he could see just how much older he was. Not too old, of course, just a little bit but Dean felt an ounce of intimidation run its course over his spine. And yet, he shuffled closer.

Something was warm in the Slytherin's voice. Almost inviting. Despite his earlier tangent, he hadn't been asked to leave or to rush off to do kid things. The Hufflepuff's natural curiosity rekindled as he observed him. There was something intriguing about the older boy, a depth that Dean couldn't quite put his finger on but desperately wanted to understand. He glanced at the book in Draven's hands again, then back at the Slytherin's face, looking for signs of annoyance or disinterest. Finding none, Dean's smile returned, a bit more cautious this time but still genuine.

His eyes shifted to the godly cup of hot chocolate graciously coming his way and suddenly, everything was forgotten. His grin reappeared, shining like a thousand suns. He grasped at it very gently, as if it were a baby bird, mumbling a small 'thank you' before bringing it to his lips, the steam warming his face, carrying with it the rich aroma of cocoa. The first sip was a symphony of flavors – the deep, velvety chocolate blending harmoniously with the sweetness of sugar and the creaminess of milk. It felt like a warm embrace, spreading through his body, chasing away the morning chill. His eyes closed for a moment, savoring the taste, and in that instant, the bustling sound of birds and life faded into a quiet background.

Remade, Dean plopped down next to his new appointed friend. "Sorry! Thank you!" he said, taking another sip of the liquid, his happiness eroding off his skin. He, at last, shifted his gaze to the Slytherin once more, all smiles. "It's so good! Honestly, the best chef in the whole world must have made this because it's like, so good," he said, before his mind slowly focused on the book the boy was holding on his lap. "Right! Yeah sorry, I speak a lot! Honestly, that's just how I am. I don't know how to slow down but I'll try," he started, before a focused look took hold of his face. "This is one of my mom's favourite books," Dean began, his words coming out a little slower, drawn out. "I didn't know you could get some here!"

He nodded, as if proud of himself for this feat he'd just achieved. "My mom is a librarian and she has a lot of books," he continued. "And you speak another language! That's so cool! Where did you learn it? How did you learn it? Honestly I've tried before in school, like French and all of that but it's so hard and I can't get the hang of it because like you know all the ways you have to say things differently and even all the words you have to learn that's honestly so much work." His words began to regain their usual speed, his hands moving as he spoke, the hot chocolate splashing around in it's cup, a little unhappily so.

"I mean, how do you even keep all those words in your head?" Dean continued, his curiosity about the boy's language skills shining through his rapidly spoken words. "It's like magic, isn't it? But different, more like... brain magic!" He chuckled at his own description, a twinkle in his eye.

Dean took another sip of the hot chocolate, this time more mindful of the splashing. His gaze drifted back to the book, a flash of his mother's shelves in their home. "My mom has that book and a lot like it too! Like there's this book she wanted me to read, and I said I did but I didn't, it's called Hatchet by this guy named Brian and it's about this boy right who ends up on an island on his own and I read like three pages and got so sad so I just stopped because I was scared he wouldn't get rescued you know he was like my age, I mean that's kind of scary right?"

Your writing is so good! Makes me wanna eat it

"More like the slave labor in the basement," Draven said, his voice holding a note of irony. It was funny how wizards treated everyone but themselves. During the 90s, a short-lived attempt to get house elves better working conditions and pay had been born. It fizzled out as soon as the young witch, Granger something or other, lost interest.

Draven shook his head, taking a sip of hot chocolate. It had turned sour in his mouth as he thought of the kitchen. Hot and cluttered, so full of elves, there was barely room to throw a needle. If he'd been less fortunate, he could have ended up somewhere like that. Up to his elbows in dirty dishwater, lightheaded from the noise and the claustrophobic air. With a tight expression on his face, Draven set the cup aside.

Instead of working, he got to enjoy the sunlight and cool breeze. And the rambling of a first year, who still hadn't run out of air. Merlin.

"You can get pretty much anything here," Draven said. "Just gotta know where to look." Usually, 'know where to look' entailed a trip to the kitchen and some puppy eyes. Not that Draven had ever done that. No sir.

Draven leaned back up in his spot as the kid talked, fidgeting with the scarf. It matched his jacket, a modest black thing tailored to accommodate growth spurts. They'd begun earlier that year and hadn't stopped. The buttons on it were real nice too - silver, his boss had made sure of it. "You wear silver, don't you?" the old man asked while they picked out his new wardrobe. Draven hadn't felt more worthy to be alive than in that moment. You wear silver, don't you.

"My mom's Spanish," Draven said, surprising himself. "She refused to speak English with me." He'd been given a 'phone' and 'Google Translate', and told to either learn or drown. He'd chosen to drown and then begun drowning and realized it was a stupid hill to die on.

The phone was still in his pocket. Dead, having long run out of battery. As painful as the little device was, it held the world's knowledge. Maps, and a calculator, 'Google', which held the answers to every question he'd ever had. A wonder of muggle ingenuity. He carried it around everywhere, despite the cracked, unresponsive screen.

Speaking of his pocket- a black foot had begun to emerge from underneath the jacket. It stretched artistically. Draven could have sworn he heard a pleased yawn come from his pocket as Deimos peaked out and started making a beeline for the first year.

"Ay," Draven exclaimed, gingerly picking up the spider who intended to give Draven's new companion a heart attack. "Why is it always first years," he demanded, firmly putting the critter far from the kid.

"Sorry. He's decided to act like a four year old, for some reason." He side-eyed the spider, who'd dove headfirst into Draven's unattended cup of hot chocolate and was lapping up at it happily. Merlin.

"Your mom likes Robinson Crusoe?" Draven asked distractedly. The boy was a tornado of words, sentences spilling out of him faster than water from a waterfall. He made Draven's head spin in a good way, though. It was nice, having all available space filled with cheerful words. They pushed out the somber thoughts that crowded around the second year's head, elbowed their way into his life, and demanded he paid attention.

"I did the same thing with 20 thousand leagues under the sea," he said. "It sounded so boring, so I just read a book description and then shot it back out when my father quizzed me on it."

He held up the book he'd been reading. "I just keep rereading this. It's my favorite thing, I swear-" From the other side of the quidditch pitch, the first players were coming out for practice. Draven squinted at them, a shiver running over him at the memory of those practices. He'd been part of the quidditch team once upon a time. Never again.

"Why are you out and about at six in the morning anyway," the older student asked sagely, turning towards his companion. Tall words coming from him, but Draven survived solely on spite and sugar. Neither of those things demanded a good sleep schedule. Plus his roommate was a certain student who could be found awake at all hours of the night. They made each other worse.

Dean paused for a very split second at the mention of slaves, his brain turning over itself to understand why exactly that had been mentioned. When he came up with nothing, he moved along, making a slight mental note to ask later, to whoever wanted to speak with him a little more.

His mouth shut, for once, a still, curved line. His smile remained as his newfound friend spoke. Dean did his very best to listen and to focus. The cold air was biting at his cheeks a little so, for one last sip, he brought the hot chocolate to his mouth and drank it all at once, feeling its warmth fill his body with comfort. That was when he spotted it, a weird-looking thing slowly digging out of the Slytherin's clothes. His eyes widening, Dean froze as a spider made it's way to him. He wasn't scared of bugs, spiders included, but he hadn't expected to see one waltz out of a boy's jacket like that, as if it was its home. His eyes slowly slid to the Slytherin and, at his words, he relaxed. "You have a spider? That's actually so cool! How come? How do you get one? What's it like?" he asked, his tone joyful. "Can I touch him? Do they like pets?" he continued, a gloved finger already dancing in the air towards the creature.

At the mention of his mother, he paused, his eyes sparkling. "You keep reading it? Is it because you have no other ones to read? My mom could send you some, you know? She has a lot of books and as long as you give them back, she wouldn't mind lending you some," he hummed proudly. His eyes followed the other boy's own and they widened at the sight of quidditch players walking confidently onto the pitch. He leaned in, already absorbed. "I wanted to see them! I've always wanted to play but it honestly seems a little scary, I might just go for broom racing or maybe the duel stuff; Are you in either of those? Do you know anything about them?" he asked, his voice tinged with a mix of awe and a hint of apprehension. The prospect of engaging in such activities thrilled him, yet the idea of quidditch brought a thrill of fear - a thrilling combination that made this place all the more magical to him.

Absolutely captivated by the Quidditch players, Dean's eyes followed their every move with an intense curiosity. He watched them mount their brooms, the fluidity of their motions painting a picture of confidence and skill. The way they soared into the air, almost dancing with the wind, ignited a flicker of longing in Dean's heart. He imagined himself up there, feeling the rush of air against his face, the exhilarating freedom of flying. It was a thrilling thought, but one tinged with a hint of nervousness at the prospect of being so high up and moving so fast. Dean's mind danced with images of himself darting through the air on a broomstick, or deftly casting spells in a duel. A dumb, childish smile flashed across his face and he turned to his friend. "I'm Dean, by the way! Saunders. Dean Saunders, at your service," he giggled, faking a bow.

The funny feeling of earning a friend made Dean's heart thud and he grinned from ear to ear, almost shining under the dim sunlight. "Draven," he repeated softly, as if carving the word into his brain forever. His name sounded fancy, almost expensive and he couldn't help but feel respect for it. It didn't ring a bell -not much did in his life- but nonetheless.

Leaning back, Dean let his legs sprawl out in front of him in a slight stretch. When Draven mentioned his past position on his house's Quidditch team, the Hufflepuff's eyes smacked open and he straightened up all at once. "You used to be on the team?" he asked, his gaze doing a long plunge to the field and back to his friend. "No way. Was it not good? Did you win any matches? That's my dream. I want to be like the best Quidditch player ever. I applied for my team but it's full at the moment and that's just such a bummer! It's so cool that you got to do that," he rambled before deflating like a balloon.

He'd grown up watching Quidditch with his dad. It had been one of the first things they'd bonded over and he knew it'd mean a lot to his father for him to enter the team, someday.

Little paws on his arm made him jump ever so lightly and, pulled from his thoughts, he watched with pure adoration as Draven's little spider waddled on his skin. It was surprisingly soft, fluffy hairs all over and with a tentative look, Dean touched his little head, giving him little scratches. "That's amazing," he said, completely taken. He'd always loved animals but this was next level. Not once had he ever thought of petting a spider and yet, there he was. Hogwarts really did wonders.

His eyes drifted back to Draven and he sighed a little. "Yeah, it sucks," he hummed. He'd tried to peruse the library in his free time but the lack of the books his mother loved made him edge from the place in big, side steps. He wasn't used to witchy literature and he didn't exactly want to get into it. "My mom had me leave with a few books, if you want to borrow them? I don't know if they'll be your style though. Mom sends me a few through the post when she can and I send mine back with an owl. You just gotta coax the bird with treats if the book's heavy," he giggled.

Pulling his hand away, he straightened his arm as the little spider crawled up to his neck. Tickled, Dean couldn't hold back a soft laugh. With gentle care, he propped his scarf up to shield the animal from the wind, keeping him warm and toasty. "Right? Plus, I feel like they're...redu- red- redan- redun- redundant," he added. "Like it's always the same stories. And I don't know, I feel like our world is behind. I get why we don't need technology but there are so many things that have been the same for ages. Muggles are always doing new stuff and trying things out. I went to school with them all my life and it's crazy how we rely so much on our wands for like everything," Dean explained, kicking his legs back and forth under his seat. He didn't know why it all came out of him suddenly but he felt like just maybe Draven could understand what he was saying. He loved magic, truly, but he felt a little uneased with the way things remained the same in this world.

"I had to leave school before I could play any matches," Draven laughed, pushing himself to his feet. "My dad got sick. Needed someone to care for him."

Wiping his clothes down of any dust that could have gathered since he'd last- done the repetitive, grounding sort of motion, Draven turned back to glance at the kid. "I sucked though." His laugh was little more than a snicker. "I joined because the Duelling Club was full. I thought that if I practiced enough, I'd be able to at least do something extracurricular. You know?"

"Turns out-" with a flourish, Draven gestured towards himself. "I was not built for sports. Or magic. Or anything- really." Leaning down, the second year gave his companion a pat. Merlin. "You look like you have potential though. Some real potential."

Extending his hand, Draven waited for Deimos to crawl in his palm. He deposited the spider carefully back in his pocket. "You'll get there."

"And the thing about the wands-" His eyes wondered back to the field. The quidditch players were getting into formation now, flying fast and low. "It is crazy. We spend so much time with this- this unlimited source of power at our fingertips. We build our entire- lives. Around it. You know? But you take it away and guess what-"

The older student straightened up. "We're nothing. Without our wands. And we mock muggles for learning to get by without them. Isn't that funny? How we prance about, knowing that one tiny stick breaking will result in our whole life being turned upside down?"

"It's terrifying to me." He blinked. The other boy was there, still looking at him. Draven swallowed hard. He sounded like a raving lunatic, off on a tangent about something only he could see.

"I'm sorry," He said. "For all that. I get- caught. In my thoughts. Sometimes."

Giving the boy a small smile, Draven slipped past him. Taking his leave. "I hope you make it," he told the kid, before he got too far. "I really. Really hope you make it."