{ 016 } - { video }
[Once again, Draco is out in the snow - something that seems to be a newly discovered habit of his, despite how often he'll complain about the cold. At the moment, however, the cold seems to be the farthest thing from his mind, judging by the almost tortured expression on his visage: fury, indignation, misery, and a strange flicker of longing for something that isn't here. But his voice is forcibly even, save for the hitch in it when he first attempts to speak.]
You - you sodding gods, how did you get this?
[And he brandishes a rather worn looking piece of parchment - a letter, written in a beautiful cursive script. It's only visible just long enough that the words "My precious dragon" can be made out, and then he's lowering it again. He looks as if he wants to rip it, crush it, but at the same time, he could never imagine doing such a thing, not when this is all he has of his mother in this world.]
I burned it, I don't...
[But words fail him, and after a moment of staring brokenly between the parchment and communicator, he turns the latter off.]
You - you sodding gods, how did you get this?
[And he brandishes a rather worn looking piece of parchment - a letter, written in a beautiful cursive script. It's only visible just long enough that the words "My precious dragon" can be made out, and then he's lowering it again. He looks as if he wants to rip it, crush it, but at the same time, he could never imagine doing such a thing, not when this is all he has of his mother in this world.]
I burned it, I don't...
[But words fail him, and after a moment of staring brokenly between the parchment and communicator, he turns the latter off.]