It was safe to say that Dracon had been looking forward to the holidays. While he liked Hogwarts and treated it as his second home, there was something about Cardiff that always brought him back home. It could have been the fact that he would be seeing his parents again for the first time since his seventh year began. Perhaps in a perfect world, that would be his most valuable treasure in Cardiff – his purpose for coming home. Things in the Towler home had been tense, to say the least, since Dracon had started Hogwarts. When he was a boy, some of his fondest memories were of the broom shop his family owned, helping his father clean the displays or polish the older stock. After Dracon had changed, when his desire for the proper pureblood lifestyle consumed him, his parents had trouble relating to this boy who shared their home. Dracon’s parents were a loving couple, doing what they loved and paid no mind to what others said about them. They were proud of their little flat and their shop. Dracon always wanted more. He needed more than a dingy little broom shop in the poor part of town, more than a two bedroom flat in the city, and more respect for who he was then he received. Sometimes they wondered what they did wrong with him. This holiday would be the same as every holiday before. The three would share a small dinner cooked by his mother, they would work in the shop, and he’d received his Christmas present. At least over the summer, during the annual Sweden broom race, they shared some bonding experiences. They still went, as they had every year since he was four years old, and even during these troubled times the family managed to find comfort in each other’s company.

This, however, was not the summer.

Perhaps it was the city of Cardiff itself that made Dracon enjoy his visits home. It was certainly something to marvel at. The tall and fantastic architecture, the comfort of being with other Welsh, and the familiar places he had come to know as the backdrop of his entire life. He could admit to himself that he missed Wales, especially Cardiff. The small wizarding community was comprised of pureblood families, mainly old Welsh lines that hardly gave the Towlers a passing glance. They had their hands in every matter at the city hall. Nothing slipped by them without approving it first, except the University of Wales – that was quite the shock to the community. Despite these families and their constant, hovering presence everywhere he went, Dracon liked to visit his favorite haunts. The first thing he did when he arrived after he came home from London was stop at Ollerton’s which served his favorite Welsh meals with a little wizarding twist (ex: seed cakes with canary cream, speckled bread with cauldron paste). It had seemed like he had been gone so long and no matter how many times he went and came back from Hogwarts, the relief of seeing the Welsh landscape, or the scent of the harbor never ceased to please him.

It could be any of these reasons why Dracon looked forward to the holidays. Even the young man himself didn’t understand and thoughtlessly chalked it up to a break from school work that he so desperately needed. It certainly wasn’t Maeve Whitman, which he was fairly positive of. Maeve had been his oldest friend. They met at a young age, before the wealth mattered, before status had mattered, and instantly were inseparable. There was seldom a place in Cardiff they had not been, even some of the seedier places when they were older (under his constant protection) and spent their childhood in each other’s company. Holidays were always an unspoken tradition to the two of them; they were something that they shared with each other. As he had almost every year since they met, Dracon would see her today. The Whitman’s family home wasn’t far outside of Cardiff. They lived just on the city limits, where the country meets the capital. He liked walking and was used to the long walks through the city and around Hogwarts. Dracon appreciated the exercise. It was cold outside, which was entirely normal for this time of year, and had the boy dressed for warmth. A heavy wool coat was kept snuggly closed around him to keep out any of the winter chill, a simple scarf hung around his neck and that alone was enough. It wasn’t windy that day, which he was thankful for, so he only felt minor bites to his nose and ears. It was only a half an hour, maybe a little longer, to her home. Dracon knew the way as well as he knew the staircases of Hogwarts. It was a road he had taken for years. He thought about very little on his way there, keeping himself mainly entertained with trying to avoid snow drifts and spots of black ice. At least once he attempted to exhale so much hot air that it appeared like his head was in the cloud, and once more to try and better his exhaling-of-hot-air-to-make-little-clouds into an art form.

Maeve’s home was impressive, to say the least. Especially as a boy he had been awestruck in the sheer magnitude. He had to of asked his childhood friend at least ten times if she truly lived in such a place. She had simply giggled, as she always did, and reply sweetly, “yes, Dracon. Of course, where else would I live if not there?” He hadn’t really had a good answer for that. He had just assumed it was a normal house, like his, but not smashed up against other people’s houses. Of course, he didn’t dare say that and expose his limited background. Maeve had never seen his house, and he planned to keep it that way. She had never seen the shop either, which he would damn sure keep it that way. He crunched through freshly laid snow to the stone bench that laid almost an acre or so away from her front door. The boy pulled a gloved hand from his pocket and brushed off a good foot of snow from the seat before sitting down and replacing his hand into its former, and much warmer, place.

He watched the door for a few minutes before it cracked open. A pretty blonde, with long wavy hair and fair skin, stepped outside and shut the door behind her. Dracon tried to resist the smile that crept on his lips, but just as the snow comes whether it’s wanted or not, the smile was as inevitable.

Maeve's Home

The Whitman home, Ceinwen Plas, was always a bustle of activity during the  holiday season. Despite various schisms in the pureblood family, most of the members seemed to be able to put aside any differences they had for the sake of attending the annual gathering at the ancestral home. Even with the passage of time, the Whitmans remained rooted in a patriarchal mindset. Which meant that Ceinwen had been passed down to the oldest son of every generation. It was still too early to tell the future of the home in the present generation and the changing ethos of the present, but several Whitmans not in the running were placing bets on who would win out. So far, Maeve was the odds on favorite to become the eventual head of the family, no matter who she eventually married. She just was that much more domineering than her siblings and was intent on taking whatever she wanted.

What many did not know was that the reason Maeve wanted Ceinwen was not because it was an immense home indicative of the wealth and status that the Whitmans had. No, she wanted it because it held sentimental value. She truly adored the home. Every inch of it. And she would love nothing more than to care for it for always. Even the gardens and rolling lush acreage, as long as someone else was intent on getting their hands dirty.

Presently, the eldest child of Jos and Eloise Whitman was about to head out on said acreage to meet with her childhood friend and current Hogwart's classmate, Dracon Towler. She made certain to dress warmly because she did not know how long she would be out in the snowy weather and she had a small package tucked under her arm as she headed towards the back entrance.

The hallway led past the open door to her father's study and seeing that she was dressed to go out, he called, "Where are you off to, Mae?"

Maeve paused and peeked her head back in. "Oh...hey daddy. I was just going to spend the day with Dracon. He's waiting at the Gazebo."

Joshua Whitman stood and advanced towards his daughter, shoving his hands in his pockets. He wouldn't come right out and say that he didn't approve of the boy but his mannerisms alone spoke volumes about his concerns for her. The Whitmans generally married well. That meant both in bloodline and in wealth or prestige. While Dracon met the former criterion, his background left him severely lacking in the latter.

Luckily, though from meager means, the Towler boy had always treated his daughter with the utmost respect. And in the process, had become one of Maeve's dearest friends. So in that sense, Jos could not dislike him completely. This compelled him to say, "You know, Maeve. You don't have to go out to spend time with Dracon. You can invite him in."

His daughter did not say anything at first in response to that as she tried to find the right words for what she wanted to express. After an awkward silence, she decided to be as honest possible. "You know that makes him uncomfortable, Daddy." Hastily, she stepped up on tiptoes and planted a kiss on her father's cheek. "Tell mum that I'll be back for supper."

But he wasn't going to let her off that easily. Jos pointed to the package under her arm. "What's that?"

Maeve glanced down at it before responding with a bit of shyness, "Oh, it's his gift. You know how we always exchange them every year...." This was met with a raise of the brow. Jos was about to ask about Callum when Maeve took the lull in the dialog as an opportunity to bolt for the door with a wave. "Bye-eee!"

The blonde began to trudge through the snow covered back lawns to a structure off in the distance--the aforementioned gazebo. As she closed in on it, she spotted someone sitting on the bench and her pulse quickened with excitement.

She covered the last few paces with her blonde hair streaking behind her and once inside, she flopped down next to him. Flashing him a smile of her own, she leaned in to embrace him. "Happy Holidays, Dracon!"

It was a fact around Hogwarts that Maeve was beautiful. It was just as much an obvious statement as the sky being blue. Maeve deserved her own chapter in Hogwarts: A History for being so much a part of the common knowledge. Dracon had never met anyone who truthfully, strife aside, thought she wasn’t attractive. Of course, even as a young girl, Maeve had been angelic. She could do no wrong and even as she stomped her feet, Maeve always looked so pretty. He had been the opposite. An awkward sort of boy, with long arms and legs that foreshadowed his current appearance, had left the young Dracon looking like a reflection in a fun house mirror. Then again, he figured he must have been exceptionally charming because the young Maeve had shared her first kiss with him. Dracon watched the grown up girl he had known since he was seven years old approach him. Her long blonde hair waved in the slight breeze that passed over them, and long legs and torso stepped briskly towards him. Maeve had become a woman since they began school. She had blossomed and turned from a little girl with dirty knees (which she always hated) to what Dracon was staring at before him. Maeve was a woman made of sleek design and her long legs that stretched for a mile were hard not for a seventeen year old boy not to notice. Maeve flopped down next to him on the hard stone bench and turned her head to face him. He smiled slightly as she beamed at him. The girl wrapped her arms around his neck and lightly hugged him.

"Happy Holidays, Dracon!"

Dracon used one arm, for it was all that was required given the size difference, to wrap around her shoulders and pull her close. “Good tuh see yee, Maeve,” he said as they embraced each other. She fit perfectly against him and for a moment, Dracon missed being a boy when he was able to get away with touching Maeve any time he pleased. They would hold hands, hug, and eventually kiss. Of course, all this affection had been Maeve’s idea, since boys weren’t exactly known for being the loving gender, but he didn’t mind it. She liked to pretend they were married and having babies, Dracon liked to pretend she was held capture by a dragon and would eat her if Dracon didn’t kill him.

Usually, they played “house”.

They broke apart and looked at each other. Dracon saw something out of the corner of his eye that contrasted with the color of her coat and looked down. In her hands sat a neatly wrapped little box, equipped with a colorful bow tied on top. Dracon had always felt embarrassed when it came to gift exchange with anyone, especially girls. He didn’t have much money and what he did have he made during the summer working in the shop with his parents. Dracon, unlike everyone else he knew, had to save his money and watch his spending. Aside from coming back to Wales, Christmas was a complete pain in the arse. He forced a small smile and looked up at her again. The young man spoke in a obviously playful voice, even going as far to bring his hand to his chin and rub it thoughtful, “ ‘an who could that be for?” Dracon’s hazel eyes glinted as he eyed the girl suspiciously, unable to completely mask the smile on his face. It was hard not to smile when Maeve was looking at him that way – any way, really.

She was good looking.

Inside, truthfully, the entire “gift thing”, made him a little uneasy.

Maeve would never admit that she had been avoiding her childhood friend of late. She would never admit that she was keeping her distance--both physically and emotionally--from him. And she certainly would never admit that Dracon Towler held a special power over her that both worried and intimidated the young woman.

It worried her because with any other male in her life, including her father, she had always been able to play them to her whim without much remorse. But not Dracon. In the years they had spent together, he had certainly endured enough of her spoiled vanity and conceit to last a lifetime. But he had done so admirably and often to the point where it shamed her into feeling guilty about her behavior, something few others could evoke. He had managed to gain her sympathy and he had also managed to gain a certain amount of affection and openness from her that few others were able to experience. She let down her guard around him. He knew her in ways that no one else did and still accepted her for them. All of this meant that she would always have her delicate weaknesses in danger of being exposed when around him. That was all well and good when they didn't have an audience of Hogwarts classmates watching.

Dracon's "power" over her was also intimidating in the sense that they were far from the little girl and boy who chased each other through the woods or pretended to have tea together. Long gone were the awkward teens who shared their first kiss and talked for hours while looking up at the stars at night.

Dracon had always had an abundance of compliments for her and she had accepted them all with her pleased smiles. She may not have showered him with the same verbal praise, but there had always been a part of her that was drawn to him. His awkwardness had been replaced by good looks that were quite dangerous for any female to be around. It had been years since they had last shared a kiss and they had changed so much since. She would be lying if she had never thought about what his kisses might feel like now.

She always enjoyed his hugs, mainly because he had always seemed to envelope her in them, providing a sense of protection from everything else in the world. But his size now made her feel quite tiny by comparison and she wasn't one to accept being the inferior one.

Still, after the hug came to its natural end, she straightened her posture next to him and glanced down at the gift in her hand. She shook it a bit, revealing that it made no sound whatsoever and watched his face, her own with an expression of amusement. "Hmm...I wonder...I think it has the name of this guy I used to know written all over it..." A brow arched up and she held out the package to him. "Know where I could find him? Would love to give him this little....token here..."

Maeve got the small box a rattle and no sound came from it except the swishing of the bow on top. He arched an eyebrow as his smile widened. She thought she was just so cute, Dracon thought as he watched her. Which she was, but she knew it and that was dangerous to a man’s health. He wondered what she could have gotten him this year. Typically, their presents were more sentimental and special to only each other. He always felt uncomfortable, especially as a small boy, when Maeve could do things with her wealth that he could not. It made him feel inferior and that was a feeling he simply couldn’t stand. He remembered the first time they had exchanged gifts and she had bought him something rather large and expensive (which later he had broke) and Dracon could still remember standing there, awkwardly shifting from one foot to another. He hadn’t wanted to pull out his present after she gave him hers. Eventually, she had forced him and the young Maeve looked so shocked to find him holding out a box of Bertie-Bott’s Every Flavor Beans and a crude drawing of a hippogriff fighting a dragon. Dracon had never been so embarrassed. Ever since then, Maeve had only purchased little things or made something for him, which was almost worse. Not that he didn’t like her new presents better, but his inadequacy had forced her to take pity on his situation. Normally, he would’ve had told her such, but he did prefer the new style of presents so the boy said nothing.

"Hmm...I wonder...I think it has the name of this guy I used to know written all over it. Know where I could find him? Would love to give him this little....token here...""

“Is that so?” Dracon said simply with a feign look of surprise. She extended her arm to him and Dracon took the box. “Not gonna’ explode on me, is it?” He asked as he turned the box over in his hand, looking it over. Dracon put his hand into his coat and pulled out a wrinkled bundle of wrapping paper which obviously contained some sort of cloth or fabric material. It was light, and flopped in his hands easily as he handed it over to her.

To be honest, as much as he looked forward to seeing Maeve and coming home, he had forgot until the last minute about the exchange. Dracon had been so busy before he left Hogwarts that he never took the time to think of what to get her. It had crossed his mind in the earlier weeks but he always put it off, placing practicing a spell, or getting in some practice with Alexander, or writing up his schedule for dueling club. To him, despite his general likable personality, Dracon placed his own well-being and needs above others, usually not intentionally, but there were sometimes unintentionally casualties. Maeve didn’t need to know he forgot though. He had got lucky he had found his present just before he left and threw on some of his mother’s old wrapping paper that they had had since the after-Christmas sale last year. It was a good choice though, at least as good as any he would have otherwise picked.

He knew she wouldn’t remember what it was or why he was giving it to her.

The story would be a second, miniature present – a gift of an old memory she had forgotten.

“Go on,” he encouraged her with a nod of his head, “lasses first.”

She was a giddier, more carefree, I-don't-have-to-worry-about-perfection Maeve whenever she was around Dracon. Well, at least that was how she felt in the times when they weren't intent on being serious. Or fighting. His history with her afforded him with the knowledge and ability to make her feel safe when she dared to expose her vulnerabilities. But knowing each other so well also made it an easy endeavor to push each other's buttons. They knew what to say to each other to cause the most damage and these days it was hard to know if a topic could set them off in a stormy rage, hurling insults and hurtful words with barely a consideration as to the long term ramifications.

For now, Maeve was content to be happy spending this time with him and she was hopeful that the holiday spirit would prevent the meeting from going sour. She was genuinely excited to see his reaction to the gift she had for him as it was full of sentimental value, rather than it being an expensive gift. Maeve certainly felt that Dracon was worthy of a costly gift and if she thought he would appreciate that type of lavish affection from her, she would have invested time and energy into items like clothes to compliment his handsome features, a top-of-the-line broom that any pro Quidditch player would be envious to have, or even an all expenses expedition to study his beloved Dragons in person.

Maeve had indulged in none of those options because she knew he begrudgingly accept them, if at all. She wanted to avoid strife between them, especially during the holidays which often brought back such positive memories for her. And one such positive memory was contained within the package she handed over to him. She laughed lightly and assured him, "Of course it won't explode on you. Why would I want to ruin how pretty you look?"

She smirked at her teasing words and then gingerly accepted his gift for her. A younger, more impatient Maeve would have demanded that she go first, but Maeve set the item on her lap and folded her hands over top of it, content with the idea that she would watch him open her gift first.

But at his urging that she should start, a small flush came over her fair cheeks and she quietly relented. "Oh, iawn*."

She carefully opened the gift, something that was also unusual for her as in the past she had no qualms about tearing it open to get to the contents inside. She pulled back the paper and glanced over the fabric within. Her fingers lightly grazed it for a moment before she pulled it completely from the confines of the wrapping to see it fully. After a moment of not realizing the significance and feeling frustrated because of it, she raised quizzical eyes to his face. In Welsh, she asked, "beth yw hwn**?"

*alright
**what is this?

It was a physical piece of a memory, the only lasting piece of that day together. It was one of his clearest memories of being a boy and he had shared it with Maeve. He had been eight years old and had worn his favorite red shirt with a black dragon on the front. Maeve and him had been playing in the woods nearby, like they always did, and had ventured farther than they normally did. Dracon was a bold boy, like many little boys at this age, and felt as though if anything happened, it wasn’t anything a good jab with a pointed stick couldn’t fix. Maeve had a blonde haired doll, with big ringlet curls and a dress made from silk. She went everywhere with her doll. The doll, named Sofia-Anne, was usually her sister in their games of saving the princess from the fiery monster, or their baby when it came to house. The doll was his charge as much as Maeve, mainly because of how much she loved it. Dracon had been confident and was running through the trees, jumping over boulders and bouncing off toadstools. He’d duck a tree branch and slide over a small hill before stopping to make sure Maeve was following him. His father told him about a small ravine that ripped through the middle of the forest and to stay away from it. That, of course, was exactly where Dracon was heading. He wanted to show Maeve. By the time he stopped near the ravine, Maeve was running as fast as she could in her little pink dress. The girl’s fair cheeks were red and breath was heavy and panting, and little Sofia-Anne tucked under her arm. Dracon turned his head and looked over, in total awe of the sight, and he heard a little scream from Maeve. He spun around in time to see Maeve trip over a tree root and Sofia-Anne’s little plush body sail towards the edge.

Maeve picked her head up and gasped when the doll’s silk dress was caught on a tree branch, which just so happened dangled over the ravine. Dracon looked up and watched the doll hang limply, her dress torn but holding on for dear life. One look at Maeve and Dracon was scrambling up the tree branches. Maeve ran to the trunk and called up to him to save Sofia-Anne, and that was what he planned on doing. As eight year olds, life was a very long game with far too little simulation and this had been his chance to be a real hero. However, the farther he got off the ground and as he shakingly looked down at the distant face of Maeve, he started to wonder if he was doing the right thing. Dracon used his arms to lift himself on to the branch. He tried to avoid looking down at the ground, or more frightenly, the ravine. Using his legs, he crawled on the branch and grabbed the doll. There was relief, until he started to climb down. Hovering over top of ground and not the ravine was only a little less frightening. He stepped down one branch at a time, trying to look as brave as possible, and kept a tight hold on Sofia-Anne. He took another step, only about ten feet off the ground now, and that’s when he slipped off the branch and sank like a stone to Earth. Dracon gave a shout and clutched to the trunk, trying to stop himself from the inevitable decline. His face hit the trunk as he slid down it, his legs kicking rapidly to try and find another branch to step on to.

He fell right on his bottom.

First, he was sliding down a tree in a panic and the next he knew, he was sitting upright on the forest floor staring up at Maeve. His face was sore and his cheek and nose had several little cuts from the branches smacking him on the way down. What hurt the most was his chest, and when Dracon looked down at his shirt, he found that his shirt was tore apart. There was hardly a dragon to be seen on the front, just a pair of ripped wings and floating feet with talons. Just as he was about to cry, Maeve scooped up her doll and almost tackled him to the ground with the biggest (and only) kiss he ever had.

“It’s from when Ah fell out of that tree,” he said, looking at Maeve. He wondered if she remembered. Dracon nodded at the shirt, “that’s the shirt Ah had on when Ah fell, remember? I got all cut up.” And they kissed, but he didn’t feel the need to say that to her.

A soft smile formed on Maeve's lips after Dracon reminded her of the fabric's significance and the memory began to slowly return. It was the sweetest of memories and as with most of the ones between the two of them, it seemed to always paint Dracon in the more pleasing light. She had been just as an insufferable child as she was now an insufferable  near-adult. Dracon's efforts to keep her happy and safe whenever possible had always been commendable, even when those efforts often got in the way of his own adventurous, boyish pursuits.

Maeve was surprised at how vivid the details of the memory were, but Maeve remembered trying to keep up with Dracon on his quest, and needing to shift Sofia-Anne to various different positions so that she could have a better opportunity to do so. The young Maeve had had the makings of an athlete if she had ever wanted to--with long legs that made for lengthy, balletic strides--but she hadn't wanted to be athletic. She had wanted to be glamorous like her mother, grandmother and aunts. She had wanted to emulate their style and be decked out in dresses and shoes and have her long, blonde hair done up real pretty.

Being glamorous did not fit well when playing outside. But Maeve had been stubborn and had refused to change into "play clothes" to suit the occasion. And so, she had trudged off after Dracon in her pretty pink dress and her pristine patent leather shoes. She was feeling triumphant in her ability to do so until she had tripped. At first, her ego had been hurt at the thought that her outfit had failed her, but almost as quickly as she bemoaned that, her woes turned to what had happened to her beloved doll.

After scrambling to her feet, Maeve had watched Dracon climb up after the doll with wide eyes and had cringed with every branch higher he had gone. Even though she entreated him to save the doll, she had truly been more fearful of his fate than Sofia-Anne's. But Dracon had always succeeded in the past and she fully believed he would do so now.

When he had fallen to the ground, it had left her in shock.  "Oh Dracon!" She had exclaimed and she had rushed to his side. Once she saw that he seemed to be fine (albeit a little battered) and after retrieving Sofia-Anne, she had thrown her arms around him and proceeded to thank him.

"Yes, I remember," the older Maeve admitted softly. Her slender fingers traced the outline of the severed dragon wings and considered how much the shirt had meant to him. It was on her tongue to refuse it, to let him keep it because of that meaning, but she knew that kind of rejection would be more painful than not having the shirt. Finally raising her eyes to his, she told him, "Sofia-Anne will like having this as a blanket or a scarf." Maeve left out the fact that the doll was now a forgotten object that sat on a shelf, more for decoration and remembrance. Chances were high that relegating the gift to the aforementioned fate would mean it would become a forgotten object too. She didn't play with dolls anymore and for the longest time had been of the mindset that it was better to look to the future than to look to the past.

Briefly, Maeve considered incorporating the shirt remains into her own wardrobe, but she didn't think it would gain anything but ridicule by any of the fashionista women in her family. Sadly, it seemed to be a prophetic reminder of Dracon's own place within her life from the beginning.

The Whitmans, particularly her branch had descended from the oldest son within the family, had always been snobbish about their place within society. Three things had always been drilled into Maeve from a young age. She would marry a pureblood. She would marry someone rich. And she would marry someone who had a respectable position in society with nary a blemish to their name. The Whtmans were the epitome of high class and public service and they were intent on maintaining that.

Unfortunately, while Dracon was from a pureblood family, many of the Whitmans had always been skeptical about  his ability to meet the other two criteria that would make them a good match. Their prejudice had eventually needled its way into her own thinking, which had explained the reason why nothing more than kisses and innocent touching had ever happened between she and Dracon.

Pushing those negative thoughts aside, Maeve flashed Dracon a brilliant smile and clapped her hands. "Okay, now it's your turn." She could hardly contain her excitement and would have opened the gift for him herself if given the chance.

She had wrapped the present herself but had been reserved in doing so. She knew it needed no embellishment. The item very different from what he had given her but no less memorable. It was a picture. One she had not taken and one she would never have known existed unless her Aunt Julie hadn't pulled out her photo albums earlier in the holiday break when Maeve had visited London.

Julie Whitman had always been fond of Dracon and had loved seeing the two together in their youth, recognizing the bond that existed and lamenting how it would likely be crushed by the Whitman legacy, just as her own romance to a less than perfect suitor had been. Julie, who was now an Obliviator, had been a budding amateur photographer in her younger days and spent many a gathering at Ceinwen Plas making her rounds and snapping shots for prosperity.

Maeve's tenth birthday had been a lavish affair attended by family members, friends of the family, and those her family knew from work and in society. It could have been boring and uncomfortable for anyone, but clearly it had been more so for someone like Dracon. Julie had come across Maeve sitting with the boy on Ceinwen's immense staircase when everyone else had been partaking in tea.

The picture she had snapped captured an unusually sensitive Maeve comforting a brooding Dracon. Maeve sat close to him, her arm laced through his and her head resting on his shoulder and her face was tilted upwards to see Dracon's face. No one else would have heard her, but Maeve remembered pleading for him to not go home, even though she knew he wanted to leave. It had been been followed by her best pouty face and that was the moment lens had managed to preserve.

Gently nudging Dracon, Maeve insisted, "Go on. Open it! Before we both catch our death in this cold."

"Go on. Open it! Before we both catch our death in this cold."

Dracon’s fingers started pulling at the bow and simultaneously tearing at the top of the wrapping paper. His mother would have been disappointed in him not saving the wrapping paper, but she wasn’t around and he thought that was the clear mark of a person of limited means. Dracon would never have told his mother that, however, so the tradition still existed in his house. It felt kind of good being able to just rip into the paper for once and to hell with the consequences. There was a small white box underneath the wrapping paper and Dracon popped it opened to find a, what appeared to be anyways, thin piece of paper. His brow furrowed as he reached into the box to pull it out, slightly confused the reasoning behind a piece of blank paper. Had this been a corner of the first letter she wrote him? Perhaps a fresh piece of dull colored parchment from the first stack of parchment she used in their first class together? Or maybe she thought he just needed a new piece of parchment. It wasn’t until he picked it up that the underbelly of it caught his eye, a side detailed with moving pictures. He turned it over and took a moment to let everything sink in.

Dracon had a poor short term memory, but his long term was excellent. It was more of a curse than a blessing. He was forced to remember every cruel thing the other pureblood children had said to him, forced to remember the whipping he took when he was little from two third year students before he even was old enough to buy his own wand. He remembered all the dirty looks and the shaking of heads when his family walked through the elegant district of Cardiff. He always wondered when he was little how these people he never met knew who he even was. When Dracon got older, he learned that every decent pureblood knew every single other pureblood name, at least in their city. It opened opportunities for marriages and business. The Towlers were on the do-not-talk-to list, apparently, and were treated as such. Even Maeve’s family didn’t like him very much, especially her mother. He did remember this photograph. At first, he hadn’t recognized himself. Dracon was obviously distressed, and he remembered all the horrible thoughts that had gone through his head when he sat there on that bench as Maeve begged him to stay. He had to sneak out of his parents’ flat to go to that party, the never would’ve let him if he asked. After he arrived, everyone looked at him as if he was an alien, or some muggleborn party crasher. He was only a boy but Dracon became the center of their latest gossip.

He wanted to leave, badly. Dracon had wanted to run home to his parents and exist only in his little room in the city. Part of him had been humiliated, and the other part, the stronger and larger part, was simply angry. What right did they have to treat him this way? Why did he not deserve the same respect, the same treatment as all the other pureblooods received? Why? Maeve had been there all along, laying her head on his shoulder and pleading with him to stay with her. The next time he saw her family was when he overheard her mother saying he didn’t belong around Maeve. He had never been so angry in his life. Dracon went home and somehow, during his rage, Maeve’s expensive present she had bought him one Christmas ended up smashed on the floor. They didn’t talk again after that for a long time. At least, not until they started going to school together.

Dracon still liked this picture, for more than one reason. It not only renewed his ambition and reminded him why he worked so hard and what he had left to accomplish, and not only was it a gift from Maeve in general, but he also remembered that when everyone else at that party turned up their noses at him, Maeve was the only one who wanted him to stay. She had defended him, in her own way, against the rest and while the older and mature Dracon needed no protection or defense, the little boy in the picture needed someone. He looked up at Maeve and smiled thoughtfully, speaking with a quieter voice, “thank you, Maeve. ‘dis brings back a lot of memories.” Dracon looked down at the picture again, the images of a young boy and girl moving slightly as Maeve’s little mouth moved in a silent plea, Dracon’s eyes staring through the dirt Earth into an unseen void.

He put the photo into his pocket and slapped his hands down on his thighs, rubbing them for a second and looking around. It was time to change the subject. Dracon voice spoke a little louder with more energy, hoping to change the mood, “Well, shall we go on a wee walk then? Just up and around da lake, like old times.”

Part of Maeve knew that the gift she had given to him would conjure both good and bad memories at the same time. But then, their entire lives had been composed of that dichotomy. A never ending string of good and bad which if one stopped long enough to take inventory would be enough to induce exhaustion. Even in times when it seemed she and Dracon started to enjoy one another, something swooped in to snatch that happiness away. In this one area of her life, Maeve Whitman had learned not to expect too much.

The truth was quite simple but one easily brushed away in favor of all the lies that looked better in the annals of her family's history. The weight of memories contained within their two gifts was enough to support the conclusion that Maeve had loved Dracon Towler for more than half of  her life.

Unfortunately, in her world, love would never be enough.

It is what it is because of the way things were, Maeve silently intoned. She could never admit that she wished things could be different between them. She would never admit that she was jealous of what he had with her cousin, Liviana. Livi had a freedom that Maeve could never afford. The idea of indulging in Dracon was never appealing because the end product would always be the same.

Maeve jumped at the chance to leave the bittersweet memories of the past behind. She enthusiastically embraced his suggestion to go for a stroll. "Yes, lets!" She rose from the bench and reached out to take his hand, a gesture that had become a perfectly natural thing over the years. She never gave it a second thought. Never stopped to consider that there might ever be a time when it would no longer be an acceptable thing to do. She gently tugged Dracon to his feet and headed out of the little gazebo.

They were met with the bustling breeze, which caused Maeve to emit a playful little shriek. Her eyes sought out the trail heading towards the woods and she set off towards. Since Dracon's hand was held firmly in hers, he had no choice but to follow.

Of course, she was fully aware that he towered over her and had the strength of a trained athlete. He could have easily refused and she would not have been able to budge him. Hoping to soften up his resolve to want to take the lead, she decided to engage him in conversation. "So, do you have any plans for the rest of break? You know, besides plotting out how to conquer the world?"