Onyx_and_Elm

You taste like fucking opium.

Draco Malfoy looks awful. As bad — no, worse, than she does. The war is not gone for him, either. And yes, it's comforting. It's despicably fucking comforting. Because even if it is him, it means she isn't a complete lunatic. It means she isn't the weakest out of all of them because she can't move on.

And for a moment, she's almost giddy.

Because Draco Malfoy's been ruined by this war and he's as out of place as she is and — yes, he has scars too. He's got an even bigger one.

She wonders whether one day they'll compare sizes.

I’d been so hoping I’d be ordered to kill her during the war. So hoping. (Fucking relax, yeah? I'm reformed.)

“You’re handsome and intelligent and I’m sure she liked you for that, too.” And when she looks back at him, she’s quite pleased with her summation.

Until she sees the look in his eyes and realizes just exactly what she said.

His look of surprise isn’t an obvious one — his lids aren’t blown wide and his mouth isn’t hanging open. It’s a deeper sort of surprise. One that’s detectable in the slight quiver in the muscles between his brows. In the flicker in his bottomless gaze. In the way his tongue dashes out of his mouth — nervously wets his lips.

She feels the blush fan out across her face like a wildfire, and she scrambles to remedy what she’s said. “I — I, well, you see, I meant — I meant that you’re attractive. No — not conventionally, uniquely. No — what? No. I just meant that you’re beautiful and I — oh, my god — what the fuck is — no. Malfoy. Draco. God. I — I just meant that I’ve always thought you’re—” and with a little shriek, she claps a hand over her mouth. Stops the runaway train that’s on bloody fire at this point.

What — in — god’s — name?

Now, Malfoy’s surprise is obvious. Now it’s written all over his face.

She freezes. Takes in a slow, steady breath. There’s a long silence.

And her voice is low and murderous when it finally comes out. “I’m going to kill him.”

It breaks Malfoy, briefly, from his daze. “Who?"

She yanks the jug off the table — smacks it against his arm as she does but doesn’t notice. And she holds it up to her nose. Inhales.

In the next instant, she throws it to the library floor, and it shatters with a satisfying, somehow deafening crash. “Fucking Seamus!” she screams. She whirls around — begins to step over the shards as the tell-tale scent of Veritaserum starts to waft up at them. “I’m going to—”

His hand is on her wrist, then. His alarmingly cold hand, and she doesn’t understand. In the next instant, he’s yanked her back. Turned her back around with a sharp tug and his other hand is suddenly molded against her cheek and it’s just as cold and the words are ripped out of her throat and he’s—

He’s there.

His lips are on hers. His frozen, frosted lips. Against hers. Leeching the warmth out of them. Cold like stone. Unmoving. Just his mouth, folded over hers, waiting there.

Her pulse seems to panic. Stutters to a halt, then desperately tries to start up again. Beats too fast.

Malfoy’s mouth is on hers. He’s — he’s not quite kissing her, but he’s there. He’s right there, and it’s not kissing. Not quite, not yet, but—

It’s her gasp that does it. Opens her mouth for him.

And then he’s kissing her.

And he makes this sound. This quiet, little, soft sort of — she doesn’t know what it is. Not a gasp, not a groan. Something subtle, something that’s a mix between the two.

He runs a hand through his disheveled hair — did she do that? Straightens his tie and untucks his shirtfront. Drags it down over — oh.

“I liked it better when you just punched me,” he says. “Much more to the point.”

Out the corner of her eye, she sees Malfoy’s stare — like the barrel of a gun.