Draco eyed the fruit. His final nemesis, his arch enemy, his best friend. Harry came and went. Voldemort had lived and died. But the apple always, always returned.
He almost wondered what to do with it. It was a tragic relationship, he and his apples. For they always ended in heartbreak. A naked core, a stomach moaning for another bite. Savoring it was, of course, the wiser option. But was it the most amusing? He did not know. Trial and error, that was how romance with a fruit worked. That was the only way he knew.
Perhaps if the apple could talk, she would present some ideas of her own. Whether Draco would take them into consideration or not, he did not know. But every time he ate, the apple remained silent. That was that. Indeed, maybe it was this reticence that set apples apart.
Draco lifted the thing up. She was cool, smooth in his hands. His mouth hung open, a terribly slight proclamation of his lust. When he could simply resist it no more, he brought it to his lips. Draco sunk his teeth into the crisp flesh with a certain passion. This was always his favorite part.
Juice flooded into his tongue, the apple's main contribution, as always. He moaned a little, bringing the fruit so close that it bombarded his mouth, his far-too-small mouth.
People were unpredictable, utterly mutable, not to be trusted. "You'll always be there for me," he breathed into his love. The flavor of it was as magnificent as his first time, and Draco was squirming in his seat for another bite, again and again. He was horrified to see it trickling down, the figure thinning. Was it ironic, he thought, that some men were disappointed in their respective women becoming plump over time? And yet he felt he was the one in the right.
Draco's eyes snapped open, his breath caught in his throat when he realized the inevitable. Oh, yes. His teeth had struck something hard. The core, the blasted core, marking the so swiftly approaching end of his love. Perhaps he should slow down, make it last, but these thoughts were far back in his mind. Too far, most definitely, to be acknowledged by his tongue, his teeth, his hands, his ravenous stomach. He turned the apple, twisting it a full 180°. This gave him the illusion that their time left together was not short. He ate it up, quite literally.
A few moments of unadulterated bliss, but then he was back to his former depression. Knowing it to be too early to stop completely, Draco licked the still-flavorful core with all the passion he had had moments earlier. This part of the session happened every time too. It was his way of showing his loyalty.
This went on for minutes or hours, he wasn't sure. But eventually his lust faded, just a tiny bit, and he simply gazed at the core with sad eyes. It had been warped out of its shape in his passion— broken, but still beautiful. It was over now, and he supposed he would be forced to return to normal life. Draco heaved a sigh and lifted the apple gingerly. He cradled it in his palms and walked with undeniable purpose to the other corner of his room. He carefully set his now-gone love down among the others. The smell of the fermenting build-up did not faze him. He knew that someone would notice someday, but all the better. He wouldn't— couldn't hide his overwhelming feelings. Draco gazed, his eyes prickling. This was it, until the next time.
"Good-bye, my love."