Title: So He Watches
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Characters, etc. are not mine. Only the plot is.
Author/Artist notes:Thanks to snapshotty for beta-ing! This was written for xladyhopex in dmhgficexchange. :)
Draco Malfoy is seventeen when he is lost.
Seventeen is a difficult age; still, he is a child at such years, but he is expected to do adult things, and be one like them.There he stands, hidden in the shadows of the room, with all the rest, watching as Aunt Bella plays with Potter's Mudblood. So that he may learn, his aunt says, because he is still too weak and will probably be too much like his father. So that he may understand, his aunt says, why the Dark Lord should be glorified.
So he watches, keeping silent while the others laugh. Aunt Bella harms the girl; she screams just as soon as the spell hits her, and turns over to her side in pain. The others cheer, and Aunt Bella's face is contorted with maniacal joy. The Mudblood is hit with another jet of light, and this time, she bleeds.
Come and look, Draco, and see how filthy her blood is, his aunt says. And so he obeys, the child that he is in this gathering of the old.
When he comes beside her, Aunt Bella runs her wand against his wrist. He winces; she has cut him. Drops of blood fall to the carpet, and he steps back, suddenly afraid. Aunt Bella's shrill laughter echoes in the dimness. His blood has been caught on her wand, and she licks it off.
This is pure blood. Yours, mine. Hers contaminates our world. Never let her like touch you.
He says nothing in reply, but cradles his bleeding wrist. He stares at it, the paleness of his skin and the darkness of the rich, pure blood—and then he sees it.
He sees the red stain their carpet, and Granger's fingers tainted with it. He sees the cuts on her arms, her complexion so unnaturally pale—and he is horrified. For in the flicker of the flames, in the shifting of the shadows, suddenly it all looks the same, her blood and his.
And when he brings himself to look at her, he is ashamed and helpless. There lies the tortured Mudblood, and he is nothing but the child who watches.
ooo
Mudblood.
The familiar word rolls of his tongue easily, but this time he means it and wishes she would die. She stands before him, angry and defiant, and he hates the way she looks at him as if he were the scum, not she. For it reminds him of their blood, the way it had looked, dark and too much alike on the carpet at his home.
He grips her tightly, his fingers almost crushing her thin arms. So that she remembers, he wants to say, that he is still superior. So that she learns, he says silently, that nothing has changed. So that he does not forget, he tells himself, that he hates her and that their world was at war because of filth like her. Despite her pained expression, she glares at him.
I'm not afraid of you, you coward, Granger hisses. Clear-cut in her eyes is something he envies; here is the Mudblood, with something he could never have and he resents her all the more.
His mouth is on hers before anything else could be said. His hands travel from her arms, to her face, fisting, finally, through her hair, in the way Weasley had done it just hours before. In the darkness, he is not afraid, no, because he could do this and live to tell that he had tasted her,tainted his lips with hers and licked her blood with his tongue. He is not afraid, no, because he could do this and hurt her because he had kissed her and she is supposed to be Weasley's.
But it is then when he kisses her, that he is intoxicated. When he is pushed away, there is nothing for him to do but watch her disappear. He has not expected any of this, and when he licks his lips and remembers her taste, he is lost.
ooo
When he lies beside her, she yearns for his warmth. But he does not give it to her, and instead turns to his side to look the other way. Her small, cold hands come from behind, running over his arms, his chest; he shudders at her touch.
Draco.
His name never sounded sweeter. She says it, sensually, in a voice that wins him over, and compels him to face her. When he does, she smiles, fondly, and reaches out to touch his face. Grey eyes watch as she sighs in content; when she looks back at him, brown eyes disturbingly familiar, he frowns. They are so much like hers.
ooo
Crimson has always been her color, and tonight, she wears it well—too well. Tonight is for the heroes, a celebration for the honorable, and Draco, for all he is worth, does not belong. It is her party, their party, and he does not know why he has bothered to come.
She is alone when he finds her. She is sipping white wine, stirring the glass with her fingers, licking her lips to savor its taste. And he, remembering many, many things, is entranced. As he studies her, his mind is clouded with memories of Aunt Bella, of blood-stained carpets, of ringing laughter. He remembers this girl in a vicious world that was mending, and tonight, she is a different woman. For all that she has gone through, he is glad—Aunt Bella had not broken her.
She looks perfect, unreal in the night. She is innocence tainted; her dress, the color of rich, pure blood, fiercely contrasts the paleness of her skin. In the darkness, when she is bathed with nothing but shadows, she is beautiful.
And he, tempted to touch her, watches.
ooo
He runs his fingers over her arm, lightly, gently; the scars are not there, not anymore, and he frowns.
What is the matter? She speaks in a voice that is too high, too soft. But he does not answer, and instead, he, lying beside her, plays with her hair. It is not as bushy as he remembers, not as wild as it was when he had first kissed her. It is absent of its curls, and he stops and turns away.
There on the bedside table is The Daily Prophet, a wedded couple on the cover, and her name in glaring, black letters.
Mudblood. He mutters it under his breath, hatefully, angrily, as if he were betrayed.
Small hands snake around his waist, and he is disgusted. He pries them off and sits up, cradling his head within his hands. When he glances at her, the same familiar eyes look back—and it is painful, he realizes that this is not she. Those hands are not hers, and her hair, fanning beautifully across her pillow, is deathly black. Her skin is smooth, her arms are absent of the scars. But her eyes—brown, muddy—are misty with affection for him, filled with an almost loving intensity that was always lacking from hers.
The Mudblood was married today, and he, tearing the front page of the Prophet, did not come to watch.
ooo
Draco Malfoy is thirty-six when he learns to look away.
Pale eyes leave sight of the brown-haired woman in the distance, and he, impassive, looks on as his son begins to board the train.
ooo