A/N: Now, I never thought that I'd be writing some Dramione. However, this plot bunny just wouldn't leave me alone! I ended up having to write it anyway. So, please tell me how it is (I'm convinced that the only type of Dramione is unrequited from Draco's side) and whether it was good, bad, awesome, or horrifyingly awful. Hope you enjoy!
Change is an Untamed Flame
word prompts: fire, primrose, midnight
quote: "You are the answer to every prayer I've offered. You are a song, a dream, a whisper, and I don't know how I could have lived without you for as long as I have. I love you, (Allie), more than you can ever imagine. I always have, and I always will."- The Notebook
phrase: water and oil
He's changing.
He's changing, and he doesn't think that he likes it very much.
Sixteen years old, pride of the Malfoys, the apple of his parents' eyes, but he suddenly finds himself questioning—doubting—everything he's been told.
It's as if he's midnight. He's stuck in the middle, asking and wondering and questioning everything that he's been taught, everything his family stands for, not being able to belong on either side—he doesn't belong with morning, and he doesn't belong with night. He's stuck. He doesn't agree with Potter-the-Prat—he'd never do that—but he finds himself disagreeing with his parents. With what his parents tell him.
He doesn't like it one bit.
And it's all her fault, too. That annoying bushy-haired, buck-toothed, nerdy mudblood. If she wasn't in his life, he'd be happy.
He hates her bushy hair, hates her annoying know-it-all attitude, hates her intelligence, hates her passion, hates everything about her!
But most of all, he realizes, he hates that he can't lie to himself. Because after a while of hating her, he realizes that he doesn't hate her; he hates that he can't get her.
She's like fire. A subtle glance, a discreet look, a lingering gaze, and suddenly, his skin is stinging and tingling and singing with heat. He can't stop himself from wanting to talk to her, even if it means listening to her cutting, hurting remarks, and he can't stop insultingher either. Perhaps if he insults her enough times, he will start to believe those insults.
She consumes his thoughts, his mind, his soul, like an untamed flame. She is like a primrose—fragile, beautiful, and plastered with the annoying 'forget-me-not' label, because he can't forget her, no matter how much he tries. It's all about her, her, her.
About how he can't get her, her, her.
Because whenever she looks at him, it's with contempt and hatred and revulsion, and he can't help but wish that it was love. Whenever she talks to him, it's with disgust, with sneering remarks, and he can't help but wish that she would whisper soothingly into his ear. Whenever she touches him, it's a kick, a slap, a punch —he remembers Third Year quite well—and he can't help but wish that she was caressing him. Caressing him like a lover.
She's like an unreachable dream, an unheard whisper, an unsung song—just out of his reach. He doesn't know how he can live without her—why the hell does he feel the need to be with her all the bloody time? Why does it physically hurt to watch her so nearby yet a mere speck on the horizon?—but he does.
And he can't do anything about it, either. He's helpless—he's a coward.
For the first time, he wishes that he was a bit more Gryffindor. They're all about bravery and courage and all that bullshit, and he needs some of that right now. His family is completely comatose, the Dark Lord is completely cruel, and he is completely confused. And, of course, she's always occupying his mind, refusing to let him be.
He can really use some courage and bravery right about now.
Worst of all, though, is the fact that he can't control anything when it comes to her. He knows that they can never be, that this is completely pathetic, but he can't control the sky-rocketing pulse, the itch to touch her, the need to talk to her, the want to be with her. His body, his mind, everything regarding him is completely out-of-control when it comes to her, and he hates that.
He wants to be cold, calculating, ruthless, like a true Slytherin should be, but he's a mushy sack of pudding when it comes to her. He might as well be a bloody flower, a stupid primrose, because the petals of his will are so easily crushed.
An enduring stare from those passionate, fiery brown eyes, and all the Dark Lords and purebloods and family standings fly from his mind. All it takes is one. Damn. Look.
And then she's captured and being tortured in front of him, and he realizes that he loves her, he fucking loves her, and that just makes it all the worse. Because he knows that this isn't a passing type of love—he's not dim, though right now he sure as hell wishes he was—but this is the stupid, idiotic, lasting love, the type found in childish fairy tales. He loves her, has loved her for a while without realizing it, and he'll always love her; he knows that now, and he can't escape from that anymore.
She screams and he feels the pain, and he hears that stupid orange-haired weasel calling her name, and he forces himself to shove the lump down his throat and cram the tears back, because she'll never be his.
To make things even better, he knows that it can't be helped, that he'll always be stuck in this eternal pain—it hurts like hell, not being able to be with the one you care for, the one you love—because together, they're oil and water (he winces at how damn cliché and mediocre that sounds, but it's true—they're opposites, plain and simple). No matter how much he wants, they'll never be together—always skimming the surface of the other, unable to ever mix, unable to ever be one, because he's Draco Malfoy; seventeen years old, pride of the Malfoys, apple of his parents' eye. And she's Hermione Granger, the smartest, most beautiful, most amazing, most passionate, most annoying muggleborn he's ever known.
He's changing.
He's changing, but it doesn't bloody matter now, does it?