just don't kiss and tell
by mistsplash
Malfoys are supposed to be cold—colder than ice. It's written in that handy-dandy little How-To-Be-A-Malfoy handbook, which consists of two pages: each page harboring an ohsovery sacred rule.
Childhood memories through and through—so yeah, he may have played by the rules back then, but things are different now; he's different now.
Besides, aren't rules only meant to be broken?
The first rule is trashed easily, without even regarding his choice in the matter. He, somehow, gets sorted into Gryffindor.
Not Slytherin—not Slytherin—I'm not in Slytherin—the chant whirs through his head, perplexing him at first, but then lulling him into a sincere sense of goodness. He can't place it, not exactly, but—
—it feels nice.
Her blood's not pure—she's a half-blood, for crying out loud—merlin, why am I doing this?—what will father say—why do I even care what he says?
And he kisses her. It's chaste and plain and dreadfully boring, but it's the most he can come up with lest he throws up.
When he pulls back, he's not so sure what to expect. She's a Weasley, after all, and they didn't have the best of history, but he decides it was worth it.
Her eyes are a mask of confusion—nothing more, nothing less.
And it makes him ache, deeper than he thinks possible, but it hurts. It hurts a bit too much.
"Sorry," he mumbles, trying not to let her see that he's gone an ugly shade of beetroot, but that's hard considering his too-pale complexion. "Won't happen again."
He waits for her to cry out, to hold him, to say that she had enjoyed it, but instead, she only nods (and she's still looking rather perplexed) and says, simply, "Okay."
The melodramatic wound in his chest rips further, and he mutters a quick goodnight before rushing back to his dormitory, trying desperately to keep a check on his damned emotions.
Perhaps this is why he isn't a Slytherin.
Author's Notes:
Written in late 2009. *ignores the fail-ness of this ficlet*