I.
he's not hers.
"Leave me alone," he hisses icily, trying to freeze the warm feeling his heart he feels when she's near. He glances at his older, better, prettier, wife and she swears his vanilla-scented xenophobia is getting to him again.
"Never," the smirk lies on her cherry-painted lips that contrasts with her ivory-painted skin. Her cerulean eyes look up at him while he wonders what makes her so fiery.
His face turns red from frustration and the sparks (because they're burning together) and he roughly grabs her wrist, painting inky black on the canvas of her skin, to pull her outside in the chill.
"What do you want from me?" his voice makes cobwebs in the november air and she shivers in the thin shawl that is the only thing protecting her from the onslaught of the wind.
A silence hangs over them, while she refuses to look at him, instead examining the enchanted petunias and carnations in the garden. Her ruby nails dig into her sensitive palms as her fists clench and unclench from agitation.
"Well, what is it? You seemed so determined back there, so say it," his rapid breath, bordering on hyperventilation, begins to slow as he realizes there's nothing to be afraid of now.
"You used to be mine, Draco," her tears pour like rain on her cheeks. She can't believe she's just said that.
"Not anymore," his eyes struggle to not rain, too.
He turns away and leaves her staring curiously at her dark bruises on her alabaster wrist while her eyes rain harder and harder.