His Last Sickle
A/N: Written for the OSS Drabble Challenge at The DG Forum.
Sentence is taken from Post #17 of the OSS Thread, belonging to rowan-greenleaf:
Draco observed the icicles that had formed on the window ledge, his thoughts on the envelope that lay in his pocket, the one he had yet to open; he would bet his last sickle she'd said 'no'.
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Draco observed the icicles that had formed on the window ledge, his thoughts on the envelope that lay in his pocket, the one he had yet to open; he would bet his last sickle she'd said 'no'. The scene he watched with detached interested was a bleak one, the snow covered lawns of the Manor grounds huddled under an oppressive sky.
He sighed, the tired sound seeming to come from the very bottom of his world weary soul. Leaning his forehead against the cool glass, Draco let his fingers slip into his pocket, lightly caressing the crisp edges of the creamy parchment.
Draco cast his mind back to the letter he had sent her first; he was not the most articulate when it came to expressing his feelings, but he had tried! What could Potter offer her, really? Unfailing loyalty, happy Weasley dinners with no tension...? Draco's scowled, cutting off the list before it could grow into its monstrous length.
Where was the justice? Draco had sacrificed everything he had ever been taught to stand for; he'd renounced Voldemort before the end, he'd defied his father – his own father! – and for what? For a red headed, patriotic, temperamental Gryffindor; that's what.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Draco breathed deeply. Bracing himself for the inevitable, he withdrew the letter from his pocket, pale fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the wax seal.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't bear the thought of her telling him 'no'.
He hadn't really paid any attention to the soft click of the door opening, but when the subtle hints of a rather distinctive floral perfume started to permeate the air, he froze. Hands clenched into a white-knuckled grip, Draco turned slowly, not daring to hope.
She smiled softly, reaching forward to push a few wayward strands of hair off his face.
"You didn't read my letter," she said; it wasn't a question. He quirked an eyebrow, the question unsaid. "Yes."
It was a good job he wasn't down to his last sickle.
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A/N: See, I am capable of not making everything into an angst fest! Do be a darling and leave a review, they're always appreciated and often gushed over. This will continue to be my posting place for any little drabbles I do courtesy of the Forum. Not Beta'd, so sorry for any SPaG issues!
WishfulWhispers