Her hand lies mere centimeters from his own. It seems luminescent in the dim lighting though it is bare. He studies it for a moment unwilling to meet her eyes. It is long fingered, thin wristed and delicate. Hands that could be mistaken for a whimsical artist save the short neatly clipped nails and economic movements.
Her legs brush his occasionally, innocently. He tenses up trying his best to keep own from making contact with hers.
He strains his head backward so it is uncomfortably pressed against the hard surface of the wall allowing for maximum space between them. But still her breath fans out slightly on his face.
He doesn't have to look up to know that if he leaned forward ever so slightly they would knock heads or even kiss. But the latter is unthinkable because of light beams and frost and all that.
She sighs and he feels it on his face, stiflingly warm. He slowly and reluctantly raises his head and his eyes to hers. To prove to her (and himself) that he was not affected that way by her. Her eyes are sparkling with something other than tears. Maybe it was sadness. Or happiness. Or even frustration.
But not expectancy of course.
A large part of him wants to respond to that something other than expectancy.
To reach out for her hand. To lean forward and meet her lips with his.
To open his mouth and tell her everything he'd been bottling up, compartmentalizing and desperately mis-analysing.
Or even to simply return that look of (possible but not likely) expectancy.
Instead he settles for not touching her, or talking to her and not quite looking at her.
He studiously examines the vase of roses which occupies half the table. Her face is a creamy blur beyond it.
"Why?" through the corner of his eye he can see her pinky smudge of a mouth move and her fresh breath is cool on his face.
He takes a moment to compose himself, to suppress the urge to simply blurt everything. He blinks twice to focus on her face once more. The expression on her face both compels him and repels him.
"What?" he asks, swallowing.
He can hear a voice in his head, shouting at him to give up this façade. Another voice shouts equally strongly, warning him against it. They blend into one and he is so confused.
He's not sure if what he's hearing is his usually absent conscience arguing with the ever-present demon within him. Or if it was his inner martyr, which had been long suppressed by his inner tyrant, deciding to play up. Or whether he was just plain schizophrenic.
She exhales loudly. His hair is blown into his eyes. "Don't pretend you don't know. You're ignoring me and avoiding me like I were-"
"A bore?" he finishes. "Because dearest, you are." He mocks with ease, the tenderness in his voice not quite feigned.
She glares at him. "There is no progression with you, is there? If we go one step forward you go back five."
"Or did 'we'," exaggerated air quotes, "ever go anywhere." She is silent.
"Come on. Don't take these things so seriously. It scares me."
"Normal, civil human interaction frightens you?" she makes an impatient noise. "There you go again. Skirting around the real issue."
He takes a deep leisurely swig of the drink on the table. She smells of something pleasantly floral and pure.
He breathes shallowly through his mouth to stop himself from inhaling deeply. She starts tapping her foot, obviously annoyed. He tenses his leg closer to himself.
"The real issue, you were saying?"
"Yes. The real issue. Do I have to spell it out to you?"
"Please do."
"You are incorrigible."
"Go on. Don't be so coy. It's extremely unbecoming and unnatural."
She sighs, her features wrought with mingled frustration and confusion. "Ron. He proposed to me."
He is not shocked. He was shocked yesterday. When his new 'buddy' had stabbed him in the back and bloody twisted the knife too. He knows it is his last chance now, to ensure happiness his miserable life. And possibly ensure misery, in hers.
"I know good old Ronald Bilius," he snickers "is going to marry you. What does it have to do with me?" he says.
Her mouth forms a slight "O". He can see hurt in her eyes. He feels painful unease in an area between his heart and stomach. He's heard heartache is supposed to be some type of psychological pain that manifests physically in the heart but he's not so sure. Her eyes glitter with tears and he is overcome with an urge to stab himself with his used plastic fork. Damn his inner masochist. And damn his unusually absent inner sadist.
"Why do you have to make things so hard?" she says in a sotto voce.
And it is expectation after all.
He is genuinely puzzled that she, a rational, intelligent, pragmatic and damn predictable individual was taking this completely idiotic chance. And he is further baffled that his opportunistic, unscrupulous devious (selfish) self was not exploiting this situation for all its worth.
Especially since he needs her.
Maybe if he simply blurted everything out the shouting in his head would finally cease and the imbalance between good and evil would be restored there. And all these new, previously, unknown facets of his personality would disappear.
Or it might screw everything up and he (under her influence) might end up a self-sacrificing mawkish do-gooder.
Like Potter.
He shudders inwardly at the thought.
"What 'things', future Mrs R.Bilius.W?" he cringes guiltily, knowing that there was only one solution to this problem.
She exhales slowly, pained. His fine hair whips into his eyes and consequently burn and water. Karma, he supposes.
"If you don't want to-" she chokes "To say anything. I understand, that this is hard. I know that you're ego means a lot to you and you don't want to hurt it. But it's alright." she babbles.
He feels the Area twinge agonizingly. There she was bravely (all Gryffindor-ish) voicing all their non-verbal understandings and issues. He knew that the odds of rejection were high. And his ego, is indeed involved. And ashamedly, a part of him, that they thought had gone, is very unwilling to be humbled.
He knows his father had died disapproving of her and his mother lives, equally disapproving. That part of him remembers that a decade ago he was disgusted by her and hated her so much. Sometimes, even now, he is disgusted by her, because no one escapes their past completely. There were still vestiges of old Draco that would perhaps never leave and would always despise her even though a larger (much larger) part of him loved her.
And she didn't deserve that. Not because he thinks she should. But because she truly did deserve better. Because she was a bloody saint. An annoying, nagging, passive-aggressive (the worst form of aggression), know-it-all saint but a saint nonetheless.
He sighs, "What do you want me to say?"
She is silent but her eyes are urging him. She is a feminist yet, he notices, there is a stubborn (chauvinistic) part of her that wants him to admit first. To claim her, maybe. He wants to laugh at her hypocrisy but he is equally annoyed with himself.
"What?" he repeats impatiently.
She is still silent. He knows that if he did tell her he k her, he wouldn't live up to her expectations. But she would stay with him forever. And this new L couldn't live with that. He thinks it might be easier for him to have dear Bilius disappoint her than himself.
"I really don't know. Clue me in." And truthfully, he doesn't know some things she needs explained.
Like why he loves her.
At first he had suspected that she had a fixation on him and had spiked his drinks with Amortentia when he started noticing how her eyelashes brushed against her cheek when she blinked or how she had a dimple on her right cheek that only appeared when she was smiling particularly brightly and these things were the only things his mind could focus on.
He knows her parents love her because she is their little bookworm princess.
That Potter loves her because she is his surrogate sister, best friend and (more often than not) brain.
That Weasley loves her because he is utterly dependant on her for his survival.
But he, he genuinely does not know why…
She is not his soul mate because she understands him all to well but subconsciously still loathes what he is, as he does he. She is far from the description of the dream woman in his head who he had had pictured to be someone who would look like a Veela and fulfill his every whim and wish unquestioningly and adoringly.
Or how much he loves her.
He knows he might give up his life for her but not without resentment or hesitation. He still hates this emotion in him and he would give it all up in a moment and get along with his life.
He would sell his hypothetical (since it is reputedly non-existent) soul a million times over to escape this sentimentality because he did not want to conform.
He does not want to marry her and have 1.5 children. He wants to spend his life luxuriously, hedonistically and totally unconcerned about the plight of others. He hates house elves and cannot care less about starving children in Third World countries or the melting glaciers of Antarctica.
And , with her, he is certain he would spend his life in a manner he completely objects to; altruistically, philanthropically and virtuously.
She's blinking at him confusedly now. She then schools her face into an unconvincing smile.
"Malfoy. The issue," she says hurt smile intact "is that we need a best man. For the wedding."
He knows that she is lying, trying to gather the vestiges of her badly battered ego. And it hurts him so unbearably, to hear her confirm it verbally even though it was for petty reasons.
More than ever, does he have the urge to simply grab her and just hold her as long as was humanly possible.
More than ever, does he want to communicate the incommunicable and impossible.
But he has gone too far to turn back now, so he accepts her pathetic lie.
He had succeeded after all.
"That was all, Granger? You want a best man and you're on about my ego and you're nearly crying. Jeez Granger, its not like you're confessing your love fo-" he falters and curses him inwardly for this Freudian slip. "or anything." he finishes lamely.
"And yes, Granger. I will be your bleeding best man. But only if Potter comes dressed up as the Maid of Honor." she laughs half-heartedly at this.
"Good. I'm glad. But Harry is off limits, Malfoy. But there is always Neville." she says with a brave smile.
"No thanks. Potter in a frilly dress or nothing."
"My wedding won't have cross-dressing men attending it Malfoy. Besides Harry looks so dashing in a tuxedo."
"Fine, I'll come out of the goodness of my heart. Fear not that your wedding shall be derived of my incandescent presence."
"I won't Malfoy." she says chuckling softly.
"It's good to see you smile again Granger. Now scoot. Before you start crying again." he gestures her to go away.
She gathers her purse quickly.
"Goodbye Draco." she says in sotto voce. She rises somewhat reluctantly from their cramped seating.
"Good-bye Granger. If you need me, remember I'm here-" he yells to her retreating form. She shuts the door behind her, before he can complete the sentence.
"For you." he finishes softly to no-one in particular but the wilting roses and fallen petals strewed on the table.
AN: Please, please, please (times infinity) review!!!!! Flame me! Curse me! Leave incomprehensible monosyllabic reviews if you wish, but for the love of God review!!!!! Constructive crit welcomed...