this little light of mine
2.
Astoria watched the amber liquid slide down Draco's throat and glared at her own glass of juice. She used to love alcohol, love the burn and the heat and the buzz. Draco loved it too. He still could.
She couldn't.
"Alcohol is where I draw the line," he said when she bitterly pointed this out. "I can quit smoking, sleep on the other side of the bed, stop eating things with garlic and onions. But I can't stop drinking."
"Oh, okay, I'll just suffer by myself," she retorted, stabbing at her ravioli viciously.
"And I'm not suffering?" he snapped. He drained the rest of his glass and threw a hand up to hail a waiter. Before one could spot them, Astoria grabbed his hand and banged it down on the table, disrupting the silverware.
"Do you throw your insides up every morning?" she asked darkly, satisfied at the flash of fear that passed over his face for a second. "Are you always tired? Do you feel uncomfortable all the time? Do you hate the smell of things you used to love? Do you have to give up smoking and drinking and wearing high heels?"
Draco pursed his lips. Smirking triumphantly, Astoria sat back and daintily sipped her cranberry juice.
"I didn't think so," she said politely.
Carefully, he slid his hand out from under hers, still pinned on the table, and cupped her face with it. Surprised, Astoria just looked at him.
"You're being so strong," he said, smiling. "Because if I had to give up high heels, I might just die."
She tried to keep a straight face but failed horribly and turned to hide her smile behind his hand. The scent of cigarettes clung to his skin. She jerked back, slammed his hand back down onto the table, and growled, "Yes, you just might."
Needless to say, he slept on the couch that night.