"Just because you are soft doesn't mean you are not a force. Honey and wildfire are both the color gold."
-Victoria Erickson
The condensation slinked down the glass, like a snake in the grass.
His eyes grazed swiftly through the people passing, just in time to catch the single, vulnerable droplet as it crashed devastatingly to the table below.
He really should look away.
Around him the quaint bar hummed with a sensuality and swagger. Some people swore the heady feeling when stepping through the wards could be attributed to the building itself. The four walls of the narrow hall were steeped in a rich, rebellious, musical history from the 1920's. The brick walls begged for relief under the weight of the antique frames that covered them. The wooden flooring whispered aches and groans from decades of dancing. And when he was listening, he'd admit the live music performed here was hauntingly enchanting.
One thing he truly enjoyed about this pub was the intimacy. Near the entrance, a narrow counter enclosed a single bartender who upon entrance crafted each patron a tailored beverage uniquely specific to the drinker. Perhaps seemingly unimpressive in size to some, there always seemed to be space within. Enough room at least for a few booths that were cozied up near the bar, and a small scatter of tables throughout.
He had noticed it was typical of most people to dreamily watch the live acts perform or to simply drink, in excess chatting amongst themselves.
Tonight he did neither.
Warm, low light danced playfully around the room casting a golden glow against her skin. If his haughty upbringing taught him anything it was that he knew he shouldn't stare, yet he couldn't help it.
She took a small sip from her drink. Her blushing pink tongue darting out of her mouth. He noticed that she tried to save a drop of the spiced, amber liquid that slipped - almost innocently past her lips.
His own mouth suddenly felt dry and his thirst savagely renewed.
"Should I - uhhhh - give you two some space?"
The sarcastic chuckle from Theo clears the fog that had clouded his mind. Bluesy jazz suddenly fills his now conscious thoughts. The slow, suggestive trumpeting bringing his attention back to the present.
"I've been trying to get space from you for years Nott, yet - here you are."
Even he could tell the comment lacked the normal venomous strike it typically held.
Lifting his glass from the tragically old, dark-wooden, bistro table, he tossed back the rest of his Firewhiskey. Trying to shake visions of her from his mind.
Her laugh.
Her smile.
Her lips.
"Oh, but you love me," Theo sarcastically confirms as he turns. Angling himself away from the small stage and piano tucked into the far corner of the room. "All I'm saying is that if you're waiting on some sort of signal or sign. It's me - I'm the sign! It's been years since the war. Don't be a twat, go over there and say something."
Readjusting his long legs in the unbalanced chair, Malfoy could only scoff and try to brush off his annoying best friend. He knew Theo was right. He also knew that he didn't have an excuse to argue the contrary. Unfortunately for Draco it wasn't that simple.
It was never that innocent.
Malfoy men didn't simply walk up to a girl to "say something."
There wasn't just one passing thought that he wanted to share with her.
No.
He wanted to weave every sinful thought he's had over the years into kindling. He wanted his words catching like wildfire in her mind. Consuming and igniting her body in an unforgiving blaze that leaves her whimpering, gasping and panting for the breath that only he could grant her.
Draco closed his eyes, breaking his stare from her for the first time since they sat down. With a slow, controlled exhale he forces those thoughts from his mind. She would never give herself over to him, and that was his reality.
Loosening his white-knuckled grip from around his glass, he rolls his shoulders back, straightening his near perfect aristocratic posture and begins to strengthen his occlumency walls.
Cool.
Controlled.
Cut-off.
"I haven't the slightest idea what you're referring to, Theodore."
Draco didn't need to look at his friend to feel his dramatic eye roll. "Well then, I guess that's my cue. As much as I love watching reruns of this sad, 'The Golden Girl & Slytherin Prince' show. I'm bored. Besides I have my own, sexy Gryffindor that I'd rather get home to."
Nearly alerting everyone in the cramped bar, Theo staggered upward shimmying into his peacoat. A few failed button attempts later, Draco watches him finally straighten to his full height.
"Just admit it, Malfoy! You don't have the balls to say anything."
Draco tried to ignore his baiting, instead focusing his attention on running his finger along the rim of his now empty glass.
Concentric.
Controlled.
Calm.
"How many times have I told you, Theodore? I'd really rather not hear you call Saint Scarhead, sexy."
With Theo's clumsy clap to Draco's back it was as if they both knew the quip wouldn't be enough to throw Nott off his point. Rambling now a bit too loudly over the subtle music and with one too many, obvious hand gestures for Malfoy's liking, Theo continued.
"I'm just saying, Draco. If you don't make a move I might just have to... Could you just imagine it?"
Malfoy could then feel his friend's weight pressing into him as he struggled to stay upright. Theo now leaning in to him a bit too closely, he listened to his not-even-close to drunken whispering.
"Two thirds of a golden trio sandwich coming right up! Mmmmhmmm, don't mind if I do."
Draco can feel his frustrations building at Theo's words.
"Leave, Nott. "
"Now."
He grit out between his clenched teeth.
His gaze once again fixed upon his vintage crystal whiskey glass. Draco knew that Theo was only speaking this way to try and get a reaction from him, yet he couldn't ignore the images that suddenly consumed his mind.
White-hot flashes of their drunken passion.
The wrong hands on her.
The wrong lips tasting her.
The wrong body being pressed into her as she shouts their name with her release.
Stop!
His subconscious growled.
He could feel his occlumency beginning to dangerously splinter. Yet, Draco said nothing.
The muscles in his jaw instead clenching and unclenching with every desperate grasp at regaining his control.
Satisfied with successfully getting a small reaction out of him, Theo tossed out a, "Cheers, wanker," in farewell and made his exit. Theatrically squeezing between the back of Malfoy's chair and the wall, not nearly two steps away Theo turned back around.
He nodded his head in the direction where she was sitting, as if reminiscing on a memory.
"You know, Drake I don't know about you but I've always wondered just how her little, swotty moans would sound as I pounded into her. Do you think she'll let me find out?"
That last statement made him cringe with distaste. Draco's movements halted.
Stealthy, still.
His hand now constricting menacingly around his glass.
A slow, wicked grin crawled onto Theo's face as he gave his best imitation of what Granger might sound like, "Oh, ooh Theo! YES! Fuck. Me. Harder!"
Before Draco's mind could fully catch up to his body he had pushed himself back from their table. Becoming acutely aware he had effectively caused his chair to scrape against the ground.
Loudly.
He could suddenly feel every heartbeat pounding wildly in his chest. His breathing felt restricted and heavy.
The blood rushing through his veins simmered with frustration at the absurd comments.
Quickly turning toward the doorway that his supposed friend was now disappearing through, he was too late.
Draco was not only greeted with the distant, fading chuckle of Theo's laughter but also by a pair of honey-chocolate colored eyes, staring at him curiously from across the room.
Draco froze.
Rooted to the spot where he stood, the buzzing in his body slowly radiating outward in scolding waves.
He swallowed harshly. Eyes shut.
Clenching his fists almost painfully in attempts to regain his splintering restraint.
He could do this.
Contained.
Controlled.
Caged.
Draco once again opened his eyes. Lifting his gaze.
With a scolding intensity that escaped when only around her, he challenged her stare - catching fire.
Catastrophic.