COME AROUND
Disclaimer: Draco? Well he belongs to ME, of course! Who else could POSSIBLY
own the dear boy? Haha. Riiiiight. No, seriously, we're just working out the
papers, JK Rowling and I, but once that's over and done with, he will be MY
property! Haha. For now, he belongs to none other than Joanne Kathleen Rowling.
He and all his Hogwarts friends. Really, if she isn't planning to do anything
good with him, anyway, give him to ME. I'll make him more than just some pest.
Author's Note: Well, well. THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER! Rather, it is
the first half of the last chapter. J Actually,
it is the second to the last chapter. But what have you? Very short. Just to…I
dunno. Make sure you guys are still READING this? I actually had this written
out MONTHS ago. I just lost my passion for the story, I guess.
For Jasini, Lucky Number One-Hundred! You rock, girl! Haha! But also, for all the lovely reviewers I've had through the nine previous chapters of this story, and those who will be kind enough to review chapter ten. Thank you for all your support these past few months!
He ran his fingers delicately over the cool marble banisters of the dramatic double staircase, not hearing his footfalls as he ascended, for they were cushioned by the finest deep-red carpeting that Galleons could buy, cascading down the steps. He begrudgingly admitted to himself that he loved Maison Malfoy, the Malfoy Manor. A diminutive smile lit his face. Yes, the Manor was quite beautiful, when the curtains were open. And they were open more often nowadays, as he, having grown used to the endless sun of Spain, Italy, and the Pacific, could no longer move around the manor without colliding with some priceless, irreplaceable piece of china or the other. The whole household had to learn to adjust to Draco's aversion to the dark in the end, if Lucius and Narcissa wanted to have any antique artifacts left by the time their darling son and gorgeous only child was to inherit them. Smirk, smirk. Ah, the luxurious, bratty life I live.
Maison Malfoy was vast. There really could be no other word to describe it. It was a grand, ancient edifice that had been passed down through each generation of the Malfoy family. His sharp grey eyes (something that had been handed down to him, too) blinked once and took in the whole interior of the Ballroom, which was on the other side of the stairwell and the corridor. From the Russian crystal chandeliers (he was guessing the Swarovski chap was Russian, but he could be wrong. Yes, being wrong was a possibility. Wasn't Swarovski jewelry? Beads and stuff? The silly stuff they sewed onto gowns? Yes, he was most definitely wrong. Then again, he never thought for a moment that the chandeliers were Swarovski! No, he did not!) to the exquisite marble, alabaster, and granite floor. This would all someday be his. Whatever whimsical feelings he had been entertaining vanished immediately. Sometimes, he thought it was too large a home for a small family of three. Well, of course they had servants, but didn't everybody?
And when my parents pass away, I'll be all alone here.
He couldn't imagine it. Walking through the many hallways, peering into the dozens of empty rooms. This was a home made for at least a dozen people. Eventually, it would belong to only one. Him.
Can I handle the solitude?
The staircase split into two halves. Without thinking, he veered to the right and continued climbing. The right staircase led to his chambers. The left one led to his parents' rooms. There was a small balcony-like corridor that separated the two staircases and looked over the ballroom. He faintly remembered peering through the marble railings of the balcony, hearing soaring music and melodic laughter wafting up from the polished floor. He had been too young to attend his parents' parties back then, but the time came when he was one of the fashionably dressed people making their way across the room, stopping every once in a while to make conversation. What had it all been for? He hadn't made any lasting relationships in all those years of idle chit chat and small talk. All he'd ever been at these affairs was completely, utterly drunk.
He knew it then. He was tired.
It was stupid to be tired, as he had just returned several weeks ago from an incredible vacation that took him all over the world. (Yes, Europe and Asia were the world, to him, at least.)
But he was tired. And he didn't know why. He didn't know if it could be called being tired. Physically, he had never felt better. What was he, then?
Weary?
He frowned darkly. Draco, if you're feeling weary after all that, then you've failed and you're back to where you started from.
Yes, he was weary. And she had exhausted him.
So we're back to calling her she again, eh? he thought sardonically. He viciously twisted the delicately etched doorknob and stomped into his room.
"Ah, owlpost," he said softly, noticing the fresh batch of letters that had been placed on top of the ignored pile. There were easily more than thirty in the pile.
And they were all from the same person. Needless to say, they remained unopened. Earlier on, she—Cho—she sent a letter once or twice every week. He'd opened the first one she sent, just to see what she had to say, and why she was writing after he told her never to contact him again. Delusions, all of them. All her delusions.
Her letters were more frequent now, almost four every week. He knew she was getting desperate. And he wasn't going to give in.
He laid back on his chaise lounge. I love her. I know that, he told himself, but I can't—won't—last in a relationship where I'll always be thinking whether or not she's being real.
He couldn't handle that. He could take the solitude of Maison Malfoy's empty halls. But he could never live in doubt. He thought she understood that.
Her letters were beginning to come in at an alarming rate. Three or four a day was the minimum. His owlpost inbox was piling up with parchment that had her writing frantically scrawled on the front. Draco didn't care. He let Cho's letters stack up higher and higher, trying to stifle a very unbecoming curiosity about how many letters she'd send the next day. He was vicious and heartless. And the letters kept coming in.
Until they stopped.
Draco was ashamed of his awareness that there was an itching, irritating feeling inside him. He wondered.
Author's Note: I'm really, really sorry for how bad my writing's become and how LONG this has taken. I'm working on the last part already. Really. I'm stuck in one hell of a psychological mess at the moment, so I might end up revising this chapter later on, when I'm more into it. J