he calls him the weasel, sneers up one side and down the other, checks out his arse as only a malfoy can. he's not sure when ron changed, but he did, maybe when those idiot brothers of his ran away. he's broken from their shadow, broken from himself, strong and solid and with a way of holding his head that makes draco forget to breathe.
confidence.
draco spends his nights digging up old hate, running through the tired reasoning, anger, prejudice. the lines are clearer than ever now, and it's too late to cross them. he wouldn't, anyway. he's a malfoy, and that's all he has left.
he's twisting in his sheets, hands following the rhythm of the litany of reasoning, his father's words echoing as he comes, fireworks and tears in the corners of his eyes.
confidence.
draco spends his nights digging up old hate, running through the tired reasoning, anger, prejudice. the lines are clearer than ever now, and it's too late to cross them. he wouldn't, anyway. he's a malfoy, and that's all he has left.
he's twisting in his sheets, hands following the rhythm of the litany of reasoning, his father's words echoing as he comes, fireworks and tears in the corners of his eyes.