A/N: Hey y'all! This was written for Hogwarts. Some angsty CharlieDraco. :)

Amulets and Talismans Task 9: Write about someone being burnt (physically, emotionally, or metaphorically)

Word Count: 1000

WARNINGS: Language, injury.

Note: This is a Muggle/Modern!AU

Thanks to Lucy for beta-ing!

Enjoy!

"Shit."

Draco retracted his hand from the pan he'd just tried to pick up, kicking himself for forgetting it was on the stove. He cradled the injured limb against his chest as he hurried to the sink. He switched the tap on and held his hand beneath the cool water, biting his lip as it soothed the red skin. It would blister, he was sure, but it wasn't a bad enough burn to require medical attention.

After a few minutes, Draco belatedly recalled the dinner that was on the stove. With another muttered curse, he grabbed a cloth so he could remove the meal from the heat. The meat inside looked a bit more blackened than he'd intended, but it would do.

Draco sat down to dinner five minutes later. He favored his left palm and winced slightly at the taste of the food, but all of that was better than thinking about the one thing that truly bothered him.

He couldn't believe he'd let Charlie walk away.

As soon as the thought entered his mind, Draco banished it. There was no point in dwelling on that now; Charlie had made his choice, and Draco had made his.

Still, there were days when he couldn't help but wonder what might have changed if he'd just run after the older man. Would Charlie have come back into the flat? Would they have talked things out? Would things be better? All Draco knew was that, at the very least, he wouldn't be tormented by what if.

Draco glanced down at the shiny red burn on his palm. His chest tightened, remembering the feel of similar burns on his lover's skin—on his chest and arms, his thighs and neck… all because Charlie Weasley took his responsibility to fight fires very seriously. Draco had traced the smooth patches of skin on countless nights, awed by the strength each one conveyed. He'd go to sleep wrapped up in those arms, would wake to a warm body beside him.

Now all he had was a cold mattress and memories.

Charlie's fingers combing through his hair brought Draco back to consciousness. He opened his grey eyes and found brown ones staring straight back at him. He raised an eyebrow at Charlie sleepily.

"Enjoying the view?"

"Immensely," Charlie told him, entirely too pleased. "You're beautiful when you sleep."

Draco snorted and sat up against the pillows. "And you're unbearably sappy in the mornings."

Charlie just laughed and shrugged. "Guilty as charged. What are your plans for the day?"

Slowly untangling his legs from Charlie's, Draco answered disinterestedly. "The usual." Which meant, of course, that he'd go to his father's office and do a horrifying amount of paperwork until he was allowed to return home. "Nothing exciting."

Ever the morning person, Charlie threw the duvet off of them both as he stood to get dressed. Draco hissed as the cold air assaulted him, his toes curling. His lover only grinned cheekily.

"We could make today exciting," came the hopeful reply. "We could take an evening, have dinner, watch a movie… disgustingly romantic stuff."

Draco looked up, surprised. "You want to?"

Charlie crossed his arms over his thick, muscled chest, and looked down at Draco through a mop of unruly red curls. "Wouldn't have suggested it, otherwise."

Draco bit back a laugh. "Fine, then. Disgustingly romantic evening it is, Weasley."

After dinner, Draco showered and climbed into bed with a book, planning on some late night reading.

Like always, he turned on the telly before he does, subconsciously switching it to one of the dramas Charlie liked so much. It's a painful reminder, but the background noise was familiar. It made a part of him feel less alone.

After about twenty minutes of reading and having his mind wander for the hundredth time, Draco set the book aside with a huff of annoyance. He tugged at his pale blond hair with agitated fingers, helpless in his grief and regret.

He reached towards his mobile, just like every night. He turned it on and let his thumb hover over the call icon beside Charlie's name, just like usual. But tonight his palm was throbbing, and it was as though his heart was synced to it.

It hit him, suddenly, that he was going to be miserable forever unless he finally did something about it. And, after all… Charlie had told him to call.

He let his thumb hit the button and listened to the ring with bated breath.

"Draco, this is ridiculous—I don't want to dance around you just because someone might snap a picture."

It was a fair statement, Draco knew. But he also knew the social rejection that would be thrown his way if anyone caught wind of the fact that he was dating a man decidedly not upper class. The Parkinsons, Goyles, Crabbes—they weren't the most pleasant of people, but he'd worked damn hard to get into their social circles as a child. He couldn't just throw all that away.

"You'll be singing a different tune when our faces are plastered on every tabloid in England." He didn't look up from his book at Charlie. "Don't wear a hole in the floor."

Charlie stopped his angry pacing, but his anger was far from cooled. "Are you ashamed of me?" he demanded. "Because we've had this fight every night for weeks, and I really can't come up with any other explanation."

Draco did set his book down. "I'm not."

"Do you love me?"

"Of course I do."

Charlie ran his hands through his hair, distressed. It almost broke Draco's heart to see it. "Then you must care more about your reputation than me. Is that it?"

No words were forthcoming. The laugh following Draco's silence was cold, disappointed—and completely broke Draco's heart.

"Fine. Fine." Draco's eyes widened as he watched Charlie collect his things in that reckless way of his, but Draco didn't stop him. "Call me if you come to your senses."

"Draco?"

Relief. "Charlie. Yes… it's me."