In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...
This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.
A/N: There's a big ole lemon in this chapter and it's gonna get gross. You've been warned.
Draco 20
Up the narrow staircase, which was clearly new, was a corridor that boasted a measly four doors. This house was likely something that used to belong to some Muggle industrial workers. He knew that Professor Snape was a halfblood, but he wondered what witch would find herself in this place willingly. Cokeworth was so distinctly unmagical in his eyes; perhaps it was perfect for Ella in that sense? It was the perfect place to hide.
Ella opened the first door to a bare, well-lit room, all lined with mirrors and a springy white pine floor, and a barre on the other side. There was a piano and a large-ish plastic monstrosity that stood next to it, as well as a shelf of all of Ella's dancing shoes; dyed ballet toe shoes, jazz clogs, tap shoes in different shades. It seemed to be magically expanded, for it was far larger than it had any business being in such a tiny house. The walls didn't have any art or photos on the wall, which he found odd, yet somehow understandable.
"No windows in here," she commented, taking her hair out of the scarf, and letting it fall in thick curls over her shoulders. Perhaps it was his accursed nose, but he couldn't help but take in a deep breath of the smell of her hair. "You should be okay." He leaned in the doorway. "Tests on the tablets have been promising," she said. "Isolation from moonlight seems to, at least, help."
Draco felt a bit bleak. "I'll still change," he said. "It doesn't matter where I am."
"Are you still making your own potions?" she asked, a familiar spark in her eye. Draco nodded silently. "I've changed things," she stated. "Medical advancements have made great strides since 1976." Draco blinked. "That's when the Wolfsbane potion was invented."Ella smiled. "And in the December of 1999, Ella Zamora turned it into a tablet, which is just as effective with no nasty taste, after only a short two years of being a professional potioneer! Now that I've gotten leave from the Ministry to pursue my research further, I've been able to open a whole new department at the hospital for lycanthropy!" She was clearly quite excited about this. There had been quite a high spike in lycanthropy since the Battle of Hogwarts, all thanks to Fenrir Greyback, whose fate was unknown to him. "I really did learn a lot in Brazil," she commented. "Do you wanna talk about this?"
He didn't want to talk about his...condition, but he wasn't sure of what he actually wanted to talk about instead. He nodded towards the piano. "Does that rickety old thing play?"
Ella laughed. "Sure does! Wanna give it a go?"Draco smiled. She seemed excited; she always loved it when he played. He went and sat at the bench and popped his knuckles. She had quite a bit of sheet music piled up on top, and the sheet music on the stand was jarring. Ella tensed over his shoulder. "Sorry. I really like Billy Joel."
"Were you dancing to it?" he asked, his eyes locked on the notes.
Ella sat next to him, the way she used to. "I was trying to learn it." They locked eyes. "I...missed hearing piano." Draco looked away quickly and piled all the music to the top of the piano. He remembered the first time he played jazz music, finding a song called "New York State of Mind" and playing it, listening to Ella sing for the first time, her voice so new and mighty. He'd heard the choir singing, opera singers...Ella was the first person he'd ever heard sing the way she did, belting out loud and strong, her lungs seeming to be a force of nature. It was almost like shouting, but it was so moving, thrilling. He began to play, trickling the keys here and there, just to see if the piano was in tune. He pressed the high E key gently, then F, staying in natural key. Ella was at his right; when he glanced at her, she smiled. "Play what you feel," she said, almost offhandedly. She was trying so hard to be casual.
Draco took in a deep breath. He was feeling quite a bit at that moment. He switched down to a minor key, and began pressing out an almost mournful tune that he remembered from his childhood. After a few bars, he hit the high F key again, and it triggered a memory. His eyes went a little out of focus, watching the black and white slowly dance beneath his long fingers.
Eeeeee sang the piano. Eeee, Beeeeeeeee, G E Beeeeeee, G E Beeee-twooo-threeee...
"Draco?" her voice cracked.
Eee BEEEEeeee, G E Beeeeee, G E G-two- F E... His left hand came next to the right to play the harmonies, then down to the bass line to play the rest. For the first time in a long time, he played one of his own pieces, which he wasn't even sure was his own. His music was likely some mediocre copy of something he'd heard of a greater wizard, once, mismatched and scrambled around to create something that sounded like something worth hearing. He probably copied this song from something he'd overheard on the street. This song probably wasn't his.
He remembered a time when writing songs meant something to him, a fleeting moment when he thought they might mean something to someone else. He was seven, or so, he guessed; he'd written a song and played it for his parents. His mother applauded vigorously; his father said or did nothing. When he was eight, his mother still listened intently to anything he played, but his father was far too preoccupied for such, and began to treat his music with some form of annoyance. When he was nine, Father bought him a broomstick and told him to get out of the damn library, get out of the damn music room, and go outside. We've nearly a hundred acres, he'd said. A hundred acres of pristine countryside that oughtn't be wasted on such a little shut-in like him. Get outside and start flying. Little boys don't sing, Draco. Little boys don't waste days in the library. Little boys don't play the piano this much, it's just not natural. Get the hell outside. You're going to start flying. You'll be the best, you'll see. You'll be the Seeker for the Slytherin Quidditch team when you go to Hogwarts. It'll be a crime if you're not selected for Seeker of your House.
His fingers flew quietly and loudly over the keys, stopping at where he'd stopped writing, some four years ago, at the bar of the song he'd left unfinished. To his shock and surprise, tears were streaming down Ella's freckled cheeks.
"I'm sorry, I—" He was unsure of what to say. She stood up quickly and began to pace silently, like a tigress in a cage. She then stormed to the piano and rooted through the sheet music to pull out a rather dog-eared parchment scroll of hand-written sheet music. "Ella I'm sorry—"
"—Do you recognize this?"she demanded, holding the parchment up for him to see. Draco stood up in shock, his heart in his throat, his stomach flipping over three different ways. "You see this? This was written by someone that cares about the future. The person that wrote this music is a person who has hope." Tears welled in her almond-shaped eyes. "This person wrote about the trees he'd someday be tall enough to climb. The way he'd stay up all night because nobody could tell him 'no.' The way he'd be brave enough to fight the monsters under his bed when he was grown up." She gulped back a sob. "Where did he go?" Draco tried to snatch away the sheet music, which she quickly pulled away. "What do you think that seven-year-old you would think of twenty-year-old you?"
"And what do you suppose the seven-year-old you would think of twenty-one-year-old you living in squalor—?!"
"—'Squalor'?!"
Fuck. It was a great mistake to insult her home, which Professor Snape had left her, and Draco immediately regretted it. "I just—! I meant—!" He took in a breath. "You should be living in a palace on a hill, away from these Muggles—'
"—Seriously fuck you. I mean fuck you with a big bleedy dick." Draco blinked, taken quite aback with that rather creative insult.
"Why are you so insistent on living here?" he asked, genuinely. "Honestly, why?"
"Because Staffordshire is beautiful. It has been voted to be one of the best places to live in the UK! And honestly why does it matter to you where I live? I can apparate goddamn anywhere so I can live goddamn anywhere. For real, why the Christ does this matter to you so much?! How does it affect you where I live?! Huh?!" Her tears were gone, now, burned off by her anger. He realized several stanzas in to this conversation that he was being unreasonable, but this lovely time of the month made him rather unreasonable.
"It shouldn't," he quietly admitted.
"You're damn right it shouldn't!" she shouted, her chest heaving a bit. Dammit, why does she have to look so cute when she's mad?
"I'm sorry," he said softly, a pleasantly familiar tightness growing in his stomach.
"Yes. Well." She snorted a bit through her nose. She licked her lips.
"Have you really had that music after all this time?"
She took a step back, her chest caving in a bit, her lips pouted and cheeks flushed a pleasingly perturbed bright red. Her throat seemed to tighten. A memory of her looking at him in that way stirred in his mind. She looked…hurt. He remembered: it was the day in the Hospital wing, the day he was slashed to bits by Sectumsempra, the day he called her a 'Mudblood.'
"Why?" he breathed.
"I don't know—" she said, all too quickly. "I—" Ella gulped. "I don't…" She closed her eyes and turned her face away. "I missed…" she whispered, too low for anyone to hear, except for him with his halfbreed ears. "I missed—" She stopped herself and Draco stood. Her eyes opened to look at him walking towards her. "Draco—" He grabbed her face and his mouth covered hers; she didn't stop him, not at all.
Her arms wrapped around his waist, her nails dug in to his back through his suit jacket. A sort of strange tightness filled his chest, and he found himself walking straight back until she was pressed up against the wall. His hands lowered to her breasts, soft and firm and full as grapefruits, and squeezed shyly. Ella grabbed him by the lapels and slammed his back against the wall, pressing her body firmly against his, causing him to cry out.
"Ella—!"
"—Shut up." She covered his mouth with hers, he couldn't help but moan at her warm, probing tongue. She didn't care when his hands wandered all along her waist, down around her back, lower still to squeeze the curve of her ass. Her hands came around his waist and pulled him towards her as she backed up, faster and faster, out of the studio and down the hall, Draco's fingers fumbling to find the zipper on the back of her dress through her long hair. He heard the click of the doorknob turning, and all at once they were in her bedroom.
She pulled him hard towards the bed. His hands came out and gripped the tall posters, almost afraid to fall. Her swift hands came and pulled his tie away from his throat and quickly unbuttoned his shirt. There were years' worth of fevered dreams of her doing just this, almost exactly the way he imagined it to be. Her ragged breathing, the way she hungrily unbuckled his belt, the soft rumple of his trousers falling to the floor, the scratch of her fingernails on his cheek when she came up for another kiss. His hands fell away from the posters on the bed and pushed her back, hard, so she would fall on the bed.
"Draco…" she whimpered as his hands reached beneath the skirt of her dress, feeling the lace on her panties. His fingertips found the waistband and hesitated; she sat up on her elbows and said "Please don't stop."
"Oh Ella—" He tumbled forward and his mouth covered hers when she sat up to meet him. Her hands pushed his jacket and shirt off his shoulders. A sharp rush of pleasure came over his body as her palms brushed his bare ribs when she pulled his undershirt up over his head. Draco cried out when her hand reached further down inside his underwear and gripped pleasingly hard. He felt her lips smiling when she came in for another kiss; his hips gently rocked as her hand stroked him up and down, his whole body shaking, his knees digging hard in to the mattress as he straddled her.
His hands wandered up to cup her full breasts, grunting low as he pulled the seams of her dress off her back, Ella giving a tiny squeal of delight as he did. He could smell her sex, her blood pumping in her veins, her hot breath mixing with his. His heightened senses tingled, painting a picture of what was before him as he kissed her, eyes closed. Draco pulled her dress off her shoulders and down to her waist and pulled away to see a lacy black brassiere cupping her heaving breasts. Hungrily he buried his face between them and kissed and licked his way down, the sound of her flopping back on the bed causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. He pushed her hands above her head, then let his own hands wander down the curves of her waist. She wasn't stopping him; she was encouraging him, and all of it felt so right.
There was absolutely nothing in that Parisian book that could have described any of this in its truest form. What could? How could one describe being with the woman that you love in this way, her back arched, her heels digging in to the mattress? How could you describe that sexy, earthy smell and how it made you feel? The way his fingertips on her thighs raised tiny goosebumps felt as if he was a God creating the earth's mountains. The sound of her panties slipping down off her hips and over her knees was almost like an ocean breeze after a storm. Only a gale force wind could come close to the way she gasped then cried out when his mouth descended upon the treasure between her rounded thighs, all open and hairy and wet. It was as if an appetite he hadn't known of had been within him for years, and now that he had a taste of it, he never wanted to stop eating.
"Draco—! Oh—! Oh my— Ooh!" He couldn't help but smile at the way she was panting, the way her hips were bucking against his tongue. It was so addictive; everything about this moment was perfect and there was nothing in the world that was ever going to tell him that loving her was wrong. This was right. This was his home. This is what he wanted, always.
Ella's hands gripped his atop her hips, then scraped up his arms, lacing through his hair, every sound and sigh from her lungs a delight to the senses. This was the first time in months that his mind was completely clear. There was no trial, no full moon, no funeral, no wedding to a woman that knew he'd never love her. There was only them, together, sharing in each other, losing each other in themselves. She tensed and moaned low, guttural, deep in her throat and climbing high like a whining howl, and he felt her throbbing around his tongue, squirting all over his face and in his mouth. He couldn't help but hungrily grin and laugh; she seemed relieved, yet horrifically embarrassed.
"I-I—!" She panted. "I'm sorry—that's never—!"
"—No I loved it!" he insisted, climbing up on all fours to mount her. All at once she flipped him on his back; he wasn't sure if she was strong or if he was weak. The satin on her comforter felt cool against his bare back, like the shady part of the sand on the beach in spring. He watched as she peeled his shoes, socks, trousers and underwear away, his heart racing faster and faster. He wanted to tell her everything, that she was a goddess, that she was powerful as the dawn. A cool draft from the house washed over his body as her thighs spread over his hips; he placed his hands on her waist and felt the change between eyelet fabric and her flesh with his fingers. Ella locked eyes with him and bit her lip with a grin, and he felt all of her walls come tumbling down, everything about her barriers stripped away, everything that ever kept him out of her was demolished, and inviting him in. He sat up and took her face in his hands, his fingers curling through her thick hair.
"Draco—?"
"—I love you, Ella Xanthippe Zamora."
"I—!"
"—And I will never stop loving you. I know you may never feel the same way for me, but I cannot bear another moment without telling you exactly how I feel." Her face didn't change to an expression of disdain or disgust or even anger; to Draco's shock, she smiled, really smiled, open-mouthed with white teeth. He leaned his forehead against hers. "Please let me inside you," he begged. She laughed and pressed her lips hard against his, her arms snaking quickly around his neck in a tight embrace.
"Please be inside me," she whispered against his mouth. His hands gripped her hips, hard.
She gasped sharply; his breath froze in his lungs as his hips flexed upwards and simultaneously pulled hers down. Ella let out a high-pitched sigh from her throat, her nails digging in to his bare shoulders. He felt her twitch around him, hot and warm and wet and silky, like being buried, enveloped.
"Holy shit," he breathed, unable to move. Ella smiled and flexed her hips, causing him to stifle a moan. He felt her slide up and down, slowly, torturously dripping wet. His arms came around her waist and gripped her tight to him, burying his face in the curves of her breasts, kissing all over, his hands soon wandering to feel beneath her bra. Her breasts were so soft and full, exactly the way breasts should be, so round with perfect little nipples that felt hard under his fingers. Draco moved and flipped her on her back, sighing as her arms wrapped tight around his neck. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and gently thrusted, earning a guttural moan.
Everything went away. His lycanthropy, his guilt, all inhibitions he may have had. All the voices in his head went quiet, in that beautiful moment, where he felt happy. It felt amazing; the way her fingers curled through his hair, her hot breath on his ear, the soles of her naked feet on his calves. It was everything that he could have thought of, and the only thing he was thinking of was trying desperately not to bite or scratch her on accident.
Ella was always loud and bossy and opinionated. He'd never heard her without words, nor imagined her to be so high and breathy when she couldn't find them. Draco was always somehow impressed with her extensive vocabulary, although she had the thickest American accent to ever exist. He always wondered what she'd sound like had she a British accent; the only words she said tonight were: 'Good…slower…from behind…don't stop…come closer…like this…oh yes…' all said softly, all gasping all mixed in variation with gentle and violent moaning. He didn't say anything; he didn't want to risk not hearing what she wanted, nor did he want to risk ending it too soon.
"Draco…!" Her nails dug in to his chest as her hips bucked violently, her hair shook all down her face and shoulders. Oh my God she's actually about to have an orgasm—?! He thought as he watched her ride him. Her brow furrowed and her whole body tensed. Her eyes closed and her mouth opened in a silent scream, and he felt her pulsing around him, hard. She threw her head back and moaned loud, deep, howling and gasping for air. All at once, she went soft and began shaking, then he saw her smiling and giggling, which then turned to a gasping laughter. He sat up and was met with a kiss.
"Are you okay?" he asked, cupping her face with both hands.
"Oh my God, yes, I'm so okay," she giggled, kissing between each word. Draco smiled. Her breathing slowed as she kissed him again, deeper, then moved to his cheek and nibbled gently on his ear. A shiver went up his spine, and then he felt a sort of crack in his shoulders, then in his jaw. He opened his eyes and tensed, seeing the light of the full moon streaming through Ella's bedroom window through the thin part in the curtains.
No! was the last coherent thought he had, as all sound shifted away in to white noise, and the horrific feeling of nails digging and ripping away at his skin, his own bones growing and pulling, snapping away and back in to place hit him hard. All of the pleasure went away as he felt Ella jumping off the bed, her raven feathers flapping out of the corner of his eye towards the night stand. His feet swelled and the sharp cutting of his nails turning to claws made it feel like he was going to bleed, but he never did. His eyes went closed shut and wide open again, and he thrashed on the bed, screaming, howling, until he stopped, and his sore muscles and tender skin had turned to white fur.
"Draco?"
He heard a voice, distorted and overblown with his wolf-like hearing. He turned his head, the flesh on his neck still quite tender, to see Ella's figure, standing at the foot of the bed. He could smell her sex, her fear. The fact that he was even aware of where he was in that moment was a huge positive, and it was perhaps this fact that kept him from spiraling into a depression. Ella pulled her dress up from her hips and back over her shoulders.
"Are you okaY?" Werewolves had freakishly exceptional hearing, which made close-proximity conversations impossible, for everything was so distorted and sensitive, he could barely process a word. With his wolf eyes, he saw her reach out her hand. Humiliated, he pulled away. He heard her sigh.
"Errroooooraaraaaaa," he tried. His mouth was too full of frightening, vicious teeth to form a sentence. He didn't have lips anymore, so he couldn't speak to her. He couldn't tell her how sorry he was. He couldn't even say her name. He reached for her, and to his shock and surprise, she grasped his…claw…as if it was his hand. She sat on the bed next to him. He felt quite drowsy, his muscles suddenly relaxing. Her tablets were working, keeping him sedated and lucid.
"Uhm…" She cleared her throat. "You can sleep in here tonight," she resolved. "I'll sleep in the guest bedroom. Or maybe downstairs in the library." Draco felt heartbroken. Curse this disease, he thought bitterly. Curse Fenrir Greyback. Curse you, Father, for putting this upon me. I hope it's cold where you lie. "Draco, don't cry—" He felt her hand on his…face. He hadn't realized that a tear had been shed. He put his clawed hand to hers, and she didn't back away. "Please don't cry," she said. "It's okay. It's my fault for moving us in here." She then straightened her dress and cleared her throat again. Draco's vision blurred. "Do you want a book from the library? I've got all sorts. Or, um, maybe you can read this one. It's my favorite."
Draco looked to the book she had picked up from the nightstand. It was a very well-worn paperback book with yellowed pages and a cover torn half-off. Considering the state of the book, as well as the fact that it was in the possession of Ella Zamora, it had been read over about a million times. She had a habit with her books that Draco always found queer: abusing them.
Ella would write in her textbooks, much to the chagrin of Professor McGonagall, as well as every other book she bought. She'd scribble and doodle in the corners of pages, and stuff her books tight in any sort of way she could think to fit it. She was outdoorsy and liked to take her books camping, from what he understood, so many of her books had leaves pressed in between the pages, and many of the book's spines were dusty from caked on mud where they'd fallen from her pocket. He'd even seen Ella fall asleep using one of her books as a pillow late one night in the Slytherin common room, with another tucked beneath her arm, the pages all awry and bent out of shape from the position she had been sleeping in. It was obvious that this book was her most-cherished of all, for the shape it was in. He reached out for it, but he saw his own…paws…and withdrew. He didn't want to ruin her favorite book.
"Oh." She seemed to understand, but opened the book anyway. "Well, here. Listen." She turned on the lantern at the bedside, and the room filled with a glowing light. "This is a great book," she insisted. "It's about this adorable little firstblood witch that is born into a horrible, awful NoMaj family, but is—you'll see. Listen to this:" she cleared her throat "'So Matilda's strong young mind continued to grow, nurtured by the voices of all those authors who had sent their books out into the world like ships on the sea. These books gave Matilda a hopeful and comforting message: You are not alone.'" She sighed happily and looked up at him. "Isn't that wonderful?" Were those tears in her eyes?
He wanted to reach out, but dared not. He sat on the bed, silently, and felt the wolfsbane begin to kick in. He nodded just then, quite a bit against his will. Frankly, though, he wasn't sure if he was able to sort out what he wanted in that state, anyhow. Wolfsbane wasn't a cure, but just turned you in to a very sleepy werewolf that was calm and sedated. The next thing he knew, he was lying on her bed, naked, listening to the songbirds outside the window chirping to hail in the morning. A train's whistle went off in the distance.
Draco shot up in shock, looking around. His clothes were folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and his shoes were polished to a fine mirror shine. He glanced around in a panic at the room he'd fallen asleep in, Ella's bedroom. He was laying beneath a warm French gray comforter, with sheer green curtains hanging over her four-poster bed. There was a vanity, and a door which led to the master bathroom, he guessed, and another which led to her closet. Glancing to his left, he saw the curtains were drawn back and a cool breeze was coming in to air out the room. He felt a bit nervous, but then recalled that she likely had security measures unlike any other, so he figured he was safe. Draco flopped backwards, his head hitting the pillow, the full realization of what he'd done last night hitting him like a sack of potatoes.
Oh God. Astoria.
This was it. This was the nail in the coffin. The night his father was murdered was the same night he'd told her how sorry he was that he had to leave. He lay there, in Ella's bed, naked, recalling every detail, letting it replay in his mind. She was sitting in the drawing room, a picture of purity, alabaster skin and flowing dark brown hair. She'd known that it was over; she must have. The way she clasped her gloves when he came to greet her said it all. They were both thinking it, all since the Zabini's party two nights before.
It had been months since Draco had seen Ella in Paris. He supposed that he should have expected to see her there; Blaise was a dear friend of them both. They were celebrating Blaise making Chaser in the Tutshill Tornadoes to start in the coming season next autumn. He'd been bumped from the reserves and got to play his first big game, which Draco attended with Astoria. Blaise even offered to put in a good word for being Seeker next season, suggesting that Draco come and try out. He'd politely declined, of course; Quidditch was still a child's game, wasn't it? Now that his father was gone, he must maintain his work at the Ministry, mustn't he?
He recalled entering Villa Zabini, that charming retreat near the Forest of Dean, with Astora on his arm. She truly was lovely, a simply adoring creature with a good sense of humor, every bit of wifely graces one might desire. They'd made their rounds, saying hello to everyone, and Astoria excused herself to the powder room, when a dark man with thick eyebrows and thick, puffy bags under his eyes came and shook his hand. He remembered his thick shoulders, his thick bowtie, his impeccably manicured fingernails. He remembered his cheeks, how big and white and square his teeth were, how big his ears were.
"Draco Malfoy, at last we meet." He shook his hand firmly. His voice was deep, a little raspy, an odd sort of...nasal whine to it that sounded familiar. "River Zamora III. I believe you asked my daughter to marry you, once upon a time."
"Ah, sir—"
"No, no, it's fine," he said, smiling, his almond-shaped eyes narrowing in an almost menacing way. "I understand. She's an extraordinary girl. Everybody in New York asks about her all the time."
Draco recalled how afraid he'd felt. "Yes, sir, your daughter is a brilliant and powerful witch." He'd collected his composure as best he could, brought them drinks and apologized graciously for everything. Mister Zamora said nothing to hint the fact that he knew the full details of what had happened between them those years ago. Draco was half-tempted to send him an apology gift of some galleons, but then realized that an American wizard might feel rather insulted at the possibility of being 'bought off.' They talked for a bit about America, about being a lawyer, about the MACUSA...
"I hear that a congratulations are in order, however, for your current engagement," he'd then said. Draco sipped his whiskey.
"Thank you, sir," he had said, then caught glance at Ella through the bottom of his glass, who was exchanging some words with his father. He knew that smug look on her face, that fire in her eye, that aura around her that indicated that she was a damn force of nature. Her long hair was down to the middle of her back, falling over her black tee shirt, gold bangles on her wrist jingling.
"You and I are alike, Mister Malfoy. We fall in love hard and fast, damn the consequences..." He was listening, but he was staring at Ella, who was smiling sweetly up at his father, so unafraid. "If I could give you some marital advice—"
"—Certainly, sir," said Draco, unaware that his voice had cracked, almost unaware that he was staring so plainly at the woman he truly loved, who was eternally unafraid of anything, damn the consequences.
"Find that witch that makes you want to be a wizard...and then be that wizard for her." He remembered those words quite clearly. He remembered turning to him, frowning, and asking what that meant. He remembered the way he sipped champagne, the same delicate way that Ella did, which he found almost...odd. "Being a husband and a father is the greatest thing in my life I've ever done," he then said. "Do you think you'll be able to say the same?"
Ella had come just then, sweeping in on beating wings, smiling sweetly and escorting him away. "Daddy I'd like to introduce you to the Minister of Magic," she'd said. It was a ploy invisible to anyone but him; Ella was saving him. Again. Silently, Draco rose from the bed. He'd told Astoria about all of it that night. He'd told her that he wanted out. He'd said sorry. He'd told her that he was leaving for America, to start life anew. The rage in his father's voice was unparamounted.
It was because of that American strumpet, wasn't it, Draco? You want to be with her, instead? Mudblood babies, Draco, is that what you want? Mudblood babies? You really are a disgrace. You'll have nothing. You won't have a single knut to your name, you ungrateful little worm. Somehow it didn't matter. None of his father's words hurt anymore. Nothing hurt. Everything was numb and his mind was made up to leave. Then, the morning of his journey, he'd been apprehended at Gringott's. Draco had been convinced that his father had been so damn petty to keep him from having any money at all, but when the Aurors told him...
He swallowed his anger, buried his sorrow in his clothes as he dressed. He thought of taking a shower, but it was likely better that he just leave. Glancing in the vanity mirror, he straightened his hair. He didn't look like he normally did after a transformation; medicinal potioneering had certainly made strides. He wondered what it might take to get a supply of Ella's wolfsbane tablets, but he quickly reminded himself that he'd made the pass on that law himself: you can come and have free wolfsbane tablets if you volunteer for the study in the new Lycanthropic Rehabilitation clinic in St. Mungo's. It was the kindest way of putting them all on any sort of list. Ella was happy to do it, to help in any way she could, to save all that she could.
Draco came down the stairs and smelled rich black coffee, buttery toast and bacon. His stomach growled; he'd get food later.
"Draco, good morning." He looked down the corridor and straight in the kitchen, where Ella was standing at the stove, in a purple japanese silk robe, embroidered with gold dragons, over a silk nightgown. She smiled nervously. He came to the kitchen, where she was stirring eggs to scramble in a skillet, flecked with green, chopped chives.
"Ella," he greeted, suddenly feeling choked by the room's atmosphere. "I, um—"
"—You want some eggs?" she asked quickly.
She was nervously shifting. Her voice always got a little higher than normal when she was ill-at-ease, and she always spoke too quickly to understand when she was especially afraid of something. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "Listen, I—" He tried to think of the best way to put it. "—I'm grateful. I don't...want anything from you—"
"—I know," she quickly insisted, nodding her head. "I, um—" She cleared her throat, picking up the skillet, which was full of golden curds, rising with steam. "—It's just eggs. I mean—I made eggs. I made eggs—uh—for me— but you can have some, too. I mean. If you want them. Like—I didn't make them for you, I made them for me. But I always make lots of eggs. And..." She gulped. "You can have some eggs." A beat. "It's just eggs." She smiled again, almost dismissively, trying desperately to be casual.
Draco's chest felt tight. "I don't want you to feel as if you owe—"
"—Draco, it's just eggs. Do you want them or not?"
He glanced at the table, which was already set for two. His heart felt as if it might crack under pressure, so he let out a sigh in an effort to quell his racing pulse. "Well, so long as it's just eggs," he said. Ella smiled. "Because..." He gulped. "I really do want some eggs."
"Right?" giggled Ella nervously. "I mean, yeah. Eggs are... Eggs are great! Who doesn't like eggs?" She poured eggs on to his plate, next to two slices of bacon, and then on hers as well. She set the skillet in the sink and quickly sat, avoiding his eyes. "Help yourself to coffee," she said, busying herself with some toast and strawberry jam. Draco sat across from her and couldn't help but stare. He brought a forkful of eggs to his lips and bit; he sighed deeply through his nose. The eggs were soft pillows, gentle curds of buttery flavor, resting, near-dissolving, on his tongue. He closed his eyes.
"About last night—"
"—Nope!" He looked up to see she had dropped her fork on her ceramic plate and was waving her hands quite adamantly. "Nope. Absolutely not. Last night never happened. I have drawn a veil over last night." Her words were like a kick in the guts. "You weren't even here last night. Understand?"
"Yes I was," he said, his eyes welling. "I was here last night. And I was with you—"
"—You need to stop," she whispered, staring at her plate.
"No, Ella. I won't." She looked up at him, her eyes full. "I was here. Last night happened." She quickly looked back down and stuffed another small pile of eggs in her mouth, followed by an entire slice of bacon. A strange wave of resolve filled Draco's body as she began to chug from her coffee mug."I'm not ashamed that I was with you, even though you might be ashamed—"
"Oh COME ON—!" she shouted, slamming her now-empty mug down on the table. "Get your head out of your own ass! I'm not ashamed of you being a goddamn werewolf—"
"—Keep your voice down!"
"Are you telling me to keep my voice down in my house?!" Draco pinched the space between his eyes. Ella shoved a second slice of bacon in her mouth, possibly in an attempt to keep herself quiet. "I'm not ashamed of that," she said, tucking the bacon into her cheek. "I don't care about that."
He watched her chew then swallow. He watched as she fixed herself some more coffee and sat down again. He didn't understand. "Then why—"
"—Because if you'll cheat with me, then you'll cheat on me!" she whispered in horror. "Okay? I'm ashamed to be the other woman. Happy?" Draco's face softened, his chest swelled and then collapsed. He reached across the table and touched her hand. Ella looked up, her eyebrows tilted in question. She bit her bottom lip.
"Ella Zamora," he said softly. "You could never be 'the other woman.'"
"But I am," she replied. "I'm the other woman." She closed her eyes and hung her head.
"You are the woman," he said. "You're the woman that I want to be with."
"Then why are you with her?" she retorted from behind the curtain of her hair.
"I'm not." She shot her eyes up to meet his. "Listen, let me explain..." Ella blinked. "The day before my father was murdered, I told Astoria I wanted to break it off. I told her that I was sorry and that..." He gulped. "It wasn't fair of me to ask her to stay when I'm so obviously in love with someone else." He paused, waiting for her to react. "She took it well. She took it gracefully. I was leaving for America the next day when I found out—" His voice cracked. "Then I came back to the manor and she..." Draco sighed through his nose. "I couldn't very well say that—"
"—Look, Draco," she said. "I know that you want to be together, but...just..." She sighed. "Marry Astoria, okay? She's not nearly as complicated or insane as I am. She can give you a life I never could!"
"'Life?' What 'life' could she give me—?"
"—A normal one!" Ella insisted. "I mean—" Ella's voice cracked. "Don't you want that? Don't you want a nice happily ever after?" A beat. "Don't you want a non-crazy witch as a wife?"
He burst out laughing, first softly through his nose, and then loudly through his lungs. "In the time that we've known each other, what ever gave you the impression that I was turned off by 'crazy'?" Ella laughed then, suddenly and heartily.
"Okay, you've got me there." He squeezed her hand. She smiled at him sadly. "It's just..." She sighed through her nose. "It's a bad time for me, Draco—"
"—Then when will it be a good time?" he asked. Ella stared, incredulous. "When is a good time for us? When can we try again?"
"How the hell should I know?" she demanded.
"If you don't know when a good time is, how can you know when a bad time is?" She tried to pull her hand away, but Draco wouldn't let her. "I'm calling off the wedding." Her eyes went wide as saucers. "Today."
GAWD I'm an asshole for leaving it off there.
HUGE thanks to HeartofAspen, Pancakestack, SabrinaJasmine, and all the rest for reading and reviewing. More to come soon!