Stop
"We should stop doing this," she says. When he doesn't reply, she sends him a look. He's lying next to her on the bed, naked and gorgeous. But now that her desires have been satiated, for the first time since their encounter, she's able to think clearly – and she doesn't like what she sees.
"Draco," she prompts, "Are you listening to me?"
"I hear you fine," he replies, annoyed by her questions. Nevertheless, he is satisfied with their meeting, and there's a smirk on his face.
"I seem to recall you begging me not to stop just now," he says and the smirk widens.
"I'm being serious," she says. "This is wrong."
"Of course it's wrong," he agrees. "It wouldn't be half as fun if it were not."
"You're married to my sister," Daphne insists. "I love my sister. And I love Theo."
"You can go on loving them both as much as you want," he says.
"We should stop," she repeats.
He turns his face towards her – she's naked, too, and pretty enough, but he meant what he said. If she wasn't his sister-in-law, he probably wouldn't be here in this hotel room, recovering from their tryst. This is wrong and wicked, and he likes being wicked.
"Daphne," he says. "Remind me, how many months has it been that every Thursday you and I come together and have our fun? You like this as much as I do. You like being bad."
"I do not!" she exclaims at once, though it has been several months already, so long that is has become a habit. The guilt has always been there, the feeling that she has done very wrong, and every week she makes up her mind not to go next Thursday; but when the wicked day arrives, her resolve crumbles, and she comes.
"You do," he says and laughs. "Once you embrace it, there's no more guilt."
"I fancied you at school," she blurts out, as a weak excuse for doing wrong with him.
"I know," he replies. She had never worshipped him openly, like Parkinson, but she hadn't been clever enough, not quick enough to avert her eyes, when she had been gazing at him with longing. He knew she fancied him, and he liked it, because it was fun to torture her, and see if she managed to take it with a straight face. The only shame was that she had given up on him before his marrying to her sister, because that would have been the ultimate blow and he would have enjoyed watching her struggle and suffer. But – this is pretty good, too.
"So it must be some kind of residue passion," she explains, trying to convince herself as much as him. "I just have to get it out of my system."
"I think you love me," he says, as a new idea occurs to him. Of course – her marriage to Nott has been nothing but another way to hide her feelings for him, and he is finally seeing right through it.
"I don't even like you," she replies, frowning, confused – unable to figure it out. She doesn't like him, his character, his opinions, his wickedness. But she yearns for his touch, his kiss, his caress – she can't get enough of him. Which is wrong, very wrong. But she doesn't want him to stop.
"You bring out the worst in me," she whispers, more to herself, trying to clear her conscience by laying the blame on him. And he is guilty of many things, but so is she – he's guilty of starting the affair, and she is of not stopping it.
"It feels good being bad, does it not?" he says, grinning malevolently.
"Don't you love my sister at all?" she asks in desperation.
"Sure I do."
"Then why are you here with me? Do you enjoy hurting those you love?"
"I may be wicked," he says, glancing at her, "But I'm not cruel. If I wanted to hurt her, I would tell her all about our little rendezvous."
"Are you not afraid she might discover it on her own?"
"No, not really," he says, stretching himself lazily, then fixing her with a look. "What do you think your husband would do, if he found out?"
"I don't know," she says truthfully.
"He'd probably beat you up," he suggests. "He looks the type."
"Sometimes," she says and hesitates, because she does not want to share her thoughts with him; but there is no one else she can discuss it with, so she continues, "Sometimes I think he already knows. Sometimes I think they both know."
"You're paranoid," he says, laughing. "Neither of them knows anything."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because Tori would certainly show her displeasure if she knew. She does act all prim and proper when the occasion calls for it, but in private she has a quick and fiery temper."
"I know," Daphne says, smiling as a remembrance steals over her.
"And, like I said, your husband would beat you senseless if he knew."
"He's never raised his hand against me," she says, unable to not defend him.
"Because you've never been anything but a loving and faithful wife, to his knowledge," he says, ready to continue the topic. For what purpose, he hardly knows himself, but it seems to disturb and distract her from her annoying lectures.
She shrugs but does not speak. She doesn't want to believe it, but he may be right. She has seen Theodore deal with his adversaries in a quick ruthless way; she has seen him angry enough to kill. To her, he has always been gentle and caring, but she knows what he's capable of. She wonders if he would stop at merely beating her up, or if he would take it one step further.
She shudders at the thought and feels immensely guilty for ever having it a moment later; he smirks quietly, contend with the effect his suggestion has made on her. He is more secure of her silence now than before, and he's sure she would do anything to keep it a secret.
"I have to go," she says after a while, but she'll remain in bed for another long moment. He delights in her reluctance to leave him, which shows the power he has over her. When she finally stirs he watches her movements, with a countenance of ownership. She's his and she knows it – knows it and hates it.
She pauses at the door, her hand on the knob. He waits for her words with a sweet anticipation. He knows what she wants to say – goodbye! – and he know what she will say,
"See you next week?"
And his reply is the same as ever –
"Perhaps. If I feel like it."