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Him? With you?
His room is dark, moonlight blurring the edges of the typical Malfoys’ curtains.
“Hey,” he pauses, “what’s on your mind?”
You avoid his burning gaze. You know you don’t know how to answer this question.
You’ve been thinking about him.
A light smile, a small nod. He understands you perfectly.
Gently reaching for your hands, he whispers, “Me?”
You squeeze his hands.
So cold, always so cold.
But you don’t mind transferring heat to his palms.
His thumb starts gently rubbing small circles on your hand.
“I’ve been thinking about you, too.” He confesses, looking at you, a light smile dancing on his lips.
You turn away automatically. You don’t know how to meet his stormy eyes.
He is too beautiful to allow anyone to stay sane while conversing with him.
“No, please. Look at me.”
The urgency — or maybe a desperate sense of longing — in his voice causes you to slowly turn towards him.
It’s fear, uncertainty, nervousness.
But he probably interprets your hesitation as rejection.
The implicit kind.
Which hurts much more than the tangible “no.”
Swallowing hard, hurt flickers across his face.
Under the moonlight, his delicate facial features glow with a subtle shimmer.
He looks angelic. And vulnerable.
Just for you.
Yet he masks it.
Pretends to be okay.
As if he doesn’t actually care that much.
As if you won’t notice.
Your heart breaks a little no matter how hard you don’t want to admit it.
Still holding your hand, he breathes, “I hope for an answer.”
He doesn’t even say he needs an answer.
Or he wants an answer.
He just hopes for an answer.
You really, really don’t know how to handle a situation like this.
Sitting on his bed, facing him, holding hands, listening.
“I don’t know how to keep on living like this,” he continues.
A drop of tears falls from your eyes.
Why is he so good with his words?
It’s manipulation, right?
The way he once manipulated other girls and war-time enemies and whatnot?
And yet he keeps confessing, stuttering, even, “I really am a mon-m-monster and I do not give a flying damn about the whole world hating me but, fuck, I just hope that y-you are not scared of… m-me.”
Another drop of tears falls from your eyes.
His words.
The way his voice cracks.
His presence, his cologne, his breath.
You can’t help it, you shake your head, shake shake shake.
You feel like you’ve shattered whatever is between you two.
The air, perhaps.
He stares at you even more intensely, “But you’re still so afraid of me. You don’t even respond to me.”
You try to pull your hands back from his but he holds onto your fingers and —
“No, no. It doesn’t work like this. You can’t just escape when you feel like it.”
His voice gets louder.
His hands move to your face and, despite the fury and brokenness creeping into his voice, his touch is surprisingly gentle.
Holding your face and silently asking you to look at him, he croaks,
“This is killing me.”
He leans in, resting his forehead on yours, mouthing the words as if they break him when he says them out loud:
“You are killing me.”
You don’t know what to do.
Be together with him?
Will he hurt you the way he breaks other girls’ hearts?
Does he even understand what love means?
Can he bring you peace if he himself is the definition of a walking wound?
He lets go of your face.
He moves out of your way.
He turns his back to you.
Is it over?
Is everything over?
“I love you.”
This time, it’s not just his voice.
You’ve said it together.
His voice, a hopeless prayer.
Your voice, a lost question.
But together, a soft harmony.
He sharply turns around, scanning your face, “Did I hallucinate? Did you say something? Did—”
You fidget your fingers, “No, I said I love you, I think.”
Mouth agape, he is suddenly at a lost of words.
So you speak up.
“I don’t know how to do this the proper way. I don’t know how to word this. I have commitment issues. I always overthink. I don’t want to be hurt but I seem to be hurting you even before we start any real relationships.”
He recovers form his shock, stuttering, “But, but, you don’t need to hide from me, you know I’m always here for you, you know I’m not physically capable to not love you —”
There’s no accusation.
No disgust.
Just care.
Gentle, cold flames.
You cover your eyes, finding it harder and harder to breathe, “I’ve…I’ve hurt you so badly.”
He quickly shakes his head, “No, no, I’m fine. I am yours to break.”
“But I hate it when I have to lie to myself saying that you’re this evil, manipulative fuckboy that is playing me, because otherwise I would fall in love with you and —”
“And what?”
It comes out as a demand.
His chest is now dramatically rising and falling.
He pinches his nose bridge and diverts his gaze, breaking the moonlight, “Fall in love with me and what? Is loving me and being loved by me really that undesirable?”
You swear you hear pain in his voice.
The way he talks.
The way he breaks.
The way he is so, so vulnerable in front of you.
He steps closer to you, slightly leaning on the bed, “Do you seriously think that I could hurt you? I can’t even stand this thought. I would fight the whole world and be perfectly content to be tortured 12/7 if it means I could have you.”
“Draco please stop I can’t—”
“Can’t what?” He grabs your shoulders violently but then holds you gently. “Can’t be with me? Can’t stop lying to yourself because you’ve started doing so already?”
You sit up and move towards him, “No. I’m too afraid of the goodness, gentleness, happiness that you’ll bring. I can’t handle being loved by the only man I love. It’s too much. It doesn’t feel real.”
His features visibly soften. Arms open, he engulfs you in a sentimental yet firm embrace.
“May I love you?”
You close your eyes, exhaling, “I know that I might need a little bit more time, but I also know that I will say yes.”
Moonlight softens the outline of your figures, taking away the fear, leaving behind a tender ocean of silver peace.