(Untitled)
Harry Potter is not real. Nor is he your friend, nor would he WANT to be your friend if he did exist.
Deal with it.
Also: anyone who uses ":)" or ":(" is an arsewipe and ought to be put down.
Deal with it.
Also: anyone who uses ":)" or ":(" is an arsewipe and ought to be put down.
It's quieter in the manor when it's just the two of them. They take their meals in near silence in the dining room; Draco avoids speaking his father's name as though it is some forbidden curse, something worse than Unforgivable, and his mother only observes him with the patient expression of a lioness at rest.
"You really aren't at all like your father," she says at last, as the house elves clear the used dishes away, and Draco is startled by the warmth in her voice. He flattens one hand against the expensive wood of the dining table, risking a glance at her face, and even as he does so she is rising, crossing the space between them, kneeling to take his face between her hands. Draco stiffens at the touch, automatically suspicious at any sort of affectionate gesture, but his mother only presses her lips to his forehead in a surprisingly chaste movement.
"You're a good boy," she murmurs, and before Draco can ask her if she's serious or not her mouth is warm against his own, this kiss lingering and wet and hot and nothing at all like anything she's ever given him before. He is still, frozen to his chair, and a part of him isn't even certain he would move if he could.
When she pulls away he says, in a soft but still faintly challenging tone, "Good... but just for you, Mother."
Her smile, curved like a dangerous sword, is a promise of what's to come.
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