Bittersweet

Malfoy lay in the dungeons, alone and miserable.  His housemates were able to recognize his moods, and he was clearly volatile.  Pansy expressed horror at the site of his bloodied face but knew not to pursue him.

Beside him was an empty bottle of fire whisky. 

Not even that was enough to numb his anger.

He followed Hermione because he knew she was not ill.  He suspected that there was something amiss, but what he did not expect was to walk in on her and Weasley in the middle of a fuckfest.

If a professor had not been present…

If they had not been at school…

He would have killed him.  He would have ripped his throat out. 

His fantasies were becoming more and more vivid.  Instead of imagining ways to kill the headmaster here he was thinking of all the ways he could end Weasley.

Miserable, he rolled over onto his side.

He wanted her, so much.

Weasley was the one she went to when she was upset.

Weasley was the one she laughed with, who she shared her thoughts and feelings with.

He was important enough that she would skip class, just to feel his hands on her body.

If she were a pureblood…

Hell, even if she were a half blood…

There might have been a chance.

But she was who she was, and he was who he was.

His jaw was sore.

She didn’t even notice.

All she saw was Weasley.

Maybe if he could convince her, there was still time…

If she could just see…

He knew he was deluded, but he didn’t care.

He just wanted her. 

Malfoy squeezed his eyes closed, and ignored the desire to cry.  He hadn’t cried since he was six.  No, he would not cry.

He took a steadying breath.

Granger was just confused.

It was up to him to show her that he was better.

He just needed to be patient.  Slytherins were, if anything, patient.