Fatal Attraction | D.M. (Soft Rewrite)

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Sore Loser

Suspended in a state of insomnia, painfully teetering on the brink of sleep, Draco struggled to focus on anything but Ophelia. Picking apart every whimpering breath and comment she made until his head hurt.

Slipping out of bed, he sat at the nearest window seat. Cracking the lock, he leant into the bitter draught of air.

While not an ideal place to smoke, he was too tired to make a trip to the grounds. Being out there at night still triggered memories of the Battle - visions which he could stomach - but didn't need, especially not tonight.

Casting a shield charm, to cover its scent, he lit the cigarette with the tip of his wand. Inhaling sharply, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, before exhaling. The taste of tobacco was biting, as the tendrils of flame travelled down his throat.

Looking at the view, shrouded in darkness, he had time to second-guess their last conversation.

The game Draco initiated was not just about punishing Ophelia. He knew he could fuck her into submission if all he wanted was her begging for forgiveness on her knees. She even bloody asked me to stay.

He could have taught her not to misbehave, before gifting her an untold number of orgasms - an ordeal her body would need days to recover from.

He could imagine her uncomfortably sitting on the seats in the quidditch stands. Her ass still tinged red.

Then she'd be fucking cheering for me. On my fucking side.

But that would not be her first choice. It would be a decision shaded in lust. And Draco knew the difference between choosing someone and wanting someone.

He wanted her so badly he could barely breathe, but his feelings went further. He could be patient and wait for her to catch up, but he had to know it would happen eventually.

He couldn't be like Blaise. He couldn't end up meaning nothing more than a couple fucks to her.

That's why he had to do this - testing her limits to see how far she could be pushed before running.

But he feared the outcome.

He didn't expect their conversation to stray so far from making up. Even if Ophelia wasn't trying to be evasive, he took her pauses and hesitations as proof. The evidence that she couldn't be honest with him.

He bore the weight of the words left unsaid. He saw the gaps between what she told him and her true feelings.

There were so many missing elements he needed to understand. Yet in her presence he struggled to challenge her answers.

Fear forced him to keep his mouth shut.

How can I expect her to admit to me – if she won't even admit to herself – that she's ashamed to be with me?

His pride didn't want him to stay but her affection meant he couldn't leave.

He hated himself for being so weak. He felt like wearing a target, turning his back, and waiting for the final blow. Which is obviously how this will end - with her leaving me.

Self-deprecating asshole! He seethed, stubbing out the cigarette. I fuck her once and I'm already this pussy-whipped? It's pathetic.

But it was too late, Draco couldn't turn back.

Furthermore, what would he be returning to? His mask of indifference, his cold persona, clashed with happy memories of her. Fucking her - holding her - walking or talking to her.

That mask no longer adhered to his features in the same way. He had taken it off one too many times in her presence.

She had twisted at his insides, forcing smiles onto his face - so, his expression would forevermore betray him.