Dilectio | Draco Malfoy x Reader

Broken

Confusion.

Broken.

Anger.

Betrayal.

Weakness.

The emotions course through Draco's mind at a rampant pace as he apparates into the alley by his flat building. Storming through the alley, the rain comes down in thick droplets. The precipitation should leave him cold, yet it's the contrary inside his head. He feels like he's on fire; he only sees red as his nails dig into the palms of his hands so hard blood trickles down.

Slamming the door shut behind him, he immediately heads for the sofa. He doesn't even bother drying himself off. His eyes flick over to the drink cart, and he summons a tumbler. Firewhiskey into the glass, he chugs it down in one gulp. It burns, matching the burn he feels in his mind and body. The warmth gives him no comfort as he slams another full glass back. The blood from his palm coats the glass. He sees it drip down; his eyes track the movement as the drop of blood falls on the floor.

He pictures the hallways in his mind. He finds the door that leads to the room, the one that looks like your bedroom. It's here in his mind where his memories of you reside. Where there are fairy lights that twinkle and a ukulele that sits in the corner. One of the four that you've shown him. He knows now, though, that in the drawer next to your bed, there's a wand—your wand. He knew it was your wand because when he held it, the magic didn't fight back. It welcomed him.

"It's not my top choice, but it serves a purpose..." What you told him when he asked about your job. It served a purpose. He knows the purpose now. He files the memory away in the drawer next to the bed.

"People like you?" It's what you'd said the night you left him when you saw the Dark Mark on his arm. How your body tensed when your head fell to the right. How your eyes squeezed shut after seeing it. You lied. Said it was about the rules. It was not about the rules— it may have been at one point. It was about him, about his branding. He doesn't understand how you would've been affected by the war in America—but it doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't matter because he knows your breakdown that night was not about the rules; it was about him. He locks the memory away, just like the others.

He recalls how you tensed when Nott mentioned apparition. You didn't even question him when he covered it up as slang. He rarely interacted with Muggles, let alone Americans, so he didn't think long about it. He locks that memory away too.

Your voice echoes in his mind, 'yours.' His eyes squeeze shut, and his breath is heavy. It was all a game. He feels used and betrayed. She was never mine.

She's a witch. I should've known. Zabini told him you liked FIFA, that you were planning to go to the World Cup this summer... The World Cup in which he looked up when he got home and noticed it wasn't even happening this year. But the Quidditch World Cup is just weeks away. He should've inquired further.

Why didn't he think about it? Why didn't he think about all the other times? He's a Slytherin; he's supposed to be the cunning one. He's a Malfoy; he's not supposed to fall for a Muggle. But you're not a Muggle. Shouldn't that make everything easier? Why did he fail when it came to you?

I trusted her.

None of it made any sense, yet small pieces were starting to fit together in the puzzle that was his soulmate. Is she even my soulmate, or was that a lie too?

"The soulmate stuff is a bunch of bullshit anyway." Your voice comes back to his mind. The first time he fucked you, it was intoxicating being around you. It felt like he was falling into the unknown. As scared as he was about it, he didn't feel alone in doing it. There was probably some spell out there that would change your handwriting to match his; he'd heard stories about other people doing it. It always left a sour taste in his mouth when he heard about people taking advantage of it—come to think of it, that's probably exactly what you did to him.