Desired | Draco Malfoy & Theodore Nott, 18+

01

Chapter 1-12 have been rewritten, so some paragraphs may lack comments.<3

_____

Isla had never really been in love.

Or she had, yet she hadn't.

She didn't understand.

She didn't quite understand what it took for a soul to get tangled with another, how hard a heart had to pound for it to beat in bearing with someone else's.

It never really made sense to her. All it lived to be was strange.

No one ever told her how it was supposed to feel, how she was meant to think when it came to it.

Her mother ever so said that if you know, you know — but how was she supposed to know when she didn't.

She wasn't too fond of when her mother spoke in riddles, when she simply didn't state one thing but twisted her words into tells that had her head hurt.

How was she supposed to know what love felt like? How was she meant to know where the point of falling for someone took place?

Perhaps it didn't. Perhaps there wasn't a point. Perhaps love at first sight didn't truly exist, and the end of the road everyone ever so talked about wasn't there.

Maybe the movies and books were wrong. Maybe they were made by people who wished to trick others, to make an illusion out of love that wasn't real, all because they knew that there wasn't a thing as love at first sight, one true love, or something called soulmates.

Perhaps she was just meant to fall and fall and fall until someone caught her, or she crashed. Either in love or in heartbreak.

Still, nothing made sense.

She never had sex either.

Her mother told her it was good, that she waited until she was ready.

Isla didn't know if she would ever be ready.

She didn't know if she wanted to be ready.

Not quite sure if she would ever be able to give herself to another person in the way she was meant to do when it came to sex.

Mostly, it frightened her.

It intimidated her, thinking about it, to think about falling for a person so hard that she would give them everything, that she'd grant them with every last inch of her body, every single piece of her mind.

To be in love wasn't anything for her.

Not when the person she once believed herself to have been in love with, died, and she was left behind to mend for herself. She was young, inexperienced. Isla didn't want to be experienced. Not within love.

She just wanted to be.

Shaking her head loose of the thoughts she carried, Isla reached for the last sweater still resting on her bed, giving the envelope on her pillow a nervous glance.

''Did you see the note on the table, dear?'' Her mother called out for her, the sound of pots and pans slammed together bounced between the walls, ''You got your letter late last night.''

She couldn't possibly have missed it since her mother placed it on her nightstand, right over her books.

Sometimes that woman was more than obvious.

''I don't want to open that bloody letter,'' She mumbled back, silently within the flesh of her own mouth.

''What was that?'' Her mother caught it anyway, ''Did you just—''