The Shattered Dragon

Chapter 15: Cinderella

He called for her just after dinner, asking for her help getting ready for the Gala. But when she got to his room he was already showered and nearly completely dressed. She swallowed a pang of disappointment at not being able to help him "clean up". Much like his boundaries of never entering her room, however, Draco had yet to invite her to his bed or his bath. Every time they were together it was either in a downstairs room of the brothel or the front room of his suite. Even now he was finishing dressing there. It was, perhaps, his way of keeping her at some sort of distance.

"Come in little Sparrow. Would you like a drink?"

After pouring a mug of tea, she sat on the black leather couch and watched as he buttoned up his crisp white shirt, slipping diamond and silver dragon cufflinks into the sleeves, catching her confused gaze in the reflection of the mirror.

"You're certainly going all out this evening, Mr. Malfoy," she said leaning back on her elbows with an eyebrow raised. "Hoping to snag yourself an heiress?"

He made a face of genuine disgust and she laughed, surprised at the relief that bloomed in her chest. She had no doubt that Melody would make a move on him, and not only because he was a "rakish outlaw". He was beautiful. Looking at him standing in front of her in his black suit and tie, his platinum hair painstakingly arranged to look neat but a bit tousled, a few white locks hanging in front of silver eyes, it was hard to picture the sharp faced bully from school. Luna had always predicted he would grow up to be "almost frighteningly handsome" but they'd never believed her. But it wasn't just the way he looked that had changed. Everything about him was a bit softer, the stiff aristocratic snobbery broken down a bit to show a real man. A man who was still capable of slicing anyone down with a smart retort or devastating sarcasm, a man who was still infuriatingly arrogant but who also had a sense of empathy, a sense of humor, a man who had learned the importance of seeing the pain in others and doing what he could to alleviate it. Like everyone else, the war had changed him.

Not to mention he was a lover unlike any she'd ever had.

She cleared her throat and sat up straight again, watching as he pulled his black tie from the pocket of his trousers.

"Pouting, Cinderella? You know I can't take you to a Pureblood Ball," he said, slipping the black satin tie under his collar. She was fairly certain he hadn't meant it to sound so condescending and obvious but it still hurt.

Hermione wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue in disgust, standing up to help him, effortlessly twisting the fabric into a perfect bow

"You are sorely mistaken, Mr. Renfield. You see, I don't want to go to a pureblood ball. I wouldn't have accepted your invitation anyway."

He tipped her chin up with his finger and smiled at her; his confident, lopsided Draco smile, eyes sparkling as if he were about to laugh. After searching her face for a moment, however, the light went out of his eyes completely.

"You're jealous," he said before frowning and pulling his hand away, moving to find his black suit jacket. "You're feeling something I told you not to feel. I told you that I wouldn't be able to give you any more than what we have already. I told you that and I meant it."

"Of course I'm jealous! You're leaving the building I've been a prisoner in for nearly nine months! But that's beside the point. Don't stand here and pretend you're surprised at my reaction. Why would you ask me here to help you get ready if not to rub it in my face?" She asked, her cheeks fiery hot, her jaw tense, tight. "If not to see if I was jealous, to see what I had to say about your little blind date?"

Although he'd already found his jacket, he continued rummaging around his closet, unable to look her in the eye. How could he tell her? How could he explain that he just needed to see her, even if it was only for an hour, before having to go out amongst the walking dead, the icy aristocrats with their lofty ideals and false compassion for the "unfortunate" halfbloods and muggleborns still in the country? How could he tell her that before she'd come to his room his hands had been shaking, his stomach burning with acid? He'd wanted to feel her hands on him, smell the berry-scented shampoo in her hair, hear the even, buttery tones of her voice, her musical laugh.