Tainted Love

Not Now

IRIS

The champagne was hot and bitter in her throat, glasses reflecting orangey-gold light and tossing it in careless fragments all across the walls of the gallery. Beautiful stains on the walls.

Draco smelled of cinnamon and ash, no doubt the results of the flask hidden in the inner pocket of his suit jacket. You'd think he would drink something sharp and flavorless, purely alcoholic, but he had loved firewhiskey since Iris had known him. A hint, maybe, of what had always been beneath his hard exterior. Some sort of earthy gentleness; the remnants of a flame.

Iris would never grow tired of watching him like this. He commanded the attention of the room, of the whole gallery, no matter how inconspicuous he tried to be. Never mind that he hadn't even worn a tie, never mind that he had only spoken to Iris for the past two hours, never mind that she was the one who had gotten him invited to the gala in the first place.

Their eyes were drawn to him as if he was one of the paintings on display, the head of the collection. Gazes flicked back and forth, taking in his eyes, his shoes, his hair, the placement of his hands. He had been holding Iris by the nape of her neck, his fingers intermittently drawing lines down to her shoulder blades. With no arm to hang off of, she had taken to holding him by the hem of his jacket.

The art itself was of little worth to Iris. It would be nice, she supposed, to be one of those people who knew things about history, who could identify artists by their great works and spout some nonsense about the political context, but, especially in the case of abstractism, Iris found most paintings were lost on her.

She liked photography, she supposed, especially the muggle kind. It captured something very human, fixed and unchangeable in a way other art could never hope to be.

The gallery was showing the sorts of so-called portraits that you have to stand at a certain angle to see. Draco liked them, or else he had spent ten minutes staring at one for show. Iris wouldn't put it past him. But she liked the idea that he was finding some meaning in all of this.

A hand on Iris's arm. She turned to see Tracey grinning in a pale pink dress, her hair uncharacteristically straight. Behind her, impish smile and a matching tie, stood Sebastian.

"I've already been warned to stop being so loud," Tracey whispered. "But thank fuck we've found you two. I don't think I could stand another minute of pretending to be looking at art."

"I told you not to yell," Sebastian returned. "You're acting as if I've made you take a vow of silence."

"Is Theo here?" Iris asked. Draco's hand dropped from her neck, tracing her spine and landing at the small of her back. He drew her to him with a miniscule movement.

"No, he and Daphne are coming on their own." Tracey rolled her eyes. "They wanted to have their own limo, fuck knows why."

"I think fuck is the operative word there," Sebastian chuckled back.

"I can't imagine having sex in a limo," Tracey mused. "I mean, it sounds fancy, but when you get down to it it's going to be fucking cramped. The seats are smaller than they let on. And it's weirdly dark. And they give you so much complimentary shit you're pretty much guaranteed to knock over a bottle of wine while you're doing it."

"Well, there goes my plans for the ride home," Sebastian grinned. Tracey rolled her eyes congenially. There was no telling whether Sebastian was serious or whether Tracey was taking him seriously. Iris had given up trying to explain their dynamic to Draco long ago. "Speaking of wine," Sebastian continued. "There wouldn't happen to be a bar between all these fucking portraits, would there?"