in the end ~ d. malfoy

Chapter Seventy

October 2016

PEOPLE OFTEN SAY THAT YOU SHOULDN'T EVALUATE YOUR LIFE WHEN YOU'RE TIRED — that the blurry haze of exhaustion clouds lenses of self-reflection into those of judgement and anxiety. But there's no time like the present, and with the jumbled cataclysm of feelings warping her brain lately, Diana figures that any judgement is better than none. Even if the finality of a possible answer leaves more fear in her stomach than relief.

So now, she's sitting here, in a quiet corner of the library, reading a book she's charmed the cover of because her brother questioning the title was embarrassing enough. Although Diana knows his queries were only out of concern, she can't seem to shake the dark inkling at the back of her head, one that sends doubt and anxiety curling through her veins.

Objectively, she knows she must be overreacting. Sexuality is a spectrum — or so Diana has been told. She's seen her fair share of boys and girls experiment, pushing their boundaries with paramours to feel out where their own lines blur or end. Diana knows (at least on a surface level) that there is nothing wrong with questioning who you're attracted to. Feelings are never black and white, confusing blends of hormones and neurotransmitters that eviscerate the bounds of traditional language. But some part of her can't help but feel like this whole situation is wrong — like she's doing something morally unjust, even though Diana knows that letting her thoughts run in circles while she reads through a book on human sexuality isn't exactly hurting anyone.

Malfoys have always been secretive. Privacy is power, her dear mother would often remark. To Narcissa, emotions were an unnecessary risk, a troublesome facet of life to be dealt with away from the public eye — lest an unsavoury acquaintance try to use your own words against you. Diana has mastered the art of hiding her heart under her sleeve, compartmentalizing parts of herself in order to craft the perfect image. An image that yes, has altered considerably over the years, but one that she can't afford to shatter — completely, at least.

There's certain boxes stacked away in the far corners of her mind — different ones for different events. She's never dared to open them, their existence in fact being to lock away times that she'd rather not remember. But as Diana reads on, brain zoning out through the long paragraph, her mind wanders to that night in Maya's kitchen with...Jake? Or was it James?

Regardless of whether she remembers his slightly-douchebag-y name, the tension in the kitchen that night is something Diana can still palpably feel. She remembers the weight of expectation swirling in the air, the hitch of her breath as their eyes locked and his flitted down to her lips. A weight, that despite all the romance books and cheesy descriptions Diana's been subjected to, felt more like an unwelcome obligation than an exciting exploration.

Despite her inexperience, Diana knows that she'd had clear feelings for him at the time, the Shadowhunter's charm and self-assuredness appealing to her fourteen-year-old self (though she'd probably cringe in disgust now if he tried his questionable one-liners from back in the day). They were the beginnings of her first crush, blooming forth into a teasing and charged dynamic that she'd wanted to like, that she had liked at first. But the spillover of his interest into the physical had felt like she'd made a wall suddenly shoot up between them — the feeling of his lips nearly connecting with hers feeling wrong and unsatisfactory in all the worst ways rather than a break in the tense buildup to a possible relationship.

In the beginning, she'd chalked it up to her own unrealistic expectations: no one's first kiss would be sunshine and rainbows. Her reluctance to seal the deal felt like a product of her own inexperience and nervousness rather than a sign of a larger problem. Although some would chalk up her experience to past trauma, Diana knows that her relationship with men isn't the issue — that despite her sorry excuse for a father, she hasn't been exposed to the degree of male cruelty and violence that would lead to disgust at the prospect of intimate affection. Her pulling away wasn't because of a sudden flashback or fear-driven reflex, but — now that she thinks about it, — because she didn't want to kiss him, that the connection of her lips had never appealed to her as a sign of progression to something more than acquaintances.