WHEN GODS SLEEP - DRACO M.

THIRTEEN.

WHEN GODS SLEEP
Chapter Thirteen

It was early afternoon when Epione found herself standing in the great hallway of Malfoy Manor, the doors having magically opened to reveal only herself - her mother having Disapparated already - and Draco pacing on the other side.

           She briefly wondered if he would greet her in the same fashion he had the day before, but he began leading her down the hall with no greeting or acknowledgement, and she felt herself pale.

'Draco.' She called behind him, softly even, and he halted, back still turned to her. 'Are we not going to talk?'

Was it for the best, that she could not see his cold eyes and hardened face? Or had it become a necessity, to look and to see and search, for even the subtlest change, a hint.

'You think we should?' He snapped, a hint of a dark smirk seeping through his words.

She considered touching his shoulder, urging him to glance her way, but stood firmly behind him instead. Her tone was but a whisper. 'Is this to be my life – our life? Will you be a kind and loving gentleman when we've guests and uncaring and hateful when we're alone?'

At that he did turn, and she didn't know what to make of his troubled expression. Anger, hurt, confusion, spite – she could not tell which crossed his features. Her own, however, glowed with that harsh spark of heart-wrenching pain unrequited love brought.

'You're one to speak,' he scoffed, glaring down at her, 'had no trouble lying to my mother's face either, did you?'

Epione considered him, considered their situation, how she'd barely crossed the entrance of his home and was already in an argument, and found no strength in herself to attempt a charade. ' I didn't lie once. In fact, the only delusion I took part in was agreeing to how you'd confessed to me! We're in an arranged marriage, they are not to expect love, are they? They're to expect an heir when we're of age and with how you can barely look at me, I doubt we'll even get one!'

But he did look. He let his grey eyes drown in hers, search them, and she found herself fighting a battle that wasn't palpable, wasn't reasonable or explainable. Was he, perhaps...?

She adverted her gaze, feeling a semblance of a headache brewing just above her forehead. The silence was excruciating; by the time she found a sliver of her voice, it was rather choked. 'What did you see?'

He didn't reply, much too focused on the vast green carpet beneath his feet. She insisted, tone harsher, her heart pounding against her ears. 'Draco, what did you see?'

'Nothing,' he admitted, and by the unfamiliar waver of his own voice she knew it to be the truth, 'I'm only good at Occlumency.'

'Then-then why did you try?' Epione attempted to swallow down the lump in the back of her throat, but the ache remained.

'Because I don't believe you. You've never – not once –'

'It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter to you because you're only trying to please your father. Are you worried that I'll be,' she searched for her mother's harsh words, trembling, 'a frigid bride? Don't fret, Draco. I can no more stop myself from liking you than I can stop my heart from beating.'

And she walked past him, quickly and almost gracefully, because she did not want to see what would cross his face, what would pool from his eyes, at her words. She rushed down the corridor, only wishing for some distance between them. He did not follow.