Limerence; Draco Malfoy

Chapter Twenty-One: Lines

❄️Draco❄️

The flickering emerald flames hissed and crackled, their shadows dancing across the flagstone floor, yet despite the continuous heat that came from the embers nestled in the fireplace, the Slytherin Dormitory remained as cold as a prison cell.

And right then, Draco didn't half feel trapped: in a confusing storm of emotion brought on by the whirlwind of a girl that was Violet Lockwood, who had fled their battlefield nearly ten minutes ago.

Ten minutes in which Draco had spent breathing heavily, gazing into the abyss and feeling as though he'd just woken up from a really, really intense dream. For once he was able to recognize the emotions spinning through his mind: anger, then pride, and then...

... then there was this other emotion, a much more present one which he couldn't quite put a label on, but it was hot and heavy and it made his skin crawl.

Whatever it was, it made him feel like utter shit. Draco shook his head sharply as he squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down hard hard hard - until he tasted blood.

He wished his thoughts could stop being so scattered, just for once. He wished life would stop playing games on him, for once. He wished for the one thing he had always wished for - right from being a little boy: A peaceful existence. Preferably one without the overbearing pressures that came from his family.

One where the shameful marking on his arm ceased to exist.

Thinking about this only drew his attention towards the sudden, throbbing, stinging sensation that was burning the skin around his dark mark.

For once, he was thankful for the painful distraction -- it moved the colourful image of Violet Lockwood to the back of his mind. If only he could find some way to banish her from his thoughts permanantly...

The little flame that was she had burned too bright for his comfort, and Draco thought it was time she ought to turn to smoke, thus making his world perfectly dark, perfectly still again, just the way it'd been before she'd waltzed along.

Draco was already shaking by the time he'd stormed out of the dungeon exit and into the empty, echoey corridor. He started walking - quickly. God, he was desperate. He didn't think he'd ever been this desperate before. But all this morbid thinking made it unbearable for him to stay dithering in that lonely common room for any longer.

Although the effects of the firewhiskey still fogged up his brain, he remained sure of the location he was heading to.

Didn't even stop to consider the recklessness of the idea. Partly because he'd gone there so many times before now that it had become almost a routine for him. A gruesome, shameful ritual...

Stressed? No worries. Just go to the prefect's bathrooms. That place was better than any therapy office, Draco thought, because there was no dim-witted therapist there to tell him how he felt, or to tell him that it was all in his head, and that he should just 'write his thoughts down on a little piece of paper and then take a nice hot bath.' All there was instead was this cold, frigid air, low and soothing lighting, himself, and enough empty space to do whatever the fuck he pleased without judgment.

He could give himself a temporary, blissful fix.

The second those bathroom doors swung gently closed, Draco was already yanking up the white sleeve of his shirt, exposing his milky skin to the silvery moonlight which gleamed in from the high arched windows above the sinks.

His eyes blazed down on it, prickling dangerously. Maybe if he glared hard enough the fucking thing would burn off - like a laser?

But that would be asking for a miracle. His mark wasn't going anywhere.