the girl who lost it all [d.m]

seven: casso

casso: shake, jolt, quake

———

DRACO didn't even feel the blood until his twelfth punch.

He didn't even care that he was ruining a perfectly good wall in the room—didn't even care that his mother and Astoria could probably hear him putting his fist through it.

The only thing his frenzied mind was thinking about was the feeling of her skin underneath his palm. The way she'd felt, soft and smooth, the splatter of freckles across her nose standing out as she shut her eyes and leaned into his hand—like she knew how many times he'd touched her like that before.

The way she'd gasped and her eyebrows had furrowed as if she was straining to remember, her own fingers trembling against his as she held his hand to her face.

And how he'd almost—almost—relaxed his hand and slipped it into her hair. Almost tangled it in her dark locks. Almost tugged her forward. Almost kissed her.

Almost.

Draco groaned and dropped his head, his palm pressing flat against the wall, blood trickling down his knuckles and smudged on the wood.

Almost was good—almost was okay. He could live with almosts—it meant he hadn't actually given in.

No matter how much he wanted to, he hadn't given in. He would never give in.

She would always be an almost.

He had had his time to be selfish. For a short time, he'd had her, entangled with her in the sheets, her soft gasps as he kissed her echoing in his ears. He'd pushed away thoughts of his task and his parents and Voldemort and had lost himself in her.

But this time, he didn't have the luxury. He'd almost gotten her killed, had practically sentenced her to two years of torture in a cell himself, and had barely managed to find her after two years of looking for her. Had gotten her out and put her in the safest location possible, had stationed Granger as her supervisor.

If he had given in just because she had fucking touched him, he'd be endangering her again. He'd be throwing her right into the fire and she wouldn't even realise.

Draco wouldn't let anything hurt her again—no matter what he had to sacrifice.

Even if it was himself.

"Draco."

He didn't pick up his head, his entire frame rigid, his hair falling into his eyes. "I'm fine."

"You've splintered the wood." Narcissa didn't sound amused as she stepped into his room—the one he didn't share with Astoria—and approached him, slowly. "I think it's safe to say you're not fine."

He shuddered, finally straightening and dropping his hand away from the wall, staring at the blood stains he'd left on it. "I'll fix it."

"I'm not asking you to." His mother waved her wand and the wood began to shift back into place, all the broken pieces coming together. Even the blood disappeared. "I'm only asking you to tell me what's wrong."