Disclaimer: All things BtVS belong to Joss Whedon, et al. All things HP belong to JK Rowling, et al.
Distribution: The normal places.
Author’s Notes: In response to Kira’s challenge on my LJ.
Summary: Sometimes love just… hurts…
He swirled the wine in the glass, watching it coat the perfect crystal thickly before trailing down the sides. It was bitter on his tongue when he lifted the glass to his lips, letting the wine slide over his tongue. Dry, biting, it still did little to erase the memory of her lips on his… or the way that she had looked when she walked out of the door.
Go, he had said.
Go live your life.
Because she could never have a life with him.
He had told her as much, though not in words that he would be repeating any time soon. Nor in a tone that offered consolation. With a sneer on his lips he had done his best to break her down.
And he had done it well.
He toyed with the knife that lay on the plate of cheese next to the wine bottle. It was more of a dagger, he thought with clarity. A dagger that he was lucky Dawn Summers hadn’t thrown right at him when she left. There had been fire in her eyes. Passion that had nothing to do with the bedroom and everything to do with hate.
But she had been rotting here, in his family’s ancestral home. She had bided her time, waiting for his house arrest to be over… not knowing if it ever would be because his sins were such that he was lucky he hadn’t been sent straight to Azkaban. A small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. The house arrest was the ‘compromise’ that the Ministry had given him in exchange for the information that had ended the war. Not the Kiss. Not Azkaban. Not even a Ministry administered AK.
House arrest for an indeterminate period of time. Until they felt that he had sufficiently been rehabilitated.
Well how in the bloody hell was he supposed to be rehabilitated if he was never allowed to leave the blasted manor, he had wanted to know.
And no answer had ever been given… yet still Dawn had put her life on hold for him, even though he had never asked her to.
And she would have hated him for it one day. Better she hate him now that later. Hate him for something more tangible than regrets of a life that she could never again recapture… dreams that had fallen to the wayside and were now too far away to ever again grasp.
He had set her free.
“Damn you,” he whispered heatedly, not knowing if he said it to himself or to the girl with the long brown hair that he had sent fleeing from his home.
Draco shut his eyes, draining his wine glass... knowing that it wouldn’t erase her memory or the time that they had spent together. Couldn’t possibly get rid of the promises that he had made to her before he had found out that the Ministry wasn’t prepared to be as lenient as he had previously thought.
Promises that he had broken.
He regretted the promises now, sitting in a chair in an empty house, next to a fire that was dying out.
But, most of all, he regretted letting himself love her.
Because the memory of her love would haunt him for the rest of his days… whether they were spent in this cold, unfriendly house or not.