Plastic
Draco has become exceedingly good at catching when someone is being false with him. It wasn’t a hard skill to cultivate, he just needed to remember what he would do in similar situations. A twist of the lips not quite a smile or far outstretching the average one; fluttering lashes and eyes turned to look demure; pleasure in his company. All signs of deceit.
It’s all fine, all good. He had been raised to expect this, whether or not that had been the intentions of his parents or his peers. Turns out his enemies were the most honest. He’d pick a fight just to see sincerity back at school (going home to your parents this Christmas, Potter? Oh that’s right…, Hey, mudblood). Now he goes to see her, poor excuses on his tongue when he raps on her door.
“Oh Draco, what a surprise,” Luna says with a smile that says she isn’t surprised one bit.
“Ah, Luna. Hello.“ He as no excuse this time, just the intense feeling that his skin is made of plastic and the world is cut from the same material–all fake and shiny and polished to be what one wants not what one needs.
She sees it in his face, he knows, sees the desperation pinching his lips into a thin line, stiffening his spine to the breaking point. She will never turn him away, she will always just smile and grab his hand like she does now and draw him into the warmth of her home. Sometimes it’s just for tea and open conversation, other times for something more, but Draco always leaves with the plastic caked from his body and his spine just a bit more flexible.