Elegies for the Unbroken

Draco

The house stood at the edge of the forest, its darkened windows flickering with the glow of string lights hastily hung over cracked beams. The cliffs behind it dropped into a black abyss, the roar of waves below drowned by the hum of generators and the occasional shout from Theo, who was arguing with Blaise about the placement of a makeshift bar. There was no bustle, no hustle, only the raw energy of chaos barely held together by tradition—if you could call it that. This was their space, their sanctum, far enough from campus to drown the rules in liquor and smoke. One of the many places their parties were held, but the only that truly mattered to any of them.  
  
Draco stood by the broken window in what used to be a sitting room, the jagged edges of the glass catching the low light like teeth. The air smelled of damp wood and distant salt, a sharp counterpoint to the whiskey in his hand. The preparation—or what little of it they usually bothered with—was almost done. Chairs had been shoved to the sides, tables repurposed as drink stations, and the speakers—which Blaise constantly insisted on bringing despite the power surges—crackled to life, filling the space with the deep, bone-shaking bass of music that would soon draw everyone within earshot. Nobody wanted to miss a Viper Court party.  
  
He should have been relaxed. These parties were routine: wild, indulgent, and usually forgotten by the next day—by him at least, everyone else remembered them for months. It would be the same old, alcohol, drugs and the occasional bruise or rumor from fights and semi-public groping sessions. But tonight felt different, though he hated admitting even that to himself. The irritation lodged in his chest since that damned lecture hall had grown roots, and no amount of whiskey or smoke seemed to dull it.  
  
“You look positively murderous.” Blaise drawled, appearing from the shadows like he always did. He leaned against the frame of the doorway, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers. “It’s a party, Drake. Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself.”  
  
“We haven’t even started yet.” Draco replied coolly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass and pointedly ignoring the stupid nickname his friend knew he loathed—and yet insisted to use since they were teenagers. His gaze remained fixed on the cliffs beyond the window.  
  
Blaise’s grin widened as he took a swig. “Still sulking about Granger? Or are you hoping she shows up so you can sulk at her instead?”  
  
Draco’s grip on his glass tightened. “Why would I care if she shows up?”  
  
“Because you’ve been acting like a dog with a bone since she put you in your place.” Blaise said, too casually. Draco’s grip on the glass tightened further, but Blaise only smirked. “Don’t pretend you haven’t been chewing on that moment since it happened. It’s practically written all over your face. I’m just saying, it’ll be interesting if she does show up. I’d bet money on it, actually.”  
  
Draco didn’t need Blaise pointing it out. He’d been painfully aware of his own irritability since that day. The hallway, the cafeteria, the lecture hall. She wasn’t supposed to matter. She was supposed to be a nobody, forgettable, another nameless student in a sea of insignificance. He’d baited her because that’s what he did—push people until they folded, proved themselves predictable. He wanted her to cower, to confirm that she was just like everyone else. And then he would have been able to move on like she never even existed at all. Routine.  
  
But she hadn’t folded. She’d bitten back, sharp and quick, and in doing so, she’d etched herself into his thoughts. It wasn’t just that she’d spoken out—plenty had tried before, only to flounder under the weight of his attention. No, it was how she did it. Calm. Precise. Like she was dissecting his questions and tossing them back at him, perfectly reconstructed, just to prove she could. It was infuriating. And worse, it was interesting.  
  
Draco turned his glare on Blaise, the words he wanted to say tangling in his throat. He shouldn’t care. He didn’t care. But the truth lodged itself in his chest like a shard of glass he couldn’t remove, slicing up at the inside of his throat when he tried to spew out the words. She’d made herself memorable, and Draco had had no desire to remember her in the first place.  
  
“Shut up, you're being idiotic again.” he threw at Blaise over his shoulder.  
  
“And you’re being a bit obsessed.” Blaise shot back, his smirk widening. “She’s got that thing, you know? That untouchable, doesn’t-give-a-damn energy. It’s rare. Dangerous, even. People like that tend to draw blood before you realize they’ve cut you.”  
  
“You sound like a shitty sonnet, mate.” Draco sneered, draining his glass. “It doesn’t suit you.”  
  
“And denial doesn’t suit you.” Blaise countered. He gestured toward the makeshift bar. “Anyway. Theo's off his meds again today and he's about to blow a gasket over the rum being too close to the vodka. Go distract him before he burns the house down, would you.”  
  
Draco didn’t move immediately. Instead, he let his gaze wander to the forest’s edge, his mind spinning in slow, deliberate circles around a name he refused to acknowledge aloud. If she came, fine. If she didn’t, even better. He wasn’t hoping for anything. Hoping required giving a damn, and he didn’t.  
  
At least, that’s what he told himself.  
  
The generator stuttered, plunging the house into a moment of eerie silence before the lights flickered back to life. Theo’s cursing echoed from the back room, and Blaise’s laughter followed soon after. The first cars would arrive soon, the chaos spilling in with every step through the door. Draco pushed off the windowsill, setting his empty glass on a nearby ledge.  
  
Tonight, he’d drown the irritation. Or face it. Either way, Hermione Granger wouldn’t leave this party unscathed—if she even dared to come.

Gone was the eerie yet soothing calm and quiet of the abandoned haunt Draco and the others had claimed as theirs years ago. The first wave of guests had arrived, and with them came the unmistakable cacophony of a Viper Court party. Music thudded through the walls, a deep, pulsing rhythm that seemed to rattle the bones of the old structure. Laughter, sharp and high, mixed with the low hum of conversation, and the air was already thick with the scent of smoke, booze, sex and something sweeter that hinted at the kind of chaos those moments thrived on.  
  
Draco stood against a wall at the far end of the room, a glass in hand and a scowl firmly in place. He wasn’t avoiding the party, exactly. He was there for all to see, gawk at from afar, albeit completely uninterested in the festivity for once. No, he was observing. Calculating. Scanning the crowd for something—or someone—he wouldn’t admit to looking for.  
  
She wasn’t here. Yet. And he doubted she'd come. Blaise had seemed certain of the contrary but Draco had spent long enough dissecting her posture and mannerism to know she didn't want to be a part of the crowd. Not this crowd, at least. It should have been enough knowledge for him to let it go and enjoy his night. Yet here he was.  
  
“Are you going to brood all night, or should we get the brood-king crown fitted now?” Blaise’s voice cut through the din as he appeared at Draco’s side, his grin wide and his jacket already discarded. He looked as though he’d been born for this kind of setting—loose, confident, and entirely at ease.  
  
Draco didn’t glance at him. Instead, he took a deliberate sip from his glass, the whiskey burning its way down his throat. “Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”  
  
“Not when it’s this entertaining.” Blaise shot back, undeterred. His gaze swept over the room before landing on Draco again. “Still no sign of her. What do you think, Malfoy? Did she decide she’s too good for us, or is she just fashionably late?”  
  
Draco’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice level. “I told you, I don’t care if she shows up.”  
  
“Sure you don’t.” Blaise said, the words dripping with mock sincerity. He leaned in slightly, his grin turning sharper. “But if she does? What’s the plan? You going to stare at her from across the room all night, or actually do something?”  
  
Draco turned his head just enough to level Blaise with a glare. “She’s irrelevant.”  
  
“Uh-huh.” Blaise didn’t look convinced. “Well, irrelevant or not, she’s got you wound tighter than Theo’s card tricks. Maybe you should go smash something. Or better yet, someone.”  
  
Draco didn’t dignify that with a response despite Blaise's obnoxious wink. Instead, he let his gaze drift back to the crowd. The room was filling quickly now, bodies moving in a lazy, chaotic rhythm that mirrored the music. Familiar faces blurred together, their laughter and shouts merging into a single, discordant melody. It was all so predictable. So mind-numbingly tedious.  
  
And then, like a discordant note in an otherwise monotonous symphony, she appeared.  
  
Hermione Granger stepped through the door, trailed by a red-haired girl who flitted around her like an overexcited butterfly. The redhead was all hand gestures and rapid-fire chatter, her movements too quick and her voice too bright to hold Draco’s attention for long. She was easy to dismiss, a backdrop to the main act.  
  
Hermione, on the other hand, was impossible to ignore. Her movements were stiff but deliberate, her gaze sweeping the room with a mixture of caution and determination. It was quick, but he noticed the way her pupil lingered on each window and door for just a fraction of a second. He had seen her do the same thing in the cafeteria before and he hated that he noticed it yet again.  
  
That damned jacket that she seemed to wear everyday, regardless of her outfit, was draped over her shoulders—a military green monstrosity patched with faded insignias, logos or other irrelevant images and fraying at the edges. It hung on her loosely, as if it had been stolen from someone twice her size and three times her build. It fell to her mid-thigh, skimming the hem of a black dress that clung to her frame in a way that was understated, barely enough to hint at the curves of her. Her tights, not quite opaque but not sheer enough to be teasing, blurred the lines of her legs, and the whole ensemble only made her look smaller somehow.  
  
Smaller but no less sharp. Like a weapon in a velvet sheath.  
  
Draco’s irritation spiked. The nerve of her, walking into his territory after going head-to-head with him in public, looking like that—miles away from the designer shoes and name-brand shirts everyone else was sporting. And worse, looking completely unfazed. She didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. But she stood tall as though it didn't matter to her that she was a pleb lost in his kingdom, out of her depth.  
  
“Speak of the devil.” Blaise murmured, his grin widening as he followed Draco’s gaze. “She really doesn’t know how to blend in, does she?”  
  
Draco didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His attention was fixed on Hermione, on the way her redhead friend grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the makeshift bar, chattering incessantly. Hermione allowed herself to be led, but there was a stiffness in her posture that betrayed her discomfort. And then her friend said something—something too low for Draco to catch—and Hermione smiled. Not a wide grin, not a laugh-out-loud moment, but a small, fleeting smile that transformed her face for just a second. It was the first time he’d seen her smile.  
  
And he hated it.  
  
Draco’s pulse kicked, an infuriating beat that he immediately dismissed as irritation. She was smiling. After defying him, after making herself memorable when she was supposed to be nothing, she could smile in his house? In his domain? The audacity of it twisted in his chest like a knife.  
  
Blaise clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture that was both mocking and supportive. “In and out, mate, in and out. You look like you're gonna pop a blood vessel.”  
  
Draco barely registered the comment. His mind was already racing, his thoughts spinning in slow, deliberate circles around the same question: Why the hell did she come?  
  
She should have stayed away. That was the logical choice. The safe choice. But Hermione Granger, it seemed, wasn’t interested in logic or safety. And now, here she was, walking into his territory as though she had every right to be there. As though she hadn't made herself public enemy number one by crossing the king of the castle on his own turf.  
  
Draco drained the rest of his whiskey and set the glass down with a deliberate clink. If she wanted to play in his world, then fine. But she was about to learn that the game had rules, and he was very good at enforcing them.

It had been over an hour of enduring the noise before it softened as Draco moved away from the main party, the heavy bass of the music fading into a dull thrum that vibrated through the old house’s wooden floors. He wasn’t fleeing—he never fled—but the weight of the crowd had grown tiresome. The meaningless laughter, the hollow exchanges, the incessant way every woman who crossed his path seemed to find a reason to lean closer, touch his arm, or purr some salacious comment in hopes to get a piece of him—it was all starting to grate. On a normal night, he’d take one of them to a quieter room, indulge in their empty praise and bent them over a piece of furniture or another until the boredom turned to something fleetingly satisfying. But tonight, even that felt like too much effort.  
  
He drained his third glass of the night and set it on the nearest surface, walking toward the bar for yet another drink. The air was thick with smoke and perfume, the kind of heady mixture that clung to skin and clothes for hours after. He didn’t slow as people called his name or tried to grab his attention. Let them talk, let them whisper. He had no interest in their games tonight. He poured himself a fresh whiskey, lit a brand new cigarette and slipped down one of the quieter hallways—usually closed down to the party crowd—away from the suffocating press of bodies and their predictable, tedious chaos.  
  
But even there, it seemed, peace would elude him yet again.  
  
Hermione Granger stood at the far end of the dim hallway, leaning slightly against the peeling wallpaper, the back of her head pressed against the wall, her eyes closed. The oversized jacket she wore was threatening to slid from her shoulder but—in a gesture that looked more instinctual than anything—she tugged at it to secure it back in place, masking any glimpses of the skin underneath. The flickering light from a dusty sconce cast her in uneven shadows, exaggerating the lines of her posture—tense, but not fragile. Her red-haired friend had vanished, leaving her alone, fiddling absently with the hem of her sleeve and inhaling in and out in slow, deliberate breathes.  
  
Draco’s irritation flared, hot and immediate. She was already out of place in the crowd, where he hadn't wanted to see her. Yet here she was again in a part of his castle that was only for him, stubbornly existing in his space, defiant even in her faraway quiet. She should have been cowering, uncomfortable enough to leave within minutes of her grand entrance. But instead, she lingered, challenging the last shred of his patience without even seemingly trying.  
  
He crossed the hallway in a few strides, his steps measured but deliberate, the sharp sound of his boots against the floor announcing his presence long before he stopped a few feet from her. She turned at the noise, her eyes snapping open, her fingers stilling as she looked up at him. Her expression remained calm, but he didn’t miss the flicker of awareness in her gaze. She was calculating, as if already preparing for whatever he was about to say. This, too, infuriated him further.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Draco’s voice was low, but there was no mistaking the edge in it. It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation.  
  
Hermione straightened slightly, her hands falling to her sides. “Enjoying the party.” she said simply, the words so mundane they felt like a deliberate provocation.  
  
“'Enjoying'.” he repeated, his tone mocking. She certainly was enjoying it, far from anyone and anything interesting, alone in a dark alcove. His eyes swept over her, taking in the jacket that dwarfed her frame, the black dress beneath it clinging just enough to hint at the lines of her body. She didn’t dress for this world. She didn't seem to dress for anybody. “You don’t belong here.”  
  
“Neither do half the people out there.” she replied, nodding toward the main room. “But you haven’t cornered them in a hallway.” she shrugged. Shrugged.  
  
His lips twitched, the faintest suggestion of a smirk, the one that screamed my patience is about to run out. “They’re not trying to make a point.”  
  
Hermione raised an eyebrow, the flicker of annoyance in her expression something he found far too satisfying.  
  
“And what point do you think I’m trying to make?”  
  
“That you’re not afraid of us.” he said, taking a step closer. “Of me.”  
  
Because maybe she wasn't trying to challenge him directly—though Draco found it hard to believe—but she was certainly challenging his authority, his power. His reputation. And that was enough to make her a problem. She should be scared of him—of them. Everyone was, to varying degrees.  
  
“I’m not.” The words were steady, and she didn’t flinch as he closed the distance between them although he caught the briefest movement of her hand, closing it into a fist before relaxing her fingers once more. Her eyes remained fixed on his, unwavering even as the tension thickened and he stood barely a few inches from her, towering over her small frame.  
  
He tilted his head, studying her as if she were a puzzle to be solved. “You should be.”  
  
“Why?” she asked, and there was something in her tone—a sharpness, a defiance—that made his pulse quicken and his jaw clench. “Because you say so?”  
  
His hand rose slowly, almost of its own accord, the lit cigarette between his fingers trailing a thin ribbon of smoke. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do until he was already doing it—bringing the cigarette close to the bare curve where her neck met her collarbone. Close enough for her to feel the heat. Close enough for him to press it down, if he so chose.  
  
“Because I could make you.” he said softly, the words a dangerous whisper.  
  
Her gaze flicked briefly to the cigarette, then back to his face. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull back. Instead she did the one thing he hadn't expected. She took a deliberate step forward, closing the distance between them until the cigarette hovered just a hair’s breadth from her skin. He could smell her now—lavender, sharp and clean, but with something chemical underneath. The scent caught him off guard, even as the heat from the cigarette licked at her skin, just a twitch of his fingers away from sizzling against it.  
  
“Go ahead.” she said, her voice low and calm, her eyes locked on his. There was steel in her tone, a challenge in her expression, as if she were daring him to follow through with the threat.

For a moment, he almost did, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the burning cigarette. The thought sent a sick thrill through him, a twisted rush of satisfaction at the idea of leaving his mark on her, of branding her as a reminder of who held the power between them. To show her she couldn't simply mouth off to him—him of all people, and expect to come out unscathed. He wanted to see that smart mouth of hers shut for once, twisting in subtle pain. It lit something darker, visceral in his gut. The idea of seeing her flinch, of watching fear flicker in those infuriatingly defiant eyes, stirred something deep and ugly within him. He wanted to show her—to make her understand—why nobody crossed him, why she should cower like everyone else did.  
  
The thought of pressing the cigarette to her skin, of seeing her eyes widen in pain or panic wondering how much farther he could go, how much harder he could hurt her, almost turned the irritation into something dangerously close to arousal, low and hot in his belly.  
  
But then her jacket shifted. The fabric slipped just barely as she adjusted her posture ever so slightly, exposing a patch of pale skin along her shoulder and catching his eye. And there, etched into her flesh, were scars.  
  
Some were small and thin, faint and barely visible in the dim light, like they’d been precise, deliberate, almost clinical. Others were jagged, brutal, hinting at deep wounds that had been torn open and left to heal improperly. The sheer variety of them struck him, each scar a piece of a story he couldn’t yet piece together. And there were so many, even on that small patch of exposed skin—her shoulder, the curve of her upper arm—enough to suggest they weren’t isolated, that they stretched further than what he could see.  
  
The sight pulled him up short, his irritation twisting into something darker and harder to name. He stared, unable to stop himself, as if the scars held answers to questions he didn’t know he was asking. Questions he hadn't known even existed until now. The marks didn’t make him feel guilt for what he had been about to do to her—Draco Malfoy didn’t do guilt. Instead, they made her more maddening, more of a puzzle he hadn’t realized he wanted to solve.  
  
Who in the gods names was this woman who wore her history carved into her skin and carried herself like she dared the world to look too closely? His irritation burned hotter, flaring with every unanswered question. She was a problem, even more so than anticipated. A riddle with fake answers baring his path at every turn.  
  
She noticed his pause. Her lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. It was something colder, sharper. “Didn’t think so.” she muttered, shoulder-checking him as she stepped past without a flicker of hesitation, already securing her hideous jacket back over her marred skin.  
  
Draco didn’t turn to watch her go. He couldn’t. Instead, he stood frozen, the cigarette still in his hand burning itself all the way through, the scent of lavender and smoke lingering in the air. His mind was a storm of irritation, fascination, and something that felt dangerously close to a sensation he hadn't felt in a long time—and had avoided efficiently since the last time he had.  
  
She was supposed to be insignificant. Forgettable. Just another face in a crowd of nobodies. Someone he could push a little too hard, scare a little too much, break a little too easily before resuming his well curated life. Instead, she’d carved herself into his thoughts, her defiance a jagged wound he couldn’t stop prodding. And those scars—how many had he seen, just on that small patch of skin? A dozen? More? The sheer amount burned in his mind, refusing to fade. They weren’t supposed to make her more interesting. They weren’t supposed to make her anything at all. And yet, irritation flared as he realized they had. She was a puzzle now, with too many missing pieces, and puzzles had a way of consuming him.  
  
Who the hell was Hermione Granger? That question rattled in his head, louder with every passing moment. She wasn’t the nobody he wanted her to be. She couldn’t be. Not with scars like that, not with the way she’d looked at him like she knew she’d already won. Draco’s hand tightened around the cigarette, the embers glowing faintly, growing dangerously close to his skin now. He’d figure her out. He had to. Because as much as he wanted to discard her, to forget her, she had etched herself into his mind with a precision he couldn’t ignore. And now, she was in his house, in his world, acting as though she could oppose him.  
  
Draco took a long drag from the cigarette, the smoke burning in his throat. She had started the game he hadn't wanted to play, he had countered with his own move and she had masterfully swept his feet from under him. But not anymore. It was about damn time the little nuisance learned that in his domain, the rules of the game were never fair, because the house always must win.

What had once been a study—a room they had repurposed as their primary hang out place—was quieter than the rest of the house, the deep thrum of music muffled by the boarded windows and thick, sagging curtains. It wasn’t exactly pristine—nothing in this place ever was—but it had a kind of lived-in comfort that the rest of the abandoned house lacked. The furniture didn’t match, the walls were scuffed with age, and the faint smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke hung in the air like a second skin. It was their space, the one corner of the world where the Viper Court reigned without the gaze of dozens or hundred scrutinizing their every move.  
  
Draco leaned back against the worn leather of the armchair, his legs stretched out in front of him, a glass of whiskey balanced lazily in one hand. The blonde on his lap shifted, pressing herself closer, her lips tracing a line along the column of his neck, shifting her hips to roll her core against his crotch. Her hands slid beneath the half-open buttons of his shirt, her touch warm against his skin, and yet…  
  
He took a slow sip of his drink, the burn of it doing little to dull the simmering edge in his chest. The weight of her on him, the soft murmur of her meaningless compliments, the deliberate slide of her hips—it should have been enough. On any other night, it would have been enough. He would have let her get him in the mood and then pressed her against the wall right there, fully clothed, slipping himself into her cunt without preamble just to lose himself in the kind of fleeting pleasure that numbed everything else. But tonight, it wasn’t working.  
  
Because all he could think about was Granger.  
  
Her scars, pale and jagged, carved into her skin like a map he couldn’t stop trying to read. The way she had stepped closer to him instead of retreating, daring him to press the cigarette into her flesh. Her scent—sharp lavender, clean and almost chemical beneath it. The unshakable calm in her eyes, even when he’d wanted so badly to see fear there instead of fire.  
  
The blonde’s teeth grazed his collarbone, pulling him back to the present with a moan—too high-pitch to be enjoyable to his ear. He tilted his head slightly, giving her better access out of habit, but his mind refused to cooperate. The irritation clawed at him, hot and insistent, because even now—with another woman in his lap, her hands slipping lower, her voice a breathy whisper against his ear—Granger was still there, in the back of his mind, like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.  
  
Even the half-erection he was sporting was nothing but a remainder of the bout of arousal he had felt imagining how beautifully pained her expression would be had he marred her skin with his cigarette. It had very little to do with the nameless girl on his lap and everything to do with Granger, Granger, Granger.  
  
He drained the rest of his whiskey in one go. The sharp burn down his throat, or the way the edges of his vision were slowly starting to blur were doing little to drown the images seared into his memory. Her scars. Her eyes. Her voice, calm and clipped, the way she’d said, “Go ahead.” As if daring him to prove her right. As if she knew he wouldn’t.  
  
The glass hit the side table with a soft clink, and the blonde pulled back slightly, her brows knitting together in a faint pout. “You’re distracted.” she said, her tone petulant, her lips curving into something meant to be enticing.  
  
Draco smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Am I?”  
  
“Mmm.” She leaned forward again, her fingers trailing down his chest, but he caught her wrist before she could go any further. Her eyes widened slightly, more surprised than alarmed, but he didn’t let go.  
  
“Leave.” he said smoothly, his voice low but firm. The word was almost gentle, but the look in his eyes wasn’t.  
  
Her pout deepened, but she climbed off him with the kind of reluctance that bordered on theatrics. She smoothed her dress, gave him one last lingering look as if hoping he’d change his mind, and then disappeared out the door, the faint click of her heels fading into the distance.  
  
Draco leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he lit a cigarette. Even the act of it only served to remind him of the fire in her eyes in that damn hallway. The first drag hit his lungs like a hammer, grounding him in the present, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the storm brewing in his head. He had expected her—wanted her, to be just another face in a crowd of people who didn’t matter. Instead, she was… more. More defiant, more maddening, more interesting. And he hated that he found her intriguing. Hated it almost as much as he hated her.  
  
The scars were what lingered the most. How many had there been really? He hadn't had time to count but the image was so vivid in his mind he almost thought he could, just from memory alone. A dozen, at least, just on the small patch of skin he’d seen. Some thin and surgical, others jagged and brutal. They weren’t the marks of someone who had lived an ordinary life. And yet she acted every day like nothing more than the perfect little scholar Blaise had dubbed her as soon as she had piqued their collective interest.  
  
He didn't want to know who she was. Who people were never mattered. Ever. And yet that exact question had rooted itself in his mind, thorned and unrelenting. She stood in his world like a thinly veiled challenge meant for him and him alone. He wanted to know. He needed to know. What had carved those scars into her? What had turned her into someone who could look him in the eye, unflinching, and dare him to break her?  
  
The cigarette burned low between his fingers, and he stubbed it out in the ashtray with a sharp twist. His jaw tightened as the irritation flared again, hot and sharp, because he already knew the truth he didn’t want to admit: this wasn’t going away. She wasn’t going away. She was in his head now, a scar of her own, and he couldn’t stop running his fingers over the uneven edges.  
  
Draco leaned back in the chair, letting his head rest against the worn leather. The party raged on somewhere outside this room, but it felt distant, unimportant. He’d find her again, he decided, the thought dark and certain. He’d figure her out, piece by maddening piece. Not because she mattered. Not because she was important. But because she’d made herself into a curiosity and an enemy wrapped in one, and Draco Malfoy didn’t let things like that go.