This violent passion is destruction.
A blind eye can be deceived through perception. Grey eyes provide the comfort of innocence, the warmth of a fire that tingles down a spine, gathering excess of a wintry cold. Platinum hair shadows the purity of fallen snow.
The Earth's corrupt mortality wishfully covers the soil lying beneath. He is an angel. He is the clearing of a cloudy sky, a power of stars straining the darkness in excess delight. His grey eyes mould a tangled sight of clarity.
It's deceiving. An illusion of sorts.
Hermione Granger gazes in admiration. When she blinks, the smile slips from her lips, and she inhales sharply in realization.
Violent passion ends in the triumph of misery. Cold grey eyes build layers of steel, creating a barrier of withdrawal.
It feels like crystals of ice are sharply hitting her skin and divulging into her flesh.
A glacial tingle spreads like an icicle leaving droplets of blood. But even the crimson rush in her veins twists into a glaze of frost.
She blinks again, and the platinum white hair is a rightful illusion. Like a fallen snowflake, it represents him.
The pitiful languish of their landing, meeting in an inevitable end.
It becomes him.
Not falling but Fallen.
It’s the season's most crucial exchange. Purity widowing behind the reflection of a lie. But as the wind whisks away snowy layers, it reveals the truth of demised impurity.
And it’s clear.
Her clarity used to be etched in shades of black and white. Now they answer in a shade of grey.
Draco Malfoy is not the clearing of a twilight sky but the darkness that rushes upon the night. And she glows in a silent essence of brilliance. She is a figment of light hiding between his fractured glass.
Draco Malfoy is the devil, But she is not his angel.
When she blinks again, his lips are set into a grim line. Draco lifts an eyebrow as if he's expecting her to run from the sudden realization.
Hermione takes a step forward and blinks again. From a close distance, she notices his eyes are not grey, But a luminescent silver. She watches the liquid radiance harden into solid stone.
She should run, and his expression flickers almost childlike as she raises her palm and rests it upon his cheek. His body tenses for a second before relaxing into her touch. He makes no effort to do more. After all, he is the devil. He will never seek anyone out. He patiently waits for another soul to strike a deal.
“Stay,” she murmurs. “Fire is too warm without you. I need ice.”
“I cannot ask this of you.”
His tone is sharp, like the tip of a blade. It feels as if she’s balancing off the edge.
“I’m giving myself to you. Take it.”
He reaches his hand out, and slender fingers rest on her collar. His thumb gently strokes the bone. And then a possessive glint descends from the edges of his eyes.
They both hold waves of potent need.
“You are mine,” he whispers. His expression is calm, but his feral demands are hidden within. “You belong to no one but me. Mine.”
She swallows. Draco's touch feels glacial against the hot flesh of her human skin. Then Hermione moves her thumb, caressing his cheek before her palm slips down to cup his jaw. She lifts her chin, staring into the colour of his eyes.
The single remains of his soul.
“Then you are mine. The devil.”
"Does it not matter to you? What I am?"
"No."
Her hands drop as he leans in closer. His lips hover inches away from hers, and his breath is a wintery chill slicing across her face. She can feel his power terminating a breeze as it returns in high winds.
"I'm a figure of destruction," he murmurs quietly. His voice is a melodic warning.
"Then destroy me."
He pauses.
"And then forever?” she questions. The words are almost inaudible.
The sky above is a pit of darkness. Shadows of death hanging as a reminder. A lesson of time and the fleeting remains of her soul. It ticks silently, mocking the questioning wait of his answer. She feels the pounding of her heart, and it hurts painfully against her chest.
He gazes at her, memorizing what she’s offering. Her brown eyes twinkle like stardust.
It’s a new moon. An absence of light. And then he smirks, and his features are full of possessive hunger. It makes her stomach twist in desire.
But even with violent ends, he is selfish. They both are. He wants more. Time with Hermione Granger will never amply be enough.
He sighs, and she waits. “I suppose eternity will suffice.”
His words strike the deal. And then his lips seal hers with a kiss. Soft and demanding.
His phase of the New Moon slips into the veil of darkness. Because she is a fulfilling light of acceptance. In the distance, a glimmer of the grey moon begins to appear.
These violent ends are graced with a sliver of moonlight.
And in time, a Waxing Crescent is unveiled.