Tainted Love

May 28th

IRIS

Iris knew as she left their house that she couldn't stay away. All her things gathered in Tracey's living room, her head heavy on the couch. She knew she would go home sooner rather than later.

It was weak of her -- she knew that, too. Every time she left Draco, her mind twisted and told her that the sinking in her stomach was an overreaction, that he couldn't be that bad. She had fixed him before, once or twice or countless times. Even in the face of his cold she could not forget his gentle.

The two were inseparable, perhaps. If he was perfect all the time it would be less special. If he was kind to her all the time she might not notice it anymore.

Iris stared at Tracey's ceiling, her neck stiffening on the arm of the couch. Pure white. She could go get in bed with Tracey if she wanted to, cuddle up to her and let herself be hugged. But she would compare it to Draco and it would get worse.

She wanted him to be touching her right now. She usually did. When he put his hand into her hair she was vindicated. It was proof that he cared, that she hadn't made the whole thing up. And now more than ever, she needed that proof.

She wasn't sure who she was trying to prove it to, exactly. Maybe just herself. For her own pride -- what little she had left.

Iris sat up on the couch, stared out the little windows into Diagon below. She had lived here once, amongst clutter and slanted ceilings and warm rooms. Draco had lived here too, pristine white kitchen heavy with the sting of firewhiskey.

All she meant to do was smoke a cigarette. That's why she got off the couch, went to the window. She stood with it in her hand, unlit and slightly crushed. She pressed her wand to the tip, imagined the light buzz, the taste of ash on her tongue. She hadn't been smoking lately.

Instead of lighting it, she turned and walked out of the room, through Tracey's kitchen and out her door into the hallway. There was a sort of ambition in her bones, though it wasn't daring. She was not a soldier marching into battle so much as a soldier marching into death.

The sun wasn't out yet, but the sky was slowly slipping from blak to gray. Stepping out onto the street, Iris told herself that she just wanted to see where Draco was sleeping. If he was in their bed, she would stay. If he was in the basement, she would leave.

The house was quiet when she walked in. Almost exactly the way she had left it. She peered down the hall, eyes adjusting to the darkness. The basement door was open. He wouldn't have left it open if he was down there. So there was hope. There was something.

But when she got upstairs and pushed open the door to their room, he wasn't there either.

It was different from how she had left it, though. Some of her clothes on the floor, the balcony door slightly ajar to let the warm air in. Draco had been there. The bed was unmade, covers pushed down on the side he slept on.

There was a box at the end, a couple of slips of paper sitting next to it. Iris cocked her head. She stepped closer -- they had writing on them. For a moment, she imagined that these were letters Draco had left for her. That he knew she was coming home, that he wanted to be able to explain himself outside of an argument.

Maybe one of them would tell her to come down to the basement, that he would be waiting for her. But the writing was less narrow than Draco's, neater. He hadn't written them at all.

Iris took one of the letters in her hand, scanning it quickly to try to figure out what exactly it was.

Always yours, Pansy.

Pansy's signature was effortlessly beautiful in a way Iris's never had been. In many ways, we are our handwriting. Iris wondered how many times she had signed a letter. How many of those letters had been to Draco.