Tainted Love

PART FIVE: America

DRACO

MAY 28TH

When Iris turned away from him he felt sick. He wanted her to look back at him, as if seeing her eyes could fix it, so he told her he loved her. It wasn't a lie, but he knew by the look on her face that she didn't believe it.

There was nothing he could say to convince her and he deserved it. He was a liar -- he'd always been a liar. No amount of patching up his reputation had ever changed that. He was angry because she hadn't come home. Didn't she know he needed her?

Of course not. He hadn't told her. Could you get the fuck out of here.

Draco remembered saying that, meaning it. He knew Iris never quite thought of him as a good person, but she hadn't ever thought he was evil, either. He had always had that knowledge to rest in, sleep with. Now it had been pulled from beneath him by his own hands.

Iris walked into the street and apparated away with a crack that split Draco's skull, drove a knife into it. The sword in the stone. His mother used to read him that story at night. Many had tried to free it, the strongest and the boldest and the most decorated, but in the end a child had succeeded, love and earnesty and a wand hidden beneath his fingers.

There was no mystery as to who could free it from Draco's mind. Just Iris, and she was gone.

He leaned against the bricks in the alley and stared up at the sky, watching the stars revolve around Earth, and willed the sun to either come up or stay down forever. He could not stomach change anymore, not even between day and night. There had to be something constant, something besides Iris, but the more he thought of it the less he came up with.

He needed water and he needed to sit down and he needed her.

The alley smelled of cigarettes and rust, pieces of twisted metal and old bottles shoved up against the walls. Anywhere but here. He had fucked her once here, turned her cheek for her, watched her body scrape on the bricks as he held her against them. Had she been thinking of that while they talked?

Anywhere but anywhere. Everywhere had something of Iris in it, even his home, even his mother. If he could not have her he wanted no trace of her. But that was impossible, so he had to have her.

Tracey's. The problem was that he hadn't practiced explaining -- he hadn't anticipated Iris knowing about Pansy. He wasn't planning to lie to her, but he hadn't wanted to tell her the truth just then. All he had wanted was her at home with him, the way her body folded between his arms at night.

If he told her that, she'd have to listen. How many times had he fucked up? She always came back to him. It would never happen again, truly, he just needed her.

Tracey's. He had been there before with Iris, the walk-up apartment on the third floor.

When he walked into the lobby, the building manager walked out from behind his desk, brows furrowed in confusion, mouth open on the cusp of a polite warning. Draco pulled his sleeve up in response, flashing the Dark Mark and clipping him in the shoulder as he passed. He'd rid the world of whatever got in his way.

He didn't remember scaling the stairs, not really. He was drunk. His fists slammed at the door, rattling the gold-plated number on it enough that it fell sideways. He didn't bother yelling, didn't bother demanding that Tracey let him in.

It was clear what he wanted. He'd get it.

Tracey flung the door open, barefoot in a party dress, her hair up and her hands trembling with fear or anger or something Draco didn't understand.

"Where is she?" He demanded, pushing past her into the dark room beyond the door.

Tracey moved in front of him, attempting to block his path. He put his hand out and she flinched away from him as if he had hit her.