Fallen Dynasty (Dramione)

Seventeen - The Lighthouse or The Storm

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Cupido atque ira consultores pessimi.

Anger and desire are the worst advisors.

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A door opening to a room of a handful of blurry, unknown people.

A flurry of violins.

A flash of pure white lace.

Soft, brown curls that smelled of.... jasmine?

An emerald engagement ring paired with another single band of diamonds slipping down a delicate finger.

Laughter.

A passionate kiss.

Draco was furious and frustrated as he sat on the end of his bed, eyes clenched closed and praying if he squeezed them just a little tighter, the images would come back fully. He squeezed them shut so tightly, light glinted behind his lids like a camera flash and pain flickered through them.

"Fuck you." He couldn't help but hiss at himself, running his hands through the platinum blonde mess on the top of his head. He was pissed at how his past self taunted him with flashes of images — of happiness — of love.

Come back, he begged.

He pleaded with his subconscious, who stubbornly and defiantly told him no each time.

You will wait, his mind screamed back, much to his annoyance.

His head spun with everything he would do to bring himself back. The terrible things.... The unspeakable things.... There was nothing that he wouldn't do, he thought. Nothing would stop him from getting that little taste of humanity.

He wanted to know why he would look at this frail, broken, yet wildly determined girl and want to worship the ground she walked on. Like a religious icon — a goddess — she glowed in the depths of his mind. He would kill anyone and sacrifice himself for her. She seduced his empty soul and made the world seem... brighter. She was divine.

To make matters worse, she looked at him like he was the sun despite all the darkness that consumed him. How could he not want her? How could he not want someone who gazed at him like he put the very stars in the sky when all he could do was destroy her.

So, despite this yearning, he stayed away. Far, far away from the divine entity that walked the halls of his home and spoke so passionately and smelled so— so good.

Every atom — every cell of him — craved her, but he couldn't.

He would only bring devastation into her life. She was the Persephone to his Hades. He would only bring her down to the depths of hell for his own sick and twisted pleasure.

He knew this. He knew this well. What survived of him wasn't pretty.

It was broken and shattered and untamable and disgusting. The good parts of him had died, replaced by a demon, a chthonic monster, waiting for the reckoning from all the chaos he brought with him. He was a ghost with a beating heart, full of strange dreams of a stranger life he supposedly lived— a life with Hermione Granger.

In the middle of his chaos, there she was— his home.

His home, but all the lights were turned off and the door was locked.