Geneva bursts through the doors of her bedroom with force, her chest heaving as soon as she encloses herself within the four walls. Sobs rip through her, escaping gutturally, growing more uncontrollable as her thoughts encourage her.
She can't place what has overcome her. Can't determine why she's even sobbing this much. But nothing in this moment seems rational. All she can do is cry and cry and cry until her lungs feel as if they are heavy with her tears, on the verge of collapsing through her ribs.
She scans the exterior of her bedroom as a means of distraction and suddenly recognises the entrapment she feels within her little life— within these four walls. Stares at her marital bed and sees nothing but the cracks and creases within the duvet cover. Feels sick with disdain. But not for the act she's just committed. No, but for the falsity which is her life.
Whatever that was she just experienced has made her feel more alive than she has done since she were a child. The colours of her youth have inked back into her soul and the gloomy promise which had been her future seems suddenly replaced by something much changed.
She steadies herself, taking deep, slow breaths. From the hallway, she hears doors bang open and closed. Until the door to her bedroom swings open with a thunderous slam and in stalks Draco, seething anger projecting from every inch of him.
"What the fuck was that?" the harsh shrill of his voice slices clean cut through her.
She shakes her head, holding a hand up to her brow, trying to contain herself from allowing more sobs to break their way out.
"You can't just—you can't fucking do that. You wanted it. You told me— You wouldn't let me stop and—and now you sit here crying."
"Please just— leave me alone."
"No, not until you fucking tell me that I have done nothing to—"
He hesitates.
"To harm you."
She's never seen him this way before. Almost panicked and fearful. It drives a strange guilt through her.
"What? No, of course not."
"You wanted it," he repeats.
"Yes, I did. I just—" she begins. "I can't explain it. I just I want to be alone. Please."
He observes her, sheepishly.
"Geneva—you can't— you can't do that shit to me."
"I'm sorry, okay? Please—" Her voice trails off as her eyes shut to a close, waiting for him to hear her.
He nods, curtly, understanding what she wants. He turns to leave but before exiting the room, holds her gaze and says, "Don't hide from me."
"I won't," she returns, meaning it.
Once he leaves, she stands vacantly, staring at the door as if there's a shadow of him still waiting there. Her chest throbs slightly, a little twinge of the heart feeling out of place.
She takes herself to the en-suite and draws a bath, filling the tub with steaming hot water, dashing in a portion of a relaxing potion in hopes of curing her anxieties. Though perhaps anxiety isn't what she feels. She's not sure.
Every feeling she currently possesses merges together into one overwhelming heap of emotion, leaving her left with peculiar traces of a desperate need.
She cracks open the cupboard under the basin and digs through their potions, snatching out a vial of the aftermath contraceptive and swigs it down in one, cringing at the oily taste.
As she sinks into the depths of the bath's steaming water, the relaxing potion seems to take slight effect and calms the tumult within her mind. She can actually begin to place her thoughts singularly instead of having them all rushing in at once.
It begins to make sense to her. The reasoning for her prior outburst. The most obvious thing, having had the knowledge of Theodore's affair confirmed.
She'd known it all before. She's known it for a while now, since the first time she found the letter in his desk draw. Just couldn't bring herself to speculate. Couldn't even bring herself to think of it. Pushed any suspicions aside and carried on as normal. Quite clearly this being the reason for her hostility towards him over the past few weeks. Pushing him away every chance she gets just so she wouldn't have to face the truth.
But having the latter established to her so abruptly as Draco had revealed it, shocked her into a state of shame she cannot escape. Merely allowing her husband, supposedly the love of her life, to abandon their marriage vows and give himself wholly to another woman in the same way she has given herself to him.
The way she has practically kneeled before him, bent over backwards for him, deserted any prospects of what she wanted from her own life just to be there for him. And now this. The entire time. How fucking typical.
She doesn't even feel upset, broken or anything of the sort. Just furious. Really bloody furious she can almost feel the flames which engulf her heart presently. And all the same betrayed.
As for Draco, she probably fears him more now than she ever has before. Because as it became quite evident to her earlier on while she was beneath him, she feels herself attaching more of her comfort and fondness onto him, despite her awareness of what a bad idea that is.
But it's more than a thrill and crave for whatever villainy he possesses like she had been accustomed to in school. Though perhaps it's more that he awakens a darkness within her soul, enlivening her to the realities of her character.
And since the first moment she had really placed Draco in that context of desiring him in an irrational yet passionate way, when she had accidentally stumbled in on him busily between the legs of Madeline Drew, she's certainly wanted this. Many times has that image creeped into her mind leading her to acquire a persistent hunger for experiencing it herself, as crude as that may be.
Even though it feels absolutely terrifying, it begins to make sense. And for the first time in a long while, she can actually be truthful with herself without the fear of ruining everything and it being her fault.
She floats around in the bath for a longer period than she had meant to that by the time the skin on her fingers begin to prune she forces herself to climb out and pampers herself for bed.
Though before she can bring herself to even think about sleep, she knows she must remedy this with Draco.
She ends up finding him in the living room, slouching on the couch with a glass of whiskey in hand. He looks up at her immediately, his eyes widening. But not a word escapes him.
She sinks onto the couch beside him, takes a breath and begins.
"You did nothing wrong. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have acted that way. That was unfair."
He studies her. She begins to feel small under his eyes, due to the shame of how she acted earlier.
"What happened?"
She can't explain the whole truth. Never.
"I suppose I had a—a moment of remorse," she says, half lying. "Doesn't make much sense, since—um—"
She trails off into thought, imagining Theodore with Pansy in the same way she had been with Draco. Strangely, the illusion has little effect on her, not in an emotional way. Only the small beating sensation between her legs when she happens to recall the feeling of Draco's weight atop her.
"It's bigger than you think," he says.
"What?"
"Nott and Parkinson."
She waits, listening intently, sitting up more erectly.
"She loves him. Has done since school."
It doesn't surprise her to hear this. Geneva already knew of Pansy's affections for Theodore. Whilst they had been in school anyway. She recalls a threat made in her direction when Theo made it clear to everyone that Geneva was the one. Pansy's protective words "if anything happens to him, believe me, I will kill you" had been the last thing she had said to Geneva back in school, only before she saw her again a few months ago. They may have been perceived out of friendship, a strong feeling for one of her closest friends to be cared for and looked after. But Geneva was no fool. Not even back then. She noticed the way Pansy used to gaze at him fondly and how she would glare spitefully at Geneva, making bitchy comments behind her back. Sometimes even to her face.
Though perhaps she was naïve enough to believe that her husband would never return this affection, these feelings which Pansy possessed for him in what seemed a juvenile way at the time. His love for Geneva always seemed enough to be held for her, and for her only.
"I don't need you to tell me this—"
"You deserve to know."
She bites down on her tongue, knowing all too well that he's right.
"After the war, they were going through the same thing. With their families. Nott's parents imprisoned in Azkaban, Parkinson's too. They had a shared heartbreak going on with all that and I guess that kind of made him feel that he needed her. 'Course, he had already devoted himself to you by that point."
"How—how do you know this?"
"He used to write to me. I was off, God knows where? But I received his letters every month or so. Used to write bloody long ones. Like lengths and lengths of lines. Pages and pages sometimes. I used to think he may have been using me as a diary or something."
"And he told you—everything. Even about me?"
"Always. He always wrote about you. I feel like I know you inside out just because of those damned letters."
She blushes, feeling slightly unsettled.
"He wanted to marry you. I think it was always you. But he spoke of her too. Her presence in those letters still remained significant as opposed to not being mentioned at all. He never admitted anything to me though. Just in the way he wrote about her I could tell. It began to seem similar to the way he wrote about you."
"How so?"
"Praising and heartfelt, I suppose. Quite obsessive sometimes. Almost as if in the end he wasn't sure which one of you was to be his wife."
She feels a deep pang in her chest.
"Why are you telling me this now? After keeping it to yourself all this time."
"Because I see no reason to keep it a secret from you anymore. I see every reason why you need to know. Even if it pains you to hear it."
She feels the lump in her throat reemerge, tries to swallow it down and feels herself failing. It's a pitiful feeling— learning something about someone who has always been in the forethought of your mind, the priority, the be all and end all. Yet, nevertheless, they do the worst possible thing and it becomes clear that you never really knew this person at all. Not even as they whispered sweet nothings, appeared to deliver absolute devotion and quite obviously objectified the fuck out of you.
"I love him," her voice squeaks as a few tears squeeze their way out and slide down her cheeks.
"I know," Draco whispers, his tone filled with understanding.
And in a gentle motion, catching her completely off guard, wipes away a few of her fallen tears with his thumb.
"He's my life."
The words sound so hopeless. Because although that may have been the case, this is no longer a life she massively desires, and that's the truth she's been struggling with for a while.
His thumb continues to smooth across her cheek, smearing the tears into her skin. The way it makes her feel— fucks sake.
She leans in, craving more of whatever happened between them earlier. That closeness. That comfort. And the burning thrill of his hand holding her face catalyses the desire.
He's staring into her eyes. Then her lips. And back to her eyes in the space of a few seconds. Her tear drenched, glossy eyes which she can hardly see clearly out off at all.
"Make me forget," she whispers, her breath lightly brushing his lips. The greys of his eyes dim in the light.
"You sure?"
Geneva nods, bringing her hands to the nape of his neck. Her fingertips stroke him, lightly. And before another breath can exhale, she's kissing him again, indulging him like a vial of antidote which seems only able to cure that heavy bottomless feeling of heartache.
Everything she had felt only hours prior to now rush back to her in a flash, and the crippling bruise surrounding her heart vanishes as if it were never there to begin with.
He pulls her in a straddle over his lap, his hands caressing her hips comfortingly. The gentle notion sparks a vigorous flame within her chest. And with it she feels that fear return. She tries to forget it in time but he feels her tense and stops.
"This isn't fair," he whispers. "You know it."
She just stares down at him, unable to comprehend what his meaning is. She's not sure whether he signifies it for her or for himself. Perhaps even for Theo. But decides not to question it. Doesn't want to.
Instead she just laughs through the tears pooled within her eyes.
"Don't go soft on me now, Malfoy."
His eyes darken again.
"It's Draco."
And recovers the moment by pulling her in by the throat, kissing her once again hard on the mouth.