Draco Malfoy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ferretface_git) wrote2011-05-10 10:38 pm
ferretface_git) wrote2011-05-10 10:38 pm
(no subject)
It was common knowledge that Draco Malfoy's heart was made of the blackest stone. Or perhaps ice. Frozen solid and frostbitten and shriveled from decades of disuse. And this was no fairy tale. Luna Lovegood had not warmed that frozen little heart of his, nurtured it with her loony brand of love until it had suddenly grown three sizes, springing forth from his chest in a shower of bloody rainbows and unicorns and puppies.
He was still a prat. Would always be a prat.
But she'd come to him that night, tears in her eyes, and she'd planted the seed. Over the weeks it had grown in his mind, ugly and untamed, like a weed, until it was practically all he could think about.
That bastard. How dare he?
He hadn't sought out the redhead twat. Not intentionally. But when he'd seen him, something in Draco snapped and he found himself striding across the grass, closing the distance fast, and at the last moment, drawing his fist back to strike.
He was still a prat. Would always be a prat.
But she'd come to him that night, tears in her eyes, and she'd planted the seed. Over the weeks it had grown in his mind, ugly and untamed, like a weed, until it was practically all he could think about.
That bastard. How dare he?
He hadn't sought out the redhead twat. Not intentionally. But when he'd seen him, something in Draco snapped and he found himself striding across the grass, closing the distance fast, and at the last moment, drawing his fist back to strike.
no subject
"...it didn't. Did it?"