Words Never Said.
Beta: Gloredhel04 from livejournal
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There are many things that I wish could be different. Many things…
I wish somehow it hadn't come about as it did. This weird love that dares not speak the words that one must hear.
Because I do want to hear them.
Yet I don't think he's willing to say them.
Not now five years after being together.
Not ever.
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I remember the first kiss. It was on his cheek, and it was me who had the nerve to do it. His cheek was scarred a slightly darker tone of skin than his pale white.
I remember how he came to the house with Harry, Ron and Hermione in tow for a meeting with everyone from the DA and the Order.
I remember how they told us that he'll be fighting on our side against the man whose brand is on the arm that I touch at night.
I remember how starved and hollow he seemed. He only showed any sign of life when Snape came to the house. He would be sad.
His blondish white hair was dirty and losing whatever sheen it had. Dull as his grey eyes. A hex to his face left a scar coming from the corner of his left eyebrow over the eyelid and ending near his chin.
He has problems seeing out of that eye sometimes. He can't fully open the eyelid so he looks as if he has a lazy eye. I suppose he does…
I remember feeling sad for him because I didn't understand what would bring him to try and kill Dumbledore and become a Death Eater.
I don't believe I was ever really angry with him.
Nor was I ever angry with Snape. Though Harry never really told the DA why we should trust him as we did, (added comma, took out second though) he told us that Dumbledore trusted him with his life and death (added comma) and so would we.
We never questioned Harry in aspects such as those.
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"Are you coming to dinner or staying out here playing in the dirt?" It's been three years since we bought this house, and the drawl has never changed. Nor have the words.
I nod and wipe my hands on the Muggle pants that Hermione recommended for garden work.
Once upon a time, he would have sniffed and said something scathing.
Not anymore. I get no response as he turns and goes back into the small house.
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I remember a time when I could never stand the sight of the arrogant worm…
The April of my seventeenth birthday caused this to change. When the War against the Second Uprising of Voldemort was in full swing, and everyone was hiding or finding some other way to cheat death, I found that Malfoy had taken to fighting with the Aurors that even Harry wasn't allowed to be around.
I found out by eavesdropping accidentally (they were really screaming) on Snape and Mrs. Weasley that Malfoy had the Dark Mark and could go through the Death Eater wards unnoticed. Snape couldn't do it because he was considered the right hand man of Voldemort…
I watched Malfoy, who would stumble in the house exhausted and how he would retire only to be bothered by Auror Shacklebolt to go off and help with some other wards again.
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"I'll be going to Zimbabwe for couple days." He says it while using his left hand to eat. His right hand no longer has a thumb or index. Both had been taken off in order for his hand to be saved after his father threw a Flesh Eating Curse at him.
I nod, continuing to eat. He can cook rather well, but I'm simple in my tastes so he only goes all out when we have some form of company.
We eat in our kitchen. The adjoining dining room is only a place where he lays out his work, or I dump off a new plant I've picked up to either fix up or wrap up to sellers.
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I remember when I finally noticed that Malfoy was not really the kid I knew from school. That he was Draco, a hardened old soul whose silence was sometimes unnerving.
But I like the quiet.
My grandmother used to tell me that if you have nothing to say, then don't say anything at all. I've kept to that philosophy for most of my life.
I remember one time when I was sitting in the kitchen reading a poetry book of the collected works of Baudelaire that once belonged to my mother… It's my favourite book and though I don't fully understand it all, I've always thought that it was (the flow of the words that mattered. Besides, the translations of his poems are always varying from what the Foreword says.
I was sitting there nursing a glass of warm milk when I look up to find him staring at me.
I didn't know what to say.
Nor did he say anything back.
Now, despite what everyone says I'm not stupid. I know that there is nothing overly fascinating about me, with my chubby cheeks and boyish verging on little girl childish features, a stupid moustache that won't grow nor will be off until I start a beard.
I'm not fat nor am I at all fit. I'm clumsy though not for my fingers which are normal. I have brown hair that shows very clearly on my skin. My eyes are a dark brown… my eyelashes and eyebrows are black and off centre with my brown hair.
I've always thought that I look too much like the essence of gentleness, sweetness, and everything nice.
A Hufflepuff who somehow became a Gryffindor.
But he looked at me.
I don't know what he saw, but something tells me that it somehow allowed him to later accept that chaste kiss on the cheek for what it was.
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I run a sort of Herbologist business. I never bothered going back to school so I can't ever get my Ministry certificated degree, but being a good friend of Harry Potter gives one some sort of leeway.
I love my job. I work all day at home in either my larger than life Greenhouse, or my quaint little garden. I give the plants I create to sellers who in turn sell to the public. We split the percentages, depending on whether it's a chain store I'm working with or a private partnership.
I usually can count on a healthy salary.
Draco is an Unspeakable. Once the Fighting was over, he was told he would have to work since the Malfoy fortune was seized by the Ministry.
He was approached by the Department of Mysteries and seeing as nowhere else would he find employment, he accepted.
To be honest I have no idea whether or not he enjoys it or just does what he has to…
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I remember when he took off his shirt the first time and I saw the grotesque scars that marred his perfect skin. The slight pink of some of the most recent overlapped the stark white of the older ones.
I wasn't meant to see them. But I did, and for not the first time I realized Malfoy was not Malfoy any longer.
It was the same day as the kiss on the cheek.
The same day that Luna was reported missing, and Snape had killed Malfoy Sr.
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When I find myself alone in the house, I wonder of the things I could do.
Draco doesn't ever really leave me alone for very long in the house, mostly because whenever he comes back he finds I've redecorated and not to his liking.
Which still after all these years of being together I still haven't figured out.
It's a house with one floor.
I'm gimped in the leg from a cracked hipbone that waited too long to be healed. This only happened around three years ago. Four months before purchasing the house. Draco adamantly said that we couldn't live in the house Grandmother left me because of my hip.
It took a lot of persuasion for me to agree. In fact, he played on my greatest weakness and had Susan and Hannah help him build the Greenhouse that is larger than even the house right next door.
I finally agreed but only upon the terms that the Longbottom house would not be demolished, and that it wouldn't be sold.
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I remember later on about a week after that kiss he came into my room. I was changing into some Muggle clothes when he grabbed me, smashed his rough chapped lips against mine, threw me to the bed, and started in on me as only the inexperienced manage to do.
The way that he ravished my neck and mouth.
I tried to take his shirt off but then he stopped and just stared down at me.
He left that day. Only to do the exact same thing a week later three times in a row.
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Our bedroom is perhaps the only place that displays the sort of love we have for each other.
It is decorated with the king-size bed that is made of rich Cedar that Draco insist we have. It has curtains made of transparent silk that is a pale cream colour. The comforter is blood red and the pillows are a burgundy. The rug underneath the bed is crimson. The carpet is the same cream colour as the curtains.
On the side of the room is a large closet that houses Draco's and my robes, his being more dominant than mine. A dresser on the other side holds mostly my clothes.
There is a dressing mirror and an attachment to the private bathroom which has a big roman bathtub…
There is an unwritten rule that no book in the house comes into this room.
This room is for us.
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Somehow I think that it was him that fell first.
When I touched his scars after he came back exhausted after doing whatever it is he did for the Aurors. The way I rubbed his sore muscles despite the fact he had told me not to bother.
I remember when I finally got him to take off his shirt, he didn't seem at all bothered by his scars. I was completely fascinated with them, touching them, tracing them and finally kissing them with soft droplets of my lips.
I remember when he kissed me in a kiss that wouldn't lead to anything else as they always seemed to. Instead, it was firm but not demanding.
I remember when I was becoming very randy and I decided I did want him to be my first. Not knowing how to go about sex with another boy, I just started with the fundamentals of hand jobs slowly building to blowjobs.
Which I still enjoy doing.
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If I could, I would paint the exact way Draco looks when we are in bed. The way he's so different, softer and less of the authoritive figure that everyone believes him to be.
I can paint the taunt muscles that cover his rather small torso, the roughness of his skin that somewhat bothers me… his now dark blonde hair that has never returned to its former glory.
His scars are something that I don't think I could ever really live without.
After all, there is something that should be said for them. Every line is like a story, like a credit at the end of a book no one really understands the reason behind besides the author and the person it is accredited to.
I've never once asked him about the scars.
He has never asked about my hip and so we leave each other in relative peace.
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The first time we had sex, it was me as the top. It is still the position I prefer.
I remember the way I had found out about all the glands on one's arousal that could be so sensitive. But more than that, I had found that my organ was a part of my anatomy that seemed to be overly sensitive to have something wet and warm, and to be able to see what Draco does to it is something I find beautiful.
I could never control with myself when feeling Draco's mouth on me. Still cannot.
I wasn't prepared when I finally breached Draco. The intensity of the heat around me made me scream and groan. I pushed in and out of him, the lubricant making it much easier.
I wasn't prepared for the climax that lead to me screaming out and the door slamming open to reveal a very distraught Mrs. Weasley…
That isn't to say that we stopped doing that. Just the first time.
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When he's not here at night it bothers me.
To lie in such a huge bed without that furnace of heat beside me. I'm lonely to be laying in such a huge bed…)
Not to mention since I was first with him, I've changed into a very sexual being, and his not being here ruins that.
That doesn't mean I don't move my hand over my slicked cock and push a toy into me.
I close my eyes and curl my toes as I charm the artificial replica of his cock inside me and have it both engorge and vibrate…
I think of how he sometimes will have me lie on my back as I am now and straddle me. I think of him picking at my nipples and bruising them extensively, the way his own cock is purple and slightly bending up to his very fit stomach. His abs are practically made of steel.
I think of how I love to curl that fuzzy hair around his navel which travels to surround his cock. I'll take the cock in my hand and just pull him as he slowly takes my cock from behind him and lead it up to the most sensitive part of him.
I always hiss and try to control myself as I let go of his cock and grab harshly onto his narrow small hips. It's a struggle not to move my knees up, but many years have made this feat possible.
When I am in that hot heat and can feel my cock practically pulsating inside him, I stop thinking about anything, allow him control the pace and just move slightly up and down. He drives me insane until I finally get fed up and lift my knees and my body trapping him so that he's forced to wrap himself around me.
His body is always shaking when this happens and I lick the sweat off his neck and grind his body onto my cock. He always is slow on the uptake until I have to direct him upwards and pull him down harshly.
He cries out throwing his head on to my shoulder to keep quiet. It never works as his body starts to respond instinctively with mine.
When I roll us over with him underneath me, he finally lets go of whatever makes him try and quiet himself and makes the noises that I love to hear. The moans and cries of 'fuck, harder and faster' that I love always push me closer to my own climax.
I roll my hips, watch as his eyes roll back and his legs tighten around me as I thrust into him harder.
His leaking arousal slickens my stomach, and I know he is close. He's clenching the sheets and moving his head back and forth, all the while trying not to say anything but letting it all come out anyway.
When he finally arches and comes without a single touch, his body slackens against mine. I move his leg over my shoulder and feel my cock harden further at the look in his glazed eyes as he stares at me…
I arch off the bed and let the artificial cock fall out of me.
Sated, but still starving for more, I roll to my side.
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"Do you love him?" That was the first thing that Harry had spoken to me about Draco.
I tilted my head. I really didn't know.
"He loves you."
"I know."
Harry sighed and touched my arm. It was a month after Mrs. Weasley found out about our affair.
Ron hadn't been very understanding, and screamed at me for being a poof. Not to mention to be fucking one a dumb prat who was stupid enough to allow himself to become a Death Eater.
Hermione was just as angry, though she put the farce on that she didn't really care.
"How did you know?" That was Ginny's question to me, her big brown eyes displaying some emotion that I thought was worry.
"Know what?"
"That you were like that?"
I shook my head not really getting it.
"I think Harry's like that."
"What?" I was shocked. Harry had never had any inclinations of being that way, and he had dated Ginny…
She looked at me with her sad eyes and said, "He looks at Snape like that."
I sighed and tried my best to understand.
"If he does look at Snape like that, then there really isn't anything that you can do. Nor that he can do if he doesn't want to. There are no rules with this, and there are no ways to go about it." I sighed. I never did know what I was trying to say. "Harry could be seeing Snape as a lot of people see the man. With the intensity he has that makes him… appealing in some weird way."
"So Harry might not be like that."
"Harry might not be like that."
"Just with Snape."
I had nodded sadly.
She looked reassured.
I'm still not sure if that was a good thing.
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When he comes home I'm in the garden trying to regroup some plants that died due to the hybrid of a Mimbolia Sporocord and a Stink Cap that I was experimenting with.
"Did you spend all this time out here." It isn't a question.
I turn around and watch him watching me.
Then I smile.
"Did you have a good time?"He snorts and replies in the same way that he has for four years,
"With the morons I work for?"
I trace that scar on his cheek as I lean in for a kiss.
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When I tried to tell him that I loved him I was in St. Mungo's trying to forget about the pain in my hip.
He just smiled that smile that no one but me ever gets and whispers, "We'll find a smaller house."
I hold his hand, his right hand and trace over where his thumb should have been. I don't say a word.
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Le fin.