A Sordid Affair

That one word, spoken so casually, tossed at me so indifferently, did not match his otherwise expressive eyes. I stared at his mouth that was moving so slowly, curvaceously, tempting me. I couldn't hear him anymore; my ears heard only the rush of my blood coursing through my veins, heard only my own timorous, enraged thoughts of denial. I saw nothing of him, but his lips, his mouth, his tongue, and the way he so carelessly used this weapon, my weapon, against me.

He was leaning down towards me- a frightened, anxious look replaced the apathy he was so willing to display. And suddenly all at once I could hear him: his harsh, meaningless words, his worried tone, the deep, soothing, resonating tones I was so familiar with. I could hear the people outside, all of them looking so damn normal, ordinary, so oblivious to my throes of pain, so uncaring, insensitive, unobservant. I could hear the rustle of papers scorning me, reminding me of the lies that I've read, had written, had believed in. I could hear the light tiptoes of children, running carefree, laughing so joyously, mocking my dreams, my hopes that would never come true.

I thought I knew this man standing before me. I thought I knew his face, with his freckles, his eyes and hair.

But now, I noticed the way the freckles, once so familiar, so comforting, was suddenly vicious and strange. I used to know each and every single one of them, able to pinpoint each location, but now, I can't. I couldn't. I won't.

I noticed the once warm eyes that crinkled at the corners at something I've said, now harsh, cold, merciless, uncaring.

I noticed the flame-coloured hair that used to remind me of warmth, of safety, of security, now of unbearable heat, of scorching words, of flickering, nonexistent confidence.

He gave up, pushed me away, strode out and slammed the door behind him. I crumpled, collapsed, fell, onto the carpet, into a big, black hole of distressing sadness, of fruitless dreams that had started but ended abruptly, maliciously, all too soon. I sobbed, cried, my shoulders shaking with tears. Thinking what went wrong, what I did, the mistakes I made, the things I should've done.

Then I stumbled to my feet, lurched to the door and escaped. Escaped from my home- no, house- that reminded me, laughed at me, derided me of better days, of my naivety, my lack of knowledge- my unintelligence, my negligence, my ability to love, to forgive.

I hated him. Hated for him for being able to throw at me so insensitively those words, those words that pained me, destroyed me, ruined me.

I hate him.

I closed the door. Shut off my feelings, shut off my unrequited love, shut off everything that reminded me of him, from his stupid lips, his numerous freckles to his cold, sightless eyes.

Everything.

"Sorry," he'd said. "I'm sorry."

And then he was there, suddenly appearing at the end of the street, watching, observing me with those grey steely eyes, reminding me of our childish days, of ruthless, but insincere words, of the beliefs that there was right and wrong, black and white, with nothing between them.

I stopped, stared at him in disbelief, and strode towards him with a familiar anger to my footsteps.

"Come to watch the show?" I asked sarcastically, not caring that his gaze wandered over my puffy, bloodshot eyes, my red nose, my inflamed cheeks, my damp, dirty hair, my rumpled robes.

"Of course," he drawled, leaning against the wall. "I wouldn't want to miss the most hideous break up in the world. Thank God he left you- I was beginning to question his sanity."

"And you did not think to question yours?" I shot back, angry at him, but pleased at the familiarity of it all.

"What is there to question? I'm not the one looking so horrible and senseless."

"Define horrible and senseless, and I see you."

"Oh, so you can see. Or are your eyes just dysfunctional? How did you not realise that he was cheating on you?"

I closed my eyes, not willing to succumb to the harshness of his words, to not back down and admit defeat, to not fall, collapse, to not break down and cry shamelessly. Not in front of him, of that prejudiced, emotionless, sneering Malfoy.

"I mean, everybody else knew," he continued, watching me with those grey orbs, those deep, deep, bottomless, unfathomable eyes. "I knew, and I live a thousand miles away. It's been happening for quite a while now, did you know?"

I didn't, but somehow that knowledge didn't cause me to drown in self pity and sadness, but rather dragged me out of its turbulent, pungent waves.

"Of course I knew; I'm not stupid." I was beginning to feel better now. Everything else had changed over the years: my friendly affection that changed to love, and now a sour hate. My best friend that used to mean so much to me was now almost a stranger on the sidewalk. My increasing age, my decreasing faith, my hopes dashed, my dreams ended. But the one thing that remained the same, that remained proverbial, was him.

Him and his words and his wit and his intelligence.

Him and his ability to make me furious, angry, yet happy and comforted at the same time.

Him and his blonde hair, his grey eyes, his pale, perfect skin.

Him. Malfoy. Draco. Draco Malfoy.

Him and him alone.

And then tears swelled up in my eyes. The damn tears that I'd been holding back since I saw him just came rushing out, like breaking through a dam, like a waterfall, cascading down my cheeks.

He stood there at first, dumbfounded, afraid almost, at what I've become. A weak, pathetic girl who enjoyed wallowing in self pity. A girl who handed over her husband willingly to his mistress. A girl who did not fight for what she believed in.

But then he stepped forward, enveloping me in his embrace. His arms wrapped around my shivering shoulders, sharing his warmth with me, saying nothing but speaking words of comfort, of understanding, of simply knowing.

This was so unfamiliar, the passionate, but almost laughable hug. This foreign act of mutual acceptance. But at the same time it felt so right, so, so, so good. It was satisfying, at last. Finally I have found- we have found- where we belong. With each other.

"I made a mistake," I murmur.

He pulls away, stares at me intently. "Yes, yes you did," he says almost fiercely. "But I did too. I almost gave you up. Almost let you- did let you- fall into the grasp of this horrible, immature boy who does not deserve you."

I laugh, "and you do?" I teased.

He raised an eyebrow. So elegant, so graceful, so familiar, "why, yes I do. I deserve the very best, after all."

"I was dumped," I whispered, "he exchanged me for another girl. He had an affair."

Suddenly he cups my weeping face, pulls me forcefully back into his embrace. And he's kissing me, kissing with his soft, sweet lips, with his moist, quick tongue. Kissing me, hugging me, loving me.

"No," he says quietly, "you had an affair. With him. You were always supposed to be with me, and yet you married him. So you aren't the one that was dumped for a sordid affair, he was the one who was dumped, because he was the affair."

"A sordid affair, huh?" I repeated, mirth dancing in my eyes. "How right you are. All those years of teasing, of bullying, of hurling insults-how was I supposed to know that I was meant to be with you?"

"Because you never really looked," he answered, tilting my face up so I could gaze longingly into his eyes, "because you didn't see your own emotions, your own feelings, your own needs."

"Do you love me?" I was almost too afraid to ask.

He didn't reply out loud, but I knew. All I had to do was look into his eyes. His unfathomable, but so secure, so soothing, so consoling. His promising, unyielding gaze was the same as mine.

Just one look was answer enough.

Still feeling depressed after watching Romeo and Juliet, and Tristan and Isolde, that I typed this up in the early hours of a Sunday morning. Please note that I did write this thing without any prior planning, and wrote this all within the hour.

Again, I'll be grateful if you would review and tell me what you thought of this story. Thank you.