Malfake

Draco opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. The acrid memory of the disrupted revelry pulled him out of the pink jelly of awakening too quickly. To return, forget, and never experience it again. He threw off the blanket and glanced at today’s outfit, expertly prepared by the elves. A button shirt. Finally, some well-deserved peace on his own skin. Now, he just needed to avoid choking on the fumes in this Muggle… Oh, by the way, where does she even live? Draco will return her bracelet and cleanse himself of the unfamiliar feeling of guilt. Since when could anyone from this wretched trio evoke this feeling in him? Disgusting, like stale pancakes that Kiki served once. She stopped cooking since then. Lucius broke her fingers. And then, by the way, was the last time Draco ever felt sorry for someone. He was eight. And now he’s seventeen. “Girls should not be harmed, Draco,” Narcissa’s voice from the past echoed in his skull, as if she lived there. Well, there were no girls in Malfoy’s life. There were followers, enemies, friends, servants. No “girls.” But… yesterday Hermione seemed to have turned into one, except she didn’t burst into flames, scattering ashes around like a phoenix. Time to end this. He grabbed the box from the bedside table. Trying hard not to succumb to the temptation of opening it again, Draco put it in the pocket of his black trousers and left the room. Descending to the living room, he found a prepared breakfast and Dobby dusting Quidditch cups on the shelves. “Have you packed Mud… Ganger’s things?” the aristocrat sat down at the table, placing a snowy napkin on his lap. “Yes, Master!” the elf squeaked, snapping his fingers, and a beige woven bag materialized by the exit. “Find out where she lives,” the guy skewered an olive from the Greek salad with his fork. “I need to return an artifact to her that no elf has the right to touch” Draco felt the need to justify why he was going there himself, immediately getting annoyed with his own decision, clenching his teeth on the olive. It smelled truly awful here. And, of all things, he didn’t bring a handkerchief when he Apparated with the bag to some stuffy five-story building in one of the dilapidated outskirts of London where no self-respecting wizard had ever set foot. What a nightmare. The flicker of an incandescent bulb, the annoying trill of the doorbell, and silence. Zero reaction. Only a dog barked on the floor above, waking up some baby who immediately started screaming at the top of its lungs. Draco was itching inside just to get out of here as soon as possible. Return the damn stuff at school or at least on the train, while the orphan and the pauper aren’t watching. Or maybe create an even bigger circus, exposing Granger’s stupidity? Inside, a pleasant tingling of anticipation rose, but it washed away like a word on the sand when he remembered what was pulling his pocket down. Malfoy pulled the box out of his trousers, and it sparkled again with satin, as if denying the chaos of crumbling walls and a squeaking elevator around. Where did she even get the money for this? Click. The serpent stared with steel irises, like an old friend. Something chilled inside him again. Even Narcissa with her impeccable taste wouldn’t have found a more responsive piece. Did Muggles make this? Or goblins? What the hell, Granger?! Disobedient fingers reached out and pulled the snake out of the velvet captivity. Draco twirled it in his fingers and, gritting his teeth, finally allowing the desire to take over, stretched the edges, pushing the wrist of his left hand into the bracelet. Flawless. He could meld with it, let it penetrate his skin, flow through the veins in his bloodstream. It couldn’t be, but it seemed as if Salazar himself had blessed this artifact of jewelry art. Draco almost completely submerged himself in the ecstasy of his new greatness when footsteps suddenly hurried behind the door, which he had already managed to forget. In an instant, Draco, who had straightened up, took off the bracelet, pushed it inside, and put on the familiar look of years of refined arrogance, barely managing to inhale soothingly for the last time. Hermione’s face appeared in the gap of the opened door. “Malfoy?!” the gaze transformed from surprised to angry in a fraction of a second. “Get out of here!” “Don’t yell, Granger, I came to return your stuff,” he threw the bag at her feet. “And this.” His hand, twitching unnaturally, held out the box a second later than the last syllable ended. Frowning, Hermione looked into the center of his palm. Her hair no longer cascaded down her shoulders, but was gathered in a messy bun, secured with a pencil. But she couldn’t stop being a girl anymore. “Whatever happened yesterday, this is a gift, and gifts are not returned,” she lifted her nose, folding her arms across her chest, “I thought in pureblood circles of the highest aristocracy, they still teach minimal etiquette.” “I don’t need gifts from some M… Muggle. It wasn’t a real birthday anyway,” he casually tossed it at her. “I wouldn’t have invited you to a real one even if you were Astoria’s best friend!” Damn, Astoria… She didn’t give him anything either, just like Blaise. “You play games, and I live a sincere life. I acted as normal people do in such situations,” her lower lip twitched emotionally. “After all, we’re already in our seventh year. I thought you… had grown up.” A slight regret flashed in her hazel eyes for a moment but dissolved as quickly as a drop of water thrown onto a hot electric stove. The box was still laying on his open palm, and it was becoming increasingly difficult for Draco to imagine the hand without it. “I chose the bracelet for you, and it’s yours. You can throw it into the river.” Grabbing the bag from the floor, Hermione slammed the door in front of him, and Draco plunged back into the realm of the smell of frying cabbage and dim dusty light. Shit. Now, no doubt, he could legitimately keep the bracelet for himself. And no one would know its nature, as he could have bought such an expensive trinket for himself. But she chose it for him. Discomfort, a splinter, something didn’t leave his body like a parasitic worm. He would have thought about conscience if he didn’t know he lacked it. Hermione’s disappointment seemed so… new… Previously, only disdain emanated from beneath her knit brows and Gryffindor pride. Focused, Draco caused Apparation, that only intensified his nausea, keeping in the back of his mind that another minute here, and he would reek so much that no army of house-elves could clean his clothes. “Hi there,” Astoria’s languid inviting voice sounded from somewhere behind the couch, and a slender hand shot up behind the red back. Greengrass lay in the same place, as if she hadn’t gone anywhere after the strange party. He completely forgot about her, forgot his stupid “come tomorrow.” Being popular was sometimes damn exhausting. Seeing his sour face, the blonde frowned. “Did the house-elves forget to refill laundry freshener again?” she pinched her nose with two fingers when he approached. “Shut up, would you?” No sense of guilt. Astoria still wasn’t a girl. He began to unbutton his shirt right in the living room, wanting to throw it into the concerned face of the house-elf as soon as possible. But Astoria’s gaze followed his descending fingers, and her hands mimicked the movement on her own blouse. Damn, he provoked her, and the mood wasn’t right… He liked Greengrass more within the walls of Hogwarts, when in parallel with the physical pleasure of being in her, he could experience moral pleasure — committing violations, making his way through dark night corridors to some unlocked office. And also because it was possible in the end to calmly dive into the men’s bedroom without once again spitting out “now leave my house”. Not that it was difficult. It was just that she always kept her gaze on him a little longer in the manor. As if hoping that today he would not say this and would let her stay until the morning. The stupidest self-confidence. With her golden curls, Greengrass was attractive enough for Malfoy and the manor. Somewhere at the level of gallery statues made of white and black marble. Passing by which you no longer stop in awe, because you’ve seen them a thousand times. Astoria was part of the interior. And yet, she aroused. Either copying him or manifestos of antiquity, she avoided tanning, keeping the skin not only on her stomach, but even on her hands white. He liked that. She was a white marble in his gallery. Draco’s canvas. Even plaster, if you will. He molds everything he wants from her. She habitually pulled her knees to her stomach, throwing her head back on the couch seat, the unbuttoned collar of her blouse revealing a white triangle of skin — but no lush curves. Greengrass was a model, that heroine type that was so popular two decades ago. “The Daily Prophet” and “The Sorcerer” offered her to pose nude for the centerfold as soon as she turned eighteen. Daphne almost choked on bile. “Come here,” he pulled her whole torso closer, holding her under the knees, “and don’t scream too loudly, or all the house-elves will gather, and I’ll have to kill them.” Buttons clicked open and the trousers went lower, his hands found the elastic of her panties under her skirt and pulled them down, there were no more obstacles. That’s how sex happened — with a careless permission, a faint snap of fingers, and, if he didn’t want it, without stretched foreplay. Astoria — a piece of multi-layered cherry cake that Malfoy consistently consumed for dessert. Although sometimes he diversified his diet with a greasy fast-food hamburger: Pansy. But today Draco felt like he was developing diabetes. And he didn’t know what he wanted more — to try to relieve the accumulated tension or make Astoria leave as soon as possible. He rocked his hips, and a trill broke out of the Slytherin’s throat. Some kind of bird’s suppressed shriek. She doesn’t know how to live “on the inside”. As if an external reaction is required to sustain life for every action she takes. But today Draco was stingy, and covering his eyes, he only moved his palms from her knees to her hips and back, maintaining the recently set favorite pace. But for Greengrass it was enough; on her palette of black-gray-pink, there was no place for rainbows and gemstones. She wore rubies and emeralds only on her fingers as lifeless assets. Emeralds. Two green eyes bordered with white gold looked into the darkness of the box in the pocket of his half-lowered trousers. Two hazel eyes in the doorway gazed disappointedly, one of them intersected by a wavey strand that had broken out of the bundle… And then disappeared. Pulsation in the organ and a sharp thrust into Astoria, he gritted his teeth! Draco felt the sweat bead on his forehead just under the white fringe. The girl screamed rather satisfactorily, staring into his eyes without an invitation, distracting, throwing off, although she should’ve been leading to that world, for which “The Sorcerer’s” subscribers are willing to pay with a magazine subscription. As it always was. Until today. Noticing lack of enthusiasm in her lover’s eyes, she spread the hem of her blouse, outlining in the light of the living room her slightly swollen chest, squeezed her nipples between her fingers, trying to tease. And Draco began to feel like the jewelry snake had grown to fifty centimeters, crawled out of the pocket onto his neck, and was choking, cutting off oxygen, because it was already darkening in his eyes, and nothing seemed interesting enough to continue. Malfoy fell on Astoria, not letting her see the struggle with the invisible demon on his face; he’s still firm and active, you just need to take a comfortable position aside from the face, near the neck… Astoria mistook his deep breaths for excitement and intensified her exclamations, but Draco’s ears were ringing. He kisses the bony shoulder, closing his eyes, but he’s losing, losing it… Pull yourself together, idiot. So eager to give himself a slap for the antics of his own brain. …A dimple at the shoulder, embarrassed, with a mother-of-pearl sheen, two meters away from where he was lying now. Why so beautiful, Almighty Merlin, how can she, she can’t… He felt his phallus fill again and was ready to hate himself for it. But the lips parted, and Draco bit the thin shoulder, living in yesterday. Your aesthetics, your care, your disappointment… The bittersweet orgasm hit so powerfully that the couch shifted under the impulses of the body. He still hid his face from his partner, experiencing it, allowing himself not to wear a mask at least now until he was kicked out of the bright hallucination. But emptied completely, he rose, turning away as if looking for a wand to bring order, and the chaos in his head remained no less. As if I… cheated. “Did you like it?” came uncertainly from behind. Astoria had never seen him so… ambiguous. “It was just amazing…” Draco wasn’t lying at all, buttoning trousers up, facing the fireplace, calmly feeling the sharp straight corners in their pocket. What. The. Hell. Granger?!