She's pretty, he thinks. For a blood traitor.

Platinum blonde hair that used to be so lovely—now the edges are tinged with blood. (he can't help but think it's rather pretty anyway)

She's locked in Malfoy Manor's dungeon of sorts, and he likes to think her his own personal captive.

For the first week, he only stares as she sleeps—she looks peaceful.

Then he's assigned to watch her—'make sure she doesn't die, draco'.

Silently, he slips into the dungeon, staring at the even rise&fall of her (ample) chest.

He doesn't know what urges him to do it —he is not impulsive, no, not since he was Marked— but he twists a lock of platinum blonde tinged with blood hair inbetween his fingers, leaning down so they're only an inch apart.

The first scent he inhales is the scent of blood—a wound on her torso, a scratch across her cheek, and the blood staining platinum blonde hair.

But he waits a moment, and breathes in the fadingfadingfaded scent of flowers—hyacinth and honeysuckle, his mother would tell him about flowers yearsageslifetimes ago—and something he thinks is either corks or turnips.

But the moment ends and he drops the lock of hair, standing up and turning on his heel away from her.

"Why?" she questions. Her voice is soft, but it's still whimsical and airy, floatingfloatingfloated away, as if she wasn't quite there. He wasn't 100% sure she was.

"Because I was told to," he snaps for the millionth time, as if was annoyed. Maybe he could've been, in a different situation, where he wasn't trapped like this and she was the only person that wasn't either damned to hell or looking at him as if disappointed (although, he has to wonder, if narcissa was disappointed in him, or herself?). But they were in this situation, so on the inside he was almostmaybehappy.

She gives him a long look that's unreadable.

The Dark Lord would kill him if he knew.

((because the dark lord's most faithful's nephew is supposed to be a loyal little sinner and not fall for a girl who vaguely resembles an angel))

Draco wishes he could bring himself to not care.

She's sleeping again—he half expects wings as white as untrodden snow to sprout from her back.

(his little bloodstained angel, he muses, smiling bitterly)

He's painfully aware she's in her school uniform still, with the dreadfully short skirt and the buttons on her blouse undone.

He moves forward and her legs are sprawled infront of him, delicious thighs just begging for hands.

He reaches forward and slowly traces his name on her inner thigh, and she shudders and groans something unhearable in her sleep.

He finds himself tugging at the edge of her panties curiously. He doesn't realize what he's doing as his fingers slip under and explore and—

She bucks against his hand and he pulls off, standing up, as if that didn't happen.

He disappears out the door way and she sleeps.

((hycanith; young love is often transcendent, self obsessed and often fatal—"you love me and destroy me"))

The first kiss is forceful.

Rough, chapped lips pressing into her dry, harsh lips, tongue forcing its way into her mouth. She doesn't respond at first, but stockholm syndrome is a bitchy little mistress and she kisses back like a woman in love.

Hands grasp at her sweater, pulling it off and whispers—a groan against his lips— softly, ever so soft— "i don't want to die a virgin."— and he has to oblige.

When all is said and done, he thinks he hears her whisper "i love you" and he shakes his head.

"no, you don't." he mutters, but he doesn't think she hears him. Angels don't fall for demons unless they're fallen angels, and she's almost too holy for that.

(honeysuckle; the bonds of love—"let me bond you—be my captive)

She's his little bloodstained angel with a nasty case of stockholm—his captive piece of the heaven he'll never reach because of a mark on his left arm, and she's wrapped him up tight enough you'd think he was the prisoner here.

She doesn't love him, in the end. If she loved him, she'd stay his little bound and captive bloodstained angel, not go flying away when she gets the chance.

maybe he loves her, maybe he doesn't—she destroys him without trying either way.


i couldn't sleep at three am. An hour later—"whoops i druna'd". So this was my first time writing Druna and it was for two challenge things—Contrary Miss Mary's flower challenge, which I used 'hyacinth' and 'honeysuckle' and my own Fanfic Gift Exchange, for Gamma, in which I used the prompt 'blood'. I hope you like it, Gamma, as shitty as it is!