It’s a burbling, heated thing, Draco’s anger. Intense and raucous, rearing an ugly head as hellish as the one that Draco bears. He is not often angry, though that might come to a surprise to any casual observers. The demon simply exists like this, nonchalant and uncaring. Very few things spark passion in him, and even fewer things sate the gnawing hunger burrowing a hole in his chest.
There are a couple of things that grate under Draco’s skin as he gets older: willful naivety and insolence. He thinks he sees both in Bardot. Her unwavering face as she questions the dark power that rolls uncomfortably in his gut paired with her draw to men that will always, always hurt her in the end. Draco doesn’t know the extent of that shadowy coil, how it runs from her head to her heart to the pit of her gut.
I don’t like to get dirty, he answers with a flick of his head, not bothering to speak aloud again. The shadows holding her from behind slip to the ground and race to curl into his skin. What is your name? he asks in lieu of answering her question. So I can call you a fool with conviction. He turns his head an inch, but there is the smallest flash of amusement when he speaks.
While the anger disappeared with the blink of an eye, the demon still wears a withering wariness on his face.
