DESPOINA
There is fear when she sees him.
Fear of what he is, certainly, but also fear of what he is to her—what she is to him. She is fearful of the way that her pulse stammers when she hears his voice calling out for her, of the weakness in her that folds immediately. Her mouth runs dry or she would call back, her tongue thick in her mouth or she would say his name. Instead she remains there, wide-eyed and small, her nostrils flaring but no sound coming out.
It’s only when she sees him moving closer that she moves at all, a single black leg lifting and then falling back down, pressing firmly against the dry, cracked earth of Pangea. He looks exactly as she had remembered him, although he is certainly older. There’s something devastatingly handsome about him, something so perfect in the cruel, cold features and the demonic red eyes that shine toward her.
She swallows and her throat is dry. “Draco,” his name is so easy to say and she hates herself for that. Hates that she is so pathetic that she remembered it so easily. But he is the only one to say her name like that, to look at her in that way, and she knows it’s hopeless—she has no fight within her.
I guess the sound of your voice in the aching will just have to do