To think Draco would not have been fascinated by another creature of hell would have been silly. It is only right that when he finds Despoina, his heart twists and turns with desire and delight. She leaves him with a pleasant feeling that blooms over and over again in his chest, warm and powerful like a summer dawn after a war finally won. If he can win Despoina over, keep her magic tucked close to his side, then he will become all the more untouchable; and, perhaps, he will find something in her personality—a surprise, maybe? He’s open to possibilities, the grin on his face indicating he expects something spectacular.
It is the cruelty in Draco that seeks out the weakness in Despoina. He knows just what buttons to push and words to spin to keep those easily manipulated beneath his spell. He wouldn’t call the hellhound pathetic, or even entirely weak, but he knows he can take advantage of her and that—that is absolutely enough.
“I’m so glad you remember my name,” Draco calls, practically purring. He steps closer to the hellhound, mouth turning down in a mock frown. “Why won’t you come here?” He knows why she won’t—the fear is clear in her mind and his supernatural ability to sense it. Draco lies to himself when he thinks he doesn’t know why she fears him; of course he knows why, to an extent, but sometimes he can’t face the manipulative parts of himself. Perhaps he is gearing up to be truly awful to Despoina (in some subtle way), weaponizing his charm and deceit.
Draco draws closer, reaching out to brush his nose against Despoina’s cheek. “Are you here to stay?” he whispers, hope and selfish desire wrestling in his heart.
@[despoina]
