Somewhere in the Sylvan forest lies Draco’s heart. Beneath the damp, dark soil and the pallid, aromatic leaves beats that which he felt he must give away. To exist in such a world—as within it as he was without it, that is—a boy his age naively gave away what gives him life. What he lives now may be breathing, walking, talking, existing—even living, as life is without a false sense of purpose, but it lacks that special passion of those still with hope.
No, Draco doesn’t hope, because he buried himself deep, deep beneath the ground that others walk upon. So this physical self, the demon boy with the horns and the handsome yet misleading smile, runs wild with no consequences, no thought to what those around him might feel.
He does worry for Dove, though. In the shadows of her navy eyes, Draco often swims until he is nothing but melting muscles and dark, stormy ocean.
There is certainly an instinct to tense when Dove touches him; and he would have twitched if he wasn’t so painfully aware of how that would hurt her. Draco relaxes, turns his cheek to lean it into the neck she stretches to reach his own. He breathes out slowly, Dove’s skin mingling with his mouth enough to burn his lips, then violently sucks the air back in and closes his eyes. For once, Draco can’t think of a single thing to say. Not even Dove’s stray thoughts are registered. He knows it wrong but for whatever blasphemous reason, he can’t get himself to admit that any longer.
So, Draco leans closer, finding the gravestone for his heart and digging desperately. This hope he feels with Dove mustn’t go unnoticed. He needs a version of Draco strong enough to carry it. To make sure he doesn’t drag Dove into the grave he dug himself.
“I love you so much, Dove.”
It’s a feverous whisper, a desperate one, followed by a clumsy rising of limbs and the stuttered racing of a rediscovered heart.
