The Same Mistake

Draco sat in the Slytherin Common Room staring into the flames that danced in the fireplace. The heat from the flames stretched out toward him but faded to nothing before reaching Draco. It had been four days since his conversation in the closet with Ellie. Four strenuously long days.

Draco had seen her briefly; in the hallways, in the Great Hall, in classes. But she had not looked at him, had not spoken to him, had ignored him completely. Draco was ashamed to admit that this had been the most miserable week of his life. Without Ellie’s charming disposition, his life seemed far bleaker. And it wasn’t about to get any brighter.

Draco had planted the bottle of poisoned mead within Slughorn’s possession almost a month ago. Yet, nothing. Not even Slughorn had been poisoned by the gift intended for Dumbledore. Every nerve in Draco’s body was taunt, he was tense, so tense. Nothing was as it should be.

Dumbledore should have been dead twice now, but both of Draco’s attempts had failed miserably, one ending with an innocent victim. Although Draco had tried to deny his guilt over Katie Bell, the closer he got to Ellie, the more his conscious pricked with guilt, with unease over his orders to murder Dumbledore.

But even his worry over Dumbledore couldn’t touch upon his fear for Ellie. She was in danger. A danger that Draco blamed on the Order. Had they not been so hell bent on using Ellie to spy, she would not be in her current predicament. And still, Ellie truly believed that the Order would be able to protect her. She was wrong, very wrong.

The Dark Lord grew ever stronger; he would be the one to hold ultimate power. If Ellie didn’t learn that power was worth more in this world than morality, she would be doomed. Draco’s hand curled into a fist, his tendons sticking out starkly against the white.

Pansy sauntered into the Common Room her curvy body covered in a clingy green top and a short black skirt. In the past, Draco’s eyes would have been drawn to Pansy, would have raked over her every feature, would have relished in the knowledge that her body was meant for him. Tonight his gaze did not deviate from the flames.

Pansy moved fluidly until she stood directly before him. She bent down, her breasts jutting out in the deep swoop neck. Flicking her black bangs from her eyes, her lips curled up in seductive smile. “I haven’t seen you in a while, Draco.”

Sneering, Draco’s eyes lifted up to Pansy’s. “That would be because I have no desire to see you. Sometimes I wonder if you can really be a pure blood; you act so much like a Mud Blood.”

Pansy’s eyes flashed at the insult. “Oh, Draco, I know you don’t mean that.” She pressed herself closer to him.

Draco was unable to keep his eyes from tracing down the smooth curve of Pansy’s neck to her barely contained cleavage. Pansy, noticing his change in attention, drew one finger slowly across her chest. “What makes you think you know me?” he challenged.

Pansy bit the tip of her long red nail. “Because I still know exactly how to turn you on.”

Unfortunately, Draco thought, Pansy was not correct; his life would have been far easier if she was. Pansy was clearly trying hard to impress him, to push his buttons. Her low cut shirt, her perky cleavage, her risqué behavior, she wanted to get a rise out of him. He mentally compared this image of Pansy to Ellie in her long night gown up in the tower the night she had told him she was a member of the Order. Ellie had been sexier that night than Pansy could ever dream of being.

The simple matter of Ellie truly caring about Draco, about how to help him, how to protect him, was vastly more appealing than Pansy’s adoring behavior. Ellie held him accountable for his actions, and that was certainly a first for anyone. There simply was no competition.

Draco stood up, Pansy’s body crushed against him. “Am I wrong?” she nipped at his earlobe.

Smirking, Draco pushed past Pansy. “As always.”