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  THE DOOR CLICKED SOFTLY closed, and at last they were alone.

  He laid her gently on the centre of the bed, shoving down the knot of guilt that welled in his throat as her face scrunched in pain. The pain he caused.

  He had to turn away at once. He couldn't even look at her. Ugly purple bruises had began to bloom across the curve of her cheek, and the base of her throat hinted at violet violence. And yet somehow, she managed to wear something so blasphemous, beautifully.

  The room itself was sterile and empty, given to him by Navy so that he might stay as long as he was able — which was never long, despite how Navy always begged him to. She wanted him. But not in the way a woman so often wanted a man. No — she wanted him as a wraps on. She wanted him to fight for her — with her.

  Little did Navy know... He was the very worst of what she was fighting against.

  Draco turned to leave, not wanting to spend a second longer than he had to alone with her, only to be stopped short when she called out after him, "Draco, wait."

  A shaking breath wove it's way between her lips, his back to her — palm still rested on the door handle.

  "...I'm sorry."

  So am I. He thought, so unbelievably, impossibly sorry... For more than she'd ever know.

  When he didn't answer she swallowed, "How are you feeling? Does it hurt?" Every word was cautious, tentative, so far removed from the untamed, impulsive, violent girl he'd met what seemed like a lifetime ago. The girl who'd murdered men and Sins alike — the same girl who now seemed afraid that if she spoke too loud or too much, he may leave her.

  Was she scared of being alone?
  — He was.

  "No." He lied, pressing his lips into a firm line as he finally turned the handle and left.

•  •  •

  "IF NOT NOW THEN WHEN?"

  " — When you are ready." Navy held her head in her hands, letters and parchment scraps strewn about her desk. "You should know it's not that easy, and certainly not something you should want to rush into. Most people do all they can to try get out of fighting, and yet here you are, begging to fight."

  Draco's thumb dug into the hilt of the chair's arm. "Yes well, we both know I'll win."

  "Maybe you've been gone so long you've forgotten." She sighed, "But I do not choose who you fight. They do. So don't be so certain of a victory before you even know your opponent."

  Draco drummed his fingers against the chair in a macabre rhythm. His impatience had long been his hamartia, alongside several other far more sinister traits he'd never like to admit to.

  "How is your wound?" Navy didn't care. Not really. In reality she was only sizing him up.

  "It's fine." He replied coldly.

  "Liar." The faintest trace of a smirk found her lips as she finally lifted her head, "It's not healing is it?"

  Draco's brows knit downward, "If you already know then why do you ask."

  Navy cocked her gaze, "Because I love to watch you lie Draco. It's so effortless." Reaching under her desk she pulled out two glasses and a bottle of fiery red whiskey. "She has absolutely no idea, does she?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about." Draco spat the words out like a bitter taste on his tongue. He did not enjoy Navy's games, nor her tactless insinuations.

  "That everything's a lie." She raised her glass to her lips, and in turn Draco raised his own, letting the honeysuckle taste crawl thick down his throat to scorching his lungs. "That everything she's ever known and ever will know — is all a lie."

  That hurt him, struck him heavy like a dagger to the chest. But there was no denying, it was all a lie, and when she found out — if she found out, she would never forgive him. Maybe she'd even try kill him, it wouldn't be the first time.

  "Not all of it." He said quietly, "Some of it was real..."

  Navy gave a small, humourless laugh, shaking her head as she said, "Her dagger's made from what was once the sword of Godric Gryffindor, that's why your wound isn't healing."

  Draco cast his eyes down to his chest, where the smallest speck of scarlet had already begun to seep through his shirt. The wound below was fierce, a deep, raging, ugly thing. Magic had done nothing to quell the blood flow and even less to heal. The cut remained impervious, despite how Madame Pomfrey had slaved away at it.

  "Which is strange..." Navy mused, narrowing her eyes at Draco in the way that meant that whatever she was about to say — didn't seem strange to her at all. In fact, she already had it figured out, all that was left was to see how Draco reacted. "Because correct me if I'm wrong, but last I recall the sword was in the possession of your family... Certainly curious to say the least."

  "It belonged to my father — if that's what you're asking." Except the sword could never truly belong to anyone other than a Gryffindor, especially not a fifth generation Slytherin like my father.

  "So did he have it broken up and made into daggers, or did you?" There she was again, asking questions she full well knew the answer to.

  "You really think my father would have the balls to betray the Dark Lord like that?" Now it was Draco's turn to laugh. His father was a miserable coward, always had been.
  The sword of Godrick Gryffindor was one of the few known weapons able to destroy a horcrux. The Dark Lord would start a second war before allowing the sword to be let free — let alone multiplied.

  "You mean to tell me you're not your father's son?" She toyed, knowing full well how much that irked him.

  "No." He snapped. "I'm not."

  Even though six of the original seven horcrux's had been destroyed, it hadn't taken long for the Dark Lord to replace them with all the lives he'd taken during the war.  
  — And so the District Sins were born.

  Lust.
  Gluttony.
  Envy.
  Greed.
  Pride.
  Sloth.
  Wrath.

  They were mortal, only just. Few things left could kill them.

  She sat forwards, resting her weight in her elbows; suddenly interested, "How did you do it? — How did you even get it? I would've thought the Dark Lord would've wanted to keep the sword close."

  "He did. He gave it to Wrath, who decided it should be kept at the mansion in Pride, alongside all the other other valuables won at war." Draco reaches across the table to snatch the bottle, refilling his glass before continuing. " — He told my father to have it destroyed, and of course being the coward he is father tasked me with doing it. So I stole it — found a goblin willing to work for gold and made one sword into three daggers."

"So where are they now?"

Draco leaned back in his chair, something sinister dancing at the edge of his lips, "Nice try."

• • •

WHEN AT LAST DRACO returned it was late. The room was cold and dark. Not even moonlight could penetrate Navy's underground fortress.

Seven lay asleep in bed. So seemingly serene in her rest, though the small crease between her brows told a different story. Even in sleep she found no solace, and even less in her waking.

Draco stared at her. He couldn't look away. Even in this darkness, looking at her was like staring directly into the sun; blinding and in many ways dangerous.
  — But most of all it hurt. A pain greater than any he had ever felt before. If he looked at her long enough he began to see things that weren't there — and see a girl that she was not. If he stared long enough she began to look like her.

He'd already looked at her too long, he'd already gone blind. He could never look at another the way he had looked at her. So now he would wander alone in the dark.

***
QOTD- Who do we think Pride is?