To Bite My Tongue - Harry Potter
Rating: T (mild language)
Since Dramione27 LOVES her one-shots, she asked me to write her up one with certain attributes. I dedicate this story to her in the hopes she got what she wanted.
Want:
1. Inspired by either 'Goodbye my lover' by James Blunt or 'My last request' by Paolo Nutini
2. A grief fic
3. Unrequited love
Don't want:
1. Any kind of reference to Malfoy having blue eyes
2. Fluff
3. Photographs or allusions to photographs
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-Based on Paolo Nutini's "My Last Request" and Hermione's capture in the Deathly Hallows-
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She lay dying...and I was watching.
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Since a babe-in-arms, they taught...no, bred me to believe whatever existed along the family line. Whatever my father said, I did. Just as he did for his father, and his father's father, and so forth; all along the entire line of the Malfoy chain. My mum's family held no different values or philosophies, precisely why she and father fit so well together. Actually, when I stopped lying to myself and really thought about it, I realized their marriage works strictly due to mother's need to be dominated.
Creepy, eh?
Dominated? Yes, she needs someone to tell her how to live, how to think, and hell, how to breathe when it comes right down to it. I used to think all families were like mine considering we did, in fact, associate with numerous families just like ours: the Zabinis, the Parkinsons, the Bulstrodes (sadly, the family gift of beauty did not descend to the youngest daughter, Millicent), the Flints, and various other pureblooded families throughout the finest of wizarding society. These were the children my parents told me to associate with. They, like me, were clueless in our younger days about the necessary reasons for us all to become such solid "friends" when most of us clashed upon meeting. I could tolerate Zabini and Parkinson just fine in small, very small doses. The other two, however, could kiss my arse far and wide. Yet, everyday my father emphasized the importance of my growing responsibility to maintain the friendships and nurture them with care.
Nurture?
I know my father loves me, always has, but he never used such strong words concerning his method of raising me. Nurture's many meanings include: to cherish, to care for, to worry about, and every other mind blowing experience flooding a parent. He wanted me to "nurture" the relationships I had with my "friends". The priorities of my life became clear then.
Why does any of this matter?
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Because she lay dying...and I was watching.
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So, I kept these friendships as my parents insisted upon, nurturing them as best as I could. I embarked on intelligent conversations when it came to Zabini; humored Pansy about any stupid girl thing by laughing and nodding at the appropriate times; played quidditch with Marcus whenever he felt like pushing me off my own broom (the putz!); and dealt with Millicent whenever I had to. I was the epitome of the ideal child.
I thought all kids did this.
Little did I know the rest of the world differed in ways I couldn't even imagine. I didn't come upon this discovery until...well, until a train ride at the ripe old age of eleven where I saw a girl.
Merlin, the girl...it was nothing, really. A school-boy crush, I told myself at the time, especially when it became knowledge about her inferior blood. Damn it, how I wanted her to be pure. I needed her to be pure. Yet, life showed me the first measure of cruelty at that young age when I found myself surrounded by girls of far less visually-appealing qualities. Pansy? Like I said, I could handle her in doses, but that didn't mean I ever felt even the slightest attraction toward her. The other one, the girl from the train, however, caught my attention and kept it. Something about the luminous curls atop her head drove me completely mad - bonkers even!
I didn't know it then. I never could have guessed what she'd later look like.
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Because she lay dying...and I was watching.
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Anyway, I'm getting WAY ahead of myself here. Going back to age eleven, the girl, the train...it led me to Hogwarts, my second home and my safe haven from those blasted parents of mine. Don't get me wrong, I love them. Just having them smother me - father with views and beliefs, mother with affection - it was always nice to get away from the damn manor every once in a while. Besides which, I got to see that girl all the time.
No, she wasn't in my house. Her impurity certainly kept her out of Slytherin house. Merlin though, she would have looked gorgeous in Slytherin colors, far better than all that bloody red. If only she wasn't so damn filthy! I've seen her blood, yes, and while it's red in color, I know the truth. She is barely human. She is barely a witch.
Ugh, I get sick whenever I think about it. How could something so beautiful on the outside be so incredibly disgusting and tainted on the inside? It didn't bode well to dwell over so I tried not to think about it. Speak about it, make fun of her for it, yet, but never think about. And oh God, how I wanted to smack the Parkinson and Bulstrode bitches whenever they spoke badly about her. They, two girls who couldn't even compare to this girl's beauty, dared make fun of her. I, naturally, was deigned to make fun of her right along with them. I didn't want to. I did it though.
I learned to deal with her disgusting blood and inferior house while I maintained my need for her. I was man enough to admit that I wanted her, even if only to myself. And I'd watch her. I'd watch her do the most unimportant, basic tasks. I'd watch her help out the idiot Longbottom; though pure, a barely competent wizard. Talk about low-grade - at least the mudblood could perform spells. This kid...well, he doesn't matter. Not anymore, at least. Again, getting WAY ahead of myself.
I'd watch her. I'd watch her perform her various potions, getting reprimanded in Snape's class though everyone and their owl knew she performed it ideally. I'd do the same work and achieve a perfect score. The girl in question would, naturally, accuse Snape of favoritism, though she'd only ever say it to her own friends and housemates. She, like the rest of the school, didn't know about my relationship with Professor Snape. He hated me. He'd disliked me from my birth - something about an old rivalry between my father and him. It had something to do with my mother, but nobody ever explained the qualm with me. No problem for yours truly, however, since I still got the marks I wanted. Snape may have hated the Malfoy name, but he'd never disrespect the Slytherin house. He even granted passing marks to Crabbe and Goyle every now and then.
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Because she lay dying...and I was watching.
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This girl completely broke my heart when she began a close-knit friendship with two of the people I hate most in this world.
Weasley. The idiot belonged to a dirt-poor family of muggle-lovers and what's worse...that nasty red hair! Vile, I tell you. Perhaps it appealed on the She-Weasley, his younger, smarter sister, but definitely not on him. The fact that this girl liked him made my blood boil. Yes, this girl actually enjoyed not only the volatile moron, but positively adored his traitorous family.
Potter. The bloke had the nerve to disrespect me in my first year, on the first train ride to Hogwarts. I'd extended a hand, offered to befriend the lad (at that point, I didn't exactly hate him) and he stuck his nose up at me. Nobody disrespects me and surely nobody dares to disrespect a Malfoy. The nerve! Oh, I knew then that he'd pay. I'd make good with him one way or another.
These were the friends this girl chose? Can you imagine? A brilliant, beautiful, unstoppable witch chose to make friends with these two gits?
In my pit of agony, this had its own cauldron.
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Because she lay dying...and I was watching.
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The years passed and I suffered in silence as this girl, this beautiful, inferior being, went on to do some rather astonishing things.
In our first year, she'd helped Potter and Weasel uncover the Sorcerer's Stone. I learned, as the years progressed, she played a key role in the entire discovery. It was she, not Hero-Boy or his idiotic side-kick, who figured out what the teacher's were hiding; what the headmaster wanted hidden from the outside world. She'd managed to sift through the ol' bastard's charms and uncovered what the Dark Lord wanted. When I'm not hating her for ruining the chance to have him rise long before the current time, I have to admit - it was bloody brilliant!
In our second year, she'd figured out what was inside the Chamber of Secrets long before many of the other students. I caught on around the same time, so for the sake of argument, let's say I uncovered it first; but she came in a close second. Amazing. Too bad she let the snake catch her. Well, I have to keep reminding myself that she IS a mudblood.
In our third year - screw whatever remarkable thing she did - the bitch slapped me! ME! She hauled off and slapped me. Never mind what I was doing - it's a moot point, really - point is, she slapped royalty. She put her hands, her tainted hands (only in anger. Any other time I wouldn't have minded), on me. Then, I later learned she helped Potter and his insipid Godfather meet. Funny, if Potter befriended me back in the day, he would have known all along about Black's innocence. Father told me about the whole business a long time ago.
In our fourth year, she supposedly had a transformation. The ball - the ruddy ball is when everyone suddenly noticed this gorgeous girl. Especially the Weasel. He had every opportunity to recognize the beauty behind the brains and yet it took a dress and some fake beauty charms (which I hated, by the way - she was too good for make up and such - I liked her natural) for him to see what had been below his nose for years. It felt criminal. Not to mention she showed up on the arm of the blasted Krum. I used to enjoy watching him play, but after he chose to take the single most beautiful thing to grace Hogwarts' halls...no longer. It left a bitter taste in my mouth over the guy and, frankly, over the sport altogether.
Fifth year changed everything. She was one of the wenches responsible for sending my father to Azkaban. Not only did she help take my father away from me, she was rewarded for it. Merlin, how I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to tear her apart, but I held back. I held back and waited...waited...waited...
In our sixth year, I spent little time focusing on her, though I thought about her often. My priorities shifted toward ending the headmaster's life, hardly giving me enough time to attempt murder and worry over this girl. I couldn't stop my dreams from being plagued, however. I spent each night dreaming of that girl's face, the feel of her skin, and everything else I craved to do to her. Then the last night of sixth year - for me, at least - I caught a glimpse of her before I took flight with Snape. It was the last time I'd seen her...until now.
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Because she lay dying...and I was watching.
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For someone so brilliant she certainly managed to find herself in idiotic squabbles. How in the hell could she allow herself, and Weasley and Potter for that matter, to get caught? Initially shock reigned over when someone - like I keep my memory stocked with names? Oh, please - alerted me about the possible capture of Harry Potter and the confirmed capture of Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. For a few seconds I continued to sit in my chair, my mind attempting to process the news.
Granger - Hermione Granger - my dream girl was in the manor, MY manor and...oh no...
I ran then with the strength of a dozen giants, barreling my way through the manor's vast hallways and long stretches of stairwells. I didn't want to think about all the things they would do that beautiful creature if I didn't try to stop them. I wasn't thinking clearly - OBVIOUSLY - given they all could curse me to death with the flick of a wand, while my parents look on, but I didn't care. The only thing my mind registered was the need to stop them from harming that gorgeous, tainted girl.
When I reached the room they were keeping her in, my feet slowed, her screams filling my ears. Even in throws of pain she sounded lovely, her voice carrying a lilting quality.
I opened the door and cringed when I saw her on the ground, though I hid any and all emotion from the other occupants of the room. My Aunt Bellatrix was performing the Cruciatus Curse on this girl, on Hermione, and it broke me into pieces. I could feel my insides crushing from the inside out and Merlin, did I want to help her. I should have thrown myself on my knees to keep the beauty intact, to keep her voice from ruining itself (her screams, after all, were turning hoarse with each passing second). I couldn't do it though. Not at the expense of my own well-being.
I never claimed to be a hero.
"I don't know where he is!" she lied, copious tears falling down her cheeks.
Damn it, even in tears she looks gorgeous, I thought, my eyes still taking in her form. She lay huddled in a small ball, her arms wrapped around her legs and her knees tucked in beneath her trembling chin. By the look on her face, I figured all her teeth would be gone by the end of it; they were clenched that tight.
My deranged aunt still had her in the throes of an unforgivable, still continued to mar her grace and her beauty and her splendor and every other thing I secretly loved about her!
"Aunt Bella!"
I didn't even know I'd been the one who yelled until my aunt stopped performing her curse, faced me, and began addressing me as the one who did speak out.
"Child, did I give you the right to speak?!"
I remained calm, outwardly at least, and stared forward, doing my best to not cower down to her. If I cowered down then I'd be caught, and I definitely couldn't risk that.
"Aunt Bella, I think you should leave the girl be."
If looks could kill, my body would have been buried six feet under right then. My aunt's eyes bulged from her head, extreme distaste contorting her features. On a woman who already looked insane, one can only imagine her in fury. Trust me, nobody wants to see the real thing.
"And why, you insolent child, should I do that?"
Masking my fear, an ability I gained from having Malfoy blood flow through my veins, I told her, "This is Hermione Granger, Harry Potter's best mate—"
"Thank you for stating the obvious, you ruddy ignorant brat!" she screamed, her interruption nearly catching me off guard.
Regaining some semblance of composure, I continued, "As Harry Potter's best mate, her death would be crucial to both our cause as well as theirs. Don't you think the Dark Lord will want the opportunity to be the one to claim her blood?"
I waited and steeled myself for the slap I knew would ensue. My parents never would have allowed for such harsh treatment to happen to me before, at least not by an adult (especially family), but times were different now. Ever since the Dark Lord took over our home...they couldn't protect like before.
So then why did I, knowing the consequences, attempt to help this mudblood filth?
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Because she lay dying...and I was watching.
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I watched as my aunt mulled over my words, clearly irritated that I'd brought this up and not someone else. Not her. With her nose in the air - a trait my mother, the woman's sister, had passed down to me. I know the pose well - she surveyed me for a long, long while, going over the options laid before her. I could see the wand twirling in her mind, trying to point her in the right direction.
One - she kills the mudblood, gets her fill of death, and calls it a night.
Two - she leaves the girl alive and presents her as a gift to the Dark Lord, allowing him to have the final say over what to do with her.
Three - she completely mutilates the girl and then lets the Dark Lord decide what to do with her.
"I assure you, Aunt Bell, that this girl could be useful. Alive."
"I agree."
I turned around in haste, positively sure that my ears were deceiving me. For the voice of assent belonged to my father. MY FATHER. Of all the people to defend me, I wasn't expecting him. He'd been more or less silent throughout the Dark Lord's entire reign in our house.
"Do you, Lucius?" asked Bellatrix, a hint of incredulity in her tone. She knew - hell, everyone in the room did - father only said that in fear of my safety. To disrespect the right-hand lass of the Dark Lord could possibly end in death.
Clearing his throat, my father stepped forward, answering, "While I'm sure all of us would love to see you rid the world of another piece of mudblood filth—" sneering directly at the beautiful girl still curled into herself—"I don't think it would be wise to get rid of her just yet. We could benefit from her and only if she's alive."
I thought Bellatrix might actually hit my father, or curse him, but after a few seconds to contemplate his words, she turned back to Hermione, grimacing in disgust. Please, I begged, don't let her harm this magnificent creature further. Merlin, let her leave this girl in tact!
"Fine," spat Bellatrix through clenched teeth, still staring murderously at the girl, "we'll leave her be. For now. However, we will not leave her alone. Draco—" she turned toward me, her eyes narrowed into slits—"since you came up with the idea then you can volunteer to monitor her for the time being. I don't want this girl even moving. If she attempts to get up then you curse her. Understood, you ungrateful imp?"
My throat constricted on me so I nodded my answer, my grey eyes cast about the room, looking at the other occupants. My mother sobbed as my father escorted her out, him giving me a curt nod upon exit. It was his only way of letting me know he cared. Aunt Bella didn't even look at me, her anger mounting the longer she stayed in my presence.
As soon as I was alone, I charmed the room, silencing it from the outside. Then I darted for the girl.
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Because she lay dying...and I was watching.
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"Oh Merlin, Granger," I sighed, kneeling down beside her. An overwhelming feeling I never knew existed suddenly filled me from head to toe, from left to right, and then some. Love. How in the wizarding world did I ever fall in love with this girl?
"Granger, are you alright?" I asked lamely, not sure what else to say.
"M-malfoy?" she croaked, attempting to lift her head, to face me.
Not giving her a response, per se, I helped her weak, disoriented body into a sitting position, propping her against the couch. Hermione coughed and sputtered, her body reacting violently to the harsh treatment it just received.
"Granger, are you alright? Can you look up at me?" I asked, unsure what I was looking for. Perhaps a sign she wasn't going to lapse into an unconscious state or plain die on me. Having been in the manor surrounded by my fellow Death Eaters for numerous months, I know firsthand how bodies react in different ways with the Cruciatus Curse.
Trembling like a leaf, Hermione lifted her head and her brown eyes locked on me. Those dark, sparkling brown eyes captured me in a way like never before. Perhaps staring at her eyes and knowing I love her is an entirely different feeling than just simply catching her gaze.
"W-what...do you want...Malfoy?"
I noticed my name came out in a spat, but I didn't want to hold it against her. Not now. Not knowing that this would be the last time I'd ever have her - if I could call this having - I did.
"Granger, are you alright? Tell me where it hurts and I'll place a pain reduction charm on you."
Were these my words? Was all that really coming out of my mouth? Apparently so, for in the next instant she lifted her eyebrows and asked, "What are...y-you playing at...Malfoy?"
I could see the fight in her, the strain to maintain composure and consciousness, but it would soon leave her. Even in her pain, in her fear, Hermione Granger looked positively delectable.
I knew then, as I stared at the shaking girl, that I could find forever in her. I could imagine a family with her, with us, even with her inferior blood. I could do that with her. Her destiny however, of a slow death by either my crazy aunt or the Dark Lord himself, would not permit such a fate. Damn it, it didn't seem fair.
At least I could have this one night. One night with the woman who haunted my dreams since I'd been an eleven-year-old child. One night.
One night.
"Granger," I sighed, placing my hand on her chin, compelling her to look at me; "Granger, I need you to look at me."
Her pale face blanched further, fear rising in her at my proximity - my hand holding her face and my legs brushing against her own. I swear her skin felt baby fine; like the soft feathers of that brute of a hippogriff from third year.
"What are...what are y-you...doing?"
Suddenly she toppled, her body giving up the fight and falling directly into my arms, forcing (okay, kind of allowing) me to wrap my arms around her. With her face pressed against my shoulder and the heat of her body connecting with my own, I found forever in the moment. I would hold her like this, even as hurt and anxious as she was, forever if she'd allow it. I'd hold her forever if I could.
"M-malfoy...bugg-her off," she snarled, weakly attempting to push me away. Her small, dainty hands planted themselves on my shoulders, momentarily kneading the material of my robes, struggling to release herself from my bodily restraint.
Merlin, how I loved holding her.
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Because she lay dying...and I was watching.
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The moment passed all too soon and only in my lying mind could I believe the exchange had been mutual; an embrace of tenderness and feeling, something I'd never had with another girl. I've had plenty of girls, yes, but never shared something intimate enough and NEVER something out of love.
"S-s-stop," she cried, again pushing and failing to remove my arms from around her.
Damn it, this filth couldn't even let me enjoy this for a moment. This ghastly witch in the form of sheer beauty couldn't even let me hold her, when she clearly knew this would never happen again. (You're lying, Draco, a traitorous part of my mind whispered. You know she doesn't want you. Just admit it).
I'd never see her again after this. I'd never feel her soft skin, smell her sweet breath, touch the gorgeous hair atop her head. I'd never get this back.
Because she lay dying...and soon I'd be staring at her. Dead.
The thought alone made me ill, a chill sweeping over my flesh and causing a flush to erupt on my pale skin. I didn't want to lose her.
"Just let me have this," I told her, snuggling up closer to her, pressing her firmly against me.
I could feel the frown against my shoulder and I heard the perplexed gasp leave her mouth. "W-what?"
"Just let me have this with you, damn it. Granger, I'm never going to get this chance again so let's make it count," I told her, my voice harsher than I intended.
Her struggles heightened, her saying, "You've b-b-bloody lost it! Whoa..."
She toppled again, and I found myself taking her into my lap, holding her like a baby. In a twisted way, I'd finally achieved my heart's greatest desire. I always did think it was weird that when I gazed into the Mirror of Erised, I saw myself holding the mudblood. Now it all made sense, perfect sense, and I held onto her with every ounce of strength in me.
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Because she lay dying...and I was watching.
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Granger didn't love me.
Hermione Granger loved the bloody Weasel and scar-head, but not me, the one who would give up everything for her. Okay, maybe I wouldn't and I'm sure the stupid gits she calls her best friends would, but that's beside the point. Point is, I love her. I love her far more than I should.
And she didn't love me.
It didn't provide me comfort when Aunt Bella swept back in the room, no Dark Lord in tow, and demanded to know what I'd down to the beastly girl. It didn't provide me comfort when she cast me across the room, my back making a harsh cracking sound against the wall, while she continued to perform the Cruciatus on Hermione.
I bit my tongue and didn't speak out, cry out, and protect my love when this took place. I knew I should have grown a set and demanded her to stop, die trying to defend this vision of loveliness.
No, not me - I just bit down on my tongue and remained quiet, let this secret stay between me and Hermione. Only she knew the depths of my feelings. Yet, that didn't provide me comfort either.
It didn't provide me comfort when Potter and Weasley managed to break into the room and escape with my only love, my only TRUE love.
No, I wasn't comforted at all.
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Because she lay dying...and I was watching.
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