Written for the Houses Competition, representing Slytherin House. Category: Themed / Prompt: White / Words: 3,333

All characters in the wonderful Harry Potter world were created and are owned by JK Rowling. I do not claim any ownership over any of them.


o

The fog was beginning to slowly clear itself with the end of dawn. Draco got on his broom and whizzed over the Hogwarts lake, the cold morning breeze causing him to wrap his robe tighter around himself. He reached the shore, got off his broom and breathed sharply. Slowly, he walked until he reached the White Tomb, swallowing hard at the sight of it. It became a routine now for him, to wake up every morning once a week at dawn, put on his all black turtleneck jumper, pants, and dress robes, grab his broomstick, and proceed to Dumbledore's grave. He found that he would never get used to seeing the heavy, rectangular marble white sarcophagus no matter how many times he has visited it since he returned to Hogwarts to graduate his seventh year and take his N.E. .

Draco stood by the deceased Headmaster's tomb, rubbing his nose as he sniffed preparing himself for the tears that would be followed by a small scream as the memories of the night at the Astronomy Tower flooded through his mind in a flash.

His wand hand was shaking as he looked at his Headmaster, his eyes bloodshot red.

"Draco. Years ago, I knew a boy, who made all the wrong choices. Please, let me help you." His voice, calm and worried. That voice that still echoes in Draco's dreams every night.

"I don't want your help! Don't you see?! I have to do this! I have to kill you... or he's gonna kill me!"

A flash of green light. White silvery strands of hair, blue eyes, Dumbledore's body falling off the tower, Snape grabbed Draco by the collar and rushed the Death Eaters to flee.

All these memories were ingrained in his mind like it had only happened yesterday. He knelt on the ground and hugged himself as he sobbed. His tears fell into the earth below like raindrops. Breathing heavily, he got up, walked closer to the shores of the lake, closed his eyes and inhaling, pushed his head into the water and quickly pulled out. His white blonde hair drenched, his eyes and nose red, he coughed and casted a drying spell on himself. Draco got on his broom, turned to take a last look at the tomb, sunlight bouncing off its marble white surface, quietly whispered I'm sorry, and kicked off, speeding back to the main school grounds.

He slouched into the Head Boy and Head Girl Common Room as the portrait door flung open. 'Good morning,' She softly greeted him, one hand on a book whilst the other stirred her coffee in a white porcelain mug painted with delphiniums. He nodded at her and went into his room to lay down. He had two hours until Potions class, and he hoped he would at least get an hours sleep before. Sighing, he ran his hands through his hair and looked up at the wooden roof of his four poster bed. He noticed that white sheets that were stained in his own blood and sweat from the night before had been changed by the house elves as he traced the scent of lavender on them.

A lot changed since Voldemort's demise. His parents were in and out of trials at the Ministry of Magic, his father having faced a more severe punishment than his mother for his role as a Death Eater complicit in Voldemort's war crimes. A great amount of the Malfoy wealth had gone to restore Hogwarts following the war, and Draco knew that family wealth and the Malfoy name could no longer get him as far as he had wished for his future following the war, so graduating with Outstanding N.E. would be his only hope to acquire a decent job based off qualifications. It had been a terrible joke, he thought, to be named Head Boy and be paired with Hermione Granger as Head Girl. Worse even was the joke, to be sharing the same quarters with her. Draco remembered the sneers, looks of disgust and insults thrown at him when he first walked in the Great Hall upon his return. Murderer! You should be locked up in Azkaban with your father! The hurls of insults had rang in his ears for weeks, and he had barricaded himself in his room, eating only in the early mornings when the Great Hall was almost empty and having skipped dinners. Only after a month, when the looks became indifferent and the insults had subsided did he dare to allow himself to be around people, but always sitting in his own corners by himself.

He and Hermione barely spoke since they lived together. The first night he had spent with her in the common room, he had balled his fists and blurted out an apology to her of how he was a foolish child who believed that blood separated people and the years he tormented her. She never replied, and he had locked himself up in his room after that, avoided her for days until she knocked on his bedroom door late at night when he couldn't sleep and offered him a plate of food. 'I know you've been skipping your meals, Draco. You should eat,' She had said to him, brown eyes concerned. He had thanked her, and from that on the awkward tension between them had eased, although they still did not speak much to each other than the small polite greetings and conversations about their studies.

Hermione knew Draco always awoke before dawn once a week. She had heard him move around the common room, and would always only see him return by morning, dressed in all black, broom in hand. She had a gut feeling of where he had gone to, but never brought it up with him. She was not surprised when she saw him on the train at Hogwarts, Draco was always rather intelligent and studious, coming in second to Hermione in class so it was only natural for him to return to school. She was not shocked that he was named Head Boy, but rather that she had to share a living space with him. The first few days they could barely look at each other, and Hermione had bit her bottom lip many times when she heard the other students throw insults at Draco or notice the looks on their faces when they saw him, either in horror, fear, or hatred. Her conscience wanted her to defend him, but the memories of his abuse on her and the unforgettable incident at Malfoy Manor where Bellatrix had tortured her as he watched, doing nothing, would always stop her.

She knew he would go through days barely eating in order to avoid the other students, and after seeing the pronounced dark circles under his eyes, the drooping shoulders and his loss of poise that he always held himself in with pride as a Malfoy whenever he walked, imitating his father's demeanour, Hermione felt sorry for him. She tried to be civil, to talk to him about the classes they took together and his thoughts on their theories, which he would always share excitedly. She noticed that he, the once popular Blonde Slytherin boy, was now always alone, either locked up in his room or buried in a book, completely attentive to whatever he was reading, ignoring the snide remarks thrown at him in the library by passing students.

He scratched the scars of raised skin on his inner lower hand where the Dark Mark once etched. It was slowly fading now, although he knew it would never disappear. With Voldemort's defeat the black skull and snake had faded to a pale grey, leaving behind a scar that traced its design. He tried to close his eyes to sleep, but was distracted by the soft rustling of the white curtain from the open window in his room. He remembered it again, the sight of Dumbledore's body falling, his robes rustling in the wind. Draco shook his head, trying to erase it. He had considered to obliviate himself but was told against it by his mother, who feared that it would do him more harm than good. He felt his heart pace quicken as he tried to force himself to sleep and felt like his breathing suddenly stop. He clutched on his chest, heaving. He heard Hermione call out to him with a soft knock on the door.

'Draco? Are you alright?' He heard her speak. He wanted to tell her to go away but the words would not come out. He got off the bed and fell, hands still clutching on his heaving chest as he breathed rapidly. Hermione opened the door and gasped at the sight of him on the ground, hyperventilating. She rushed to him and conjured a white paper bag from thin air with her wand. 'Breathe into this, slowly,' She guided him as he placed it over his mouth and nose. He felt hot tears stream down his face, he felt like dying, but Hermione's hand stroked his back, easing him. His breathing slowed down as he focused on inhaling and exhaling into the paper bag. 'I'll be back,' Hermione said when she was certain he had relaxed, nearly sprinting out the room and reappeared with a vial of calming potion. 'I take this for the test jitters,' She said, reassuring him as she handed him the vial. He gulped it down and let its effects rush thrown his nerves, engulfing him in a soothing warmth and wiped away his tears with the back of his hands.

He laid against the bed on the floor with her beside him. Neither of them spoke for what felt like ten minutes, until Hermione turned to look at him. 'Are you hungry? I can ask the house elves to bring you something to eat'.

He smiled at her weakly, turning to meet her eyes. 'I thought you disapproved of using the house elves'.

She laughed a little at his comment. 'For this, I would make an exception'.

He nodded and got up, offering his hand out to her as he lifted her off the floor. 'Thank you, Hermione'. He said her name with hesitation, as though uncertain if he should, because it felt so strange to say her first name since he had only called her by her last for the past seven years. She could hear the strangeness in his voice, and felt the same as she too, said his first name when she excused herself out of his room to call upon the house elf reserved for them, one of their privileges as Heads.

The soft fire crackled in the common room, startling Hermione awake. She looked around and saw the dark night peering through the window, realising that she had fallen asleep while reading – again. She pushed away her curls from her face and yawned, bringing herself off the plush white sofa to go to her room but was stopped in her tracks by a loud groan coming from Draco's room. She frowned, unmoving. She then heard it again, that awful groan as though someone was in pain. She tiptoed to the oak doors and waved her wand to unlock it, peeking through the ajar door to see Draco tossing and turning in his bed, mumbling to himself. She approached him cautiously and caught the words that escaped his mouth in his slur of barely incomprehensible sentences. Dumbledore! No! I have to do this! He'll kill me! Mother! Help! Mum! She thought of leaving him alone, that he would not appreciate her sneaking into his room like this to see him in such a state but thought better of it when she spotted the trickle of blood from his mouth. Draco was biting hard on his lip. She shook him awake, shocked and afraid.

Draco's eyes shot open, and when he saw those familiar brown eyes of her he gasped, quickly curled himself into a ball and buried his face in his knees, ashamed. He rocked himself back and forth, sweating. Hermione did not know what to do in the moment so she followed her instinct, one that told her to rest her hands on his shoulders as she slowly slid herself closer to him on the bed and hugged him.

'You know, some nights I still scream to myself when I remember what happened during the war. The scars never really went away,' She pulled the sleeves of her white satin pyjama top to reveal the sadistic gift Bellatrix Lestrange had given her in Malfoy Manor, etched on her skin in all its ugliness.

Draco lifted his head from his knee and ran his fingers along her scar, wincing at the memory they both shared from it. He showed her his fading Dark Mark, and allowed her to ghost her fingers on it as she examined the evil marking. She took his hand in hers and guided him back to bed, eyes locked onto his as she pulled the large white blanket over them. She laid next to him, stroking the nape of his neck. His tears came, falling, as did hers, both never letting go of each other's hands as they slept.

o

He never felt warmth better than sunshine other than the love that radiated from his mother as he rested his head on her shoulder, both bodies laid out along the green grounds of the Lake. She looked up at the shifting white clouds above, sighing, her mouth stretched out in a smile as she made out the shapes of the clouds, seeing outlines of a familiar large dog in them. His one hand wrapped itself around the waist of her white Sunday dress that was embroidered with purple violets.

It had taken him two months to open himself up to her. He had come back from his visits to the White Tomb one Friday, drenched entirely from top to toe from the pouring rain and found her crying when the portrait door flung opened. She did not need to explain herself, and he would never ask, but her voice quivered as she spoke, bloodshot eyes meeting his. 'Do you think it's fair, to be so young and to have seen and been through too much? We were only children, Draco. Children, in a war'.

He had responded by kissing her, trying to distract both of them away from the world, the past, the pain, the many faces they both kept seeing in their sleep every night disappearing into a void they could never cross into. From then on, they both shared the same bed, did their readings at the same time, and if one paid enough attention, almost breathed in perfect synchronicity.

Draco had gone with her to the White Tomb earlier that morning, revealing to her his secret of where he always disappeared to at the break of dawn. He didn't cry when he was with her as he usually did without. She had offered him a comforting, protective presence that made him feel – for the first time and for lack of a better word, not alone. He shared with her secrets he never told anyone for fear of being seen weak and judged for it. 'I wanted to restore my family's pride, I wanted the Dark Lord to value us, to stop treating my father like he was scum. I could've never done it, Hermione. I was so afraid, so forced'. The Boy Who Didn't Have a Choice, she had commented, understanding how difficult it was for him to be sixteen, the youngest Death Eater and given for his first mission to assassinate a man who had only shown him kindness at the last moments of his life when Draco pointed his wand at him. At sixteen, she was thrown into a war and was hunting for horcruxes, neither of them had gone through what would have been a normal childhood. They were surrounded by death, darkness, misery, and a faint glimmer of hope for a brighter future to come.

He laid there on the Lake with her, her hands played with his white blonde hair. The scars on their hands shone in the sunlight. He could lay with her like that forever, he thought silently as he listened closely to her heartbeat underneath that white dress he had surprised her with one day as a gift. Some nights, they still woke up screaming, crying, but never alone. He did not need to feel afraid to show his frailty, his regrets, his guilt, his pain, in front of her. She had opened to him like a butterfly with its wings spread wide, displaying all her scars and vulnerabilities to him without thinking twice.

He had confronted her about the incident at Malfoy Manor, shouting hatred about himself for not doing anything when she writhed and screamed in agony underneath his aunt. He had banged his head and fists into the wall as he apologized, bleeding. She had taken his face into the palms of her hands and kissed him gingerly, understanding that at that moment his allegiance had to be with his family, even when every bone in his body screamed out wanting to save her. He never felt his apologies were enough after all his confessions to her of his sins, like a lost soul searching for atonement. He would never feel that he had given her enough, him, this tortured, unredeemable soul, to this beautiful, warm, kind woman who burst into his life like a phoenix, ever rising. He does not know if she will stay with him or leave when they have both graduated. He avoids talking about it, he can only relish in the present.

'Where did you go Draco?' She lifted his head quizzically, knowing him all too well that his mind was elsewhere. 'Come back to me, Draco, come back to me,' he buried his head into the softness of her hair that splayed on the ground, inhaling deeply the scent of lavender, earth and grass.

'Have you ever wondered how can a colour so pure like white remind you of such dark memories?' He asked, meeting the softness of her brown eyes that always reminded him of warm hot chocolate his mother used to make for him as a child when he could not sleep because of the loud, frightening thunder that clapped through the night. 'His tomb, I can never get used to seeing it. Under all that marble lies a man who died before my very eyes, and only wanted to help me. And I stood by, and did nothing as Snape killed him. I am always doing nothing. Professor Burbage, you, Dumbledore…' He trailed off, his grey orbs transfixed on her face.

'Draco, I want you to think of me whenever you think of white from now on. Us, here, on the Lake, me in my white dress, and you stretched out against me. I want you to remember this always, us like this, happy and together. When you feel that surge of hatred you have for yourself and the flood of regrets and guilt overcome you like a Dementor's kiss, just remember of who we are, you and I, as a floating glow of radiant white light bursting through that darkness and chasing away the Dementors of your mind'. The sun shone on her face and bounced off her rosy cheeks. Draco traced the curve of her lips, smiling at her.

It was like a cleansing ritual, he felt. She had taken away his pain and tears into the palms of her hands and drank them. They were both haunted beings, but together they could bear to confront the many invisible faces that stared back at them emptily, faces from the war, faces from their past. And with her hands in his, and his in hers, they walked past those faces and through them, like floating white lights in the dark, cold night.