Titel: The best Way possible
Disclaimer: Nope, I'm not blonde. I'm also not British. Therefore Harry Potter cannot be mine. Which is the reason I write fanfictions instead.
Synopsis: He did it, back then. When they asked him to come over, to stand beside his family, he contemplated the idea of refusing for a moment – and of course he only did it because of her. Because she was a single cell, with astrolabe and carousel, with algebra and symmetry and none of it was lost on him. But after all, Draco Malfoy was – and always will be – Draco Malfoy.
A/N: This is inspired by Dry the River's song "No Rest" ( I recommend you listen to it while reading, it is easily found on YouTube) and the scene in the courtyard where Draco has to switch sides to stand on the side of the Death Eaters with his family. I have no idea if it is any good, therefore I'd be happy if some of you reviewed.
But then you came, a single cell
With astrolabe and carousel
And algebra and symmetry
And none of this was lost on me
And I could see how still I'd been before
Dry the River – No Rest
The best Way possible"Draco!" He tries. He tries so very hard not to meet his father's eyes across the battlefield, hoping that if he acted like he was dead or deaf or somehow not quite sane, he wouldn't have to, but he knows at the same time that there is no use pretending anything.
He feels rather than sees that she has turned around at once, before anyone else had, trying to meet his eyes and for a time span shortert than a second, he allows their eyes to connect.
Warm, hazy brown meets cold, clear grey. His stomach lurches.
"IF WE DIE FOR THEM, I'LL KILL YOU, HARRY!" roared Ron while he and Hermione made their way towards the stack of things he and Goyle were standing on. He could see the fury in the Weasel's eyes and almost immediatly felt sick, but then he met Hermione's eyes. The warm brown of chocolate melting in the sun had been replaced by a hard, cold, almost menacing look as they shot down towards him and she pulled Goyle onto the broom behind her without a comment.
"Come, Draco." whispers Lucius almost desperatly now, outstretching the hand that isn't intertwined with Narcissa's.
She has turned away again.
"It's that Mudblood! Avada Kedavra!"
"NO!" screamed Malfoy, but he saw Hermione dive aside and felt a heap of relief flood his body, knowing that she was alive. "Crabbe! Don't kill them, DON'T KILL ANY OF THEM!" He was furious. The three had to stay alive, it was the only way they could possibly still win this war – it was the only way his life could have a different outcome – if Voldemort won – he couldn't – he wouldn't really attack him, he decided. The Golden Trio, the three most wanted people in this war, the three famous Gryffindors had to make it out of this room alive.
And of those three, especially she had to make it out alive.
"Draco." His mother has now raised her voice, adding with that simple word – with his name – her own pleas to those of his father and Draco knows that because of this one word, he can no longer ignore them.
It is different with his mother. Where his father is indifferent, she is kind and where he is cold, she is warm. He cannot refuse his mother.
He was all pain and blood – not as much pain as he had already felt at some occasions of his life – but the pain of crystal shards boring into his faces and legs and hands – while his mother dragged him out of the way of further harm – he looked up – there she was, feebly stirring in the Weasel's arms – but alive – breathing – she wasn't okay, that would be too far – but she was alive – he knew she would be okay again.
"Come." pleads his mother again and this time, Draco gives in. He looks down at his feet which have already set themselves into motion.
He hopes that she would not meet his eyes again because he knows he cannot bear it again.
"Wait." whispered his aunt sharply. A sadistic grin spread over her face. Draco wondered if she had noticed it back then when she had thaugh him Occlumency and if what was now going to happen was thereby his fault or if she simply was racist like that, to go this way because it was what in her twisted mind was the right thing to do. "All except... except for the Mudblood."
He tried to stiffle a scream, but he thought that even if he had screamed nobody would have heard it for the noise Weasel was now producing – Merlin, that guy cared about her – his aunt had hit him and given Greyback's wand back to the werewolf to now cut her loose from the other prisoners – she was so scared, he could see it in her eyes – he wanted to cross the distance and – he didn't know what exactly he wanted to do, just something – now Bellatrix was dragging the fragile girl over the floor by her hair and his heart felt so heavy in his chest.
Then his aunt started torturing her and she screamed, terribly, a drawn – out scream that shows just how much pain she was in and her eyes flew across the room, searching for something to lock with and of all the things, of all the things she could choose to stare at while she was being tortured, it just had to be him, of course.
And he couldn't help her, he couldn't do anything, he could do nothing but stand there and stare and feel like vomiting while his aunt carved that horrible word onto her arm and she screamed and he swore to himself to never ever call anyone that again.
He hears the sound that his own feet make against the stony ground as he makes his way towards the other side of the battlefield, towards the man he despises to the depths of his soul and – more importantly – his family, leaving behind all that is good and right.
Leaving her behind.
"Well, Draco?" His father's hands are placed firmly on his shoulders. "Is it? Is it Harry Potter?"
Of course it is, you bloody idiots, screamed a voice in Draco's head and of course it was, he had known from the moment they had entered that it were indeed Potter, the Weasel and her. Of all people, it was her, even though she was thinner and dirtier than he had ever seen her, but still stunning in her own way.
He heard them discuss, he took a closer look at Potter, still pretending that he didn't know if it was him, fighting back fear and reluctance – after those months of having them all in his home, he knew what he wanted – he had finally seen it – that he didn't want the world to be this way – therefore he could never hand over Potter now. He had to lie his way out of this.
"Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?" called his mother and he turned around to face her.
She looked worn out, like she had seen to many terrible things over the last months. Her cheek bones were peaking out sharply against her grimy skin and there were deep dark shadows under her eyes. But the eyes were unchanged, still hard, glinting, menacing, a fighter's eyes.
"I... maybe... I don't know. Probably not." The lie came so easily over his lips and he saw her eyes widen with shock. He allowed himself nothing but a curt nod. If they kept asking him, he would lie his head of for them and, especially, for her.
He walks past Voldemort, the wizard that thaught him the true meaning of fear for that is all Draco feels around him since he can think, towards his parents and he feels his mother's finger clutch his hand. He knows they will lead him away from Hogwarts.
He knows his parents are weary of fighting as he is.
Still he can't help it, he has to look back, to cross eyes with her one last time and as he does so, the first thing he sees are that she's now holding hands with the Weasel – as if she's trying to tell him that if he, Draco Malfoy, made a choice, so did Hermione Granger, so did she – and then their eyes meet again and he sees that there are tears making their way down her dirty face and he knows that right now she is not crying because Harry Potter seems to be dead. Right now she is crying because of him.
It breaks whatever is left of his heart.
As they walk away, Draco remembers one last thing.
He was lying in the Infirmary, all blood and cuts and pain after the duel in the bath room with that damned Potter and watched the stars and the moon from his bed. He heard the ticking of the clock, knowing it was almost midnight and that he needed sleep to heal properly but he couldn't.
There was a creaking of a door or something like that and he turned his head, but only saw the door close again. Still, nobody seemed to have entered. Then he heard the shuffle of feet on the floor.
He turned away and stared at the ceiling now, not bothering with what or whoever had entered if someone had. He didn't care. He wanted sleep.
"Hey. Malfoy."
He whirled around quickly to see the Granger girl sit beside his bed. She gave him a tightlipped smile. "What do you want?"
She nervously started chewing on her lower leep. "I just... I don't know. I kind of wanted to make sure... I don't know. Make sure you're not too badly hurt."
"As you can surely see, I am not. Now get lost again, will you?"
"Obviously you're fine, since you can be an arse again. How are you feeling?"
"Annoyed." drawled Draco. "Honestly, what do you want, Granger?"
She sighed and started playing with a strand of her bushy brown curls. "Honestly, I don't know, Malfoy." She ruffled through her hair. "Like I said, I kind of wanted to make sure you're okay. Though you hardly can be those days, if Harry's right."
Now Draco was intrigued. Potter mused about his well – being? "Why, what has Saint Potter concluded about me?"
"That you have the Dark Mark and some sort of job Voldemort wants you to do." Hermione tried to say it as if it was a total joke, as if it was impossible and she could by no means take it seriously, but it was clear that it wasn't a joke to any of them. Draco swallowed and clenched his hands into fists onto the sheets. "So... it's true?" Hermione's voice was a broken whisper in the night.
"Yes. Yes, it's true." whispered Draco.
"Oh Draco." He looked up to meet her eyes, tears now openly falling from them. She hid her face in her hands. "Oh Draco. Why?"
"I didn't have a choice!"
She looked up. Their eyes met. She knew he wasn't lying.
Nineteen years later they lock eyes again for the first time after the war. Of course, they had occasionally met somewhere, at his trial, in the Ministry where she was working, at St. Mungo's where he was working, in Diagon Alley, but he had never dared look at her directly, especially not at those chocolate brown eyes. There was no way he could have managed to look her in the eye again after walking away from her.
This time, he calls out her name again, softly. Not her last name, Weasley, not Granger, but Hermione and she whirls around. He leaves his wife standing behind and takes a few timid steps towards her.
She's still beautiful. Her bound back hair and her glistening eyes are the same as always as she walks in his direction, her husband and friends standing behind her a bit lost.
Draco knows they won't be able to hear what he will tell her, though he doesn't doubt she will tell them. They are that close.
"You know... you made me see the errors of my way. Back then, in sixth year. You came and made me see things differently. You were all... I don't know, beauty and grace and goodness and symmetry and none of it... none of it was lost on me. And... my heart... our hearts, maybe, because I'm sure you felt it, too... our hearts were a herd. I know you love the Weasel, I know you're the most happily married people there can be – except for Saint Potter and Weaselette, maybe – and I'm happy with Astoria as well, but I just... I just wanted you to know. I was a king alone, like Salomon or Rehoboam until you came, a single... a single cell and you changed me. And I did... I loved you. I loved you in the best way possible."
She smiles a bit at you, her eyes soft and warm towards you, and reaches out and gives your hand a little squeeze. "I know, Draco. I know."