FOR TIME TO STILL
By NeuroticMuse413
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SUMMARY: Draco has spent his adult years trying to convince others of the sincerity of his change of heart. After his parents' death, he returns to his old summer home trying to spend his last free months in peace. There, he meets up with an outspoken coffee waitress that changes his life. But can she tell him her real identity? Can she tell him she's a Mudblood? Will he still love her? How long will they have before they come for him? DHr
WARNING: Mature audiences only. Beware of adult language and sexual situations.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This plot actually comes from my latest original novel, The House on Hour's Lane, as you can tell by the diction. I readapted it into a FanFiction plot for some loyal fans who happen to be celebrating a birthday this 27th, 28th and 29th of August. You know who you are. There's actually a few of you. I'm trying to say that love is colorless, genderless, and even emotionless if you really about it. This isn't the message of the original novel. It's actually a metaphor on life and family, not love, but for the sake of Dramione fans everywhere, enjoy.
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He saw a large café at the end of the street and entered. It had a nice porch with a red cloth roof similar to one he'd walked by with Pansy in Florence. He stood down the street for a moment, wondering whether or not to go in, when he caught the light scent of gardenias. It reminded him of his mother's garden and looked back. The house hovered over him from the hill in the distance above, staring him down. When his parents died, so did the gardens and the town below without their careless spending to feed their economy. He knew he had nothing to fear but for a small instant, an instant long enough for him to gain impulse, he felt the need to be with people and away from his memories.
He wondered if it was fear that drove him inside. It must have been.
He sat down at a little round table in a nook with glass walls and started reading his newspaper. It reminded him of the bronze one he'd had on his balcony, and then he thought back to his many conquests, to Pansy and Lavender and Blaise... Yes, even Blaise. Those were his worst years, the wandering years. He'd romance a gal, take her home, have his way, and leave just as easily. He knew he was running from loneliness, filling his empty heart with empty promises, but he never expected he'd run into a wall. The letters in the newspaper started to jump around as if separate from each other. He knew he just couldn't focus on anything but the sad memories. Faces jumped around in his mind like strobe lights.
Instantly, people started leaving and he lifted his eyes from the jumbled letters. They could recognize him miles away, from his silver hair and eyes to his devious grin. Years after the war, they still couldn't see past his Slytherin colors. The two waitresses looked at each other and one hurried up the stairs behind the counter. They reminded him of pigeons in the park in New York, with their head bobbing and gesturing, and he smiled to himself. He never really needed anyone else to amuse him. After half the people had left, the waitress that remained came over and asked him for his order with a light stutter. She couldn't look him in the eyes, in case he turned her to stone for forgetting the whipped cream.
"Coffee," he said, trying not to laugh.
"H-H-How do you take it?" she asked. He noticed her hair was thin and tied back in a messy ponytail. It hadn't been when he came in so he figured she'd been stalling.
"Black," he replied. His voice gave her shivers all over. He smiled but inside he was laughing madly. That made her crazy. She hurried back to the counter and started to pour it into a ridiculously large cup, spilling absurd amounts. It was no wonder everyone was so jumpy. He started to imagine what sorts of things could have gotten into their coffee. Maybe it was the milk. Maybe it was cow hormones or a Nazi plot to lower our defenses with caffeine. He went back to trying to read his newspaper like his childish fantasies were just as normal as wondering if it were going to rain today. He didn't use to daydream like that. It came with his inevitable seclusion.
A minute later, he saw the burgundy apron in the corner of his eyes and assumed it was the same waitress. She set down the cup forcefully and put her hands on her waist.
"Get the fuck out of my café," she said sternly and loudly and he looked up slowly.
He was about to reply in his usual rude charm when he caught her eyes. They were light brown, presumably nothing special but they could have been as vibrant as the sun itself. So full of passion. She had the most perfect lips he'd ever seen and dark hair that cascaded down to her bottom rib in gentle, yet frizzy, waves. She was thin and wore a black T-shirt with the name of a Muggle band he'd never heard of and wouldn't remember under her apron. He smiled when he looked at the other two behind the counter who seemed to be wearing the full white and red uniform.
She was different, and somehow he felt he knew her.
"I take it you're the owner," he said smoothly, not bothering to get up. She knew the entire coffee house was staring at her but she didn't take her eyes off him. It was a gaze of immense strength, free of shame or worry.
"Yeah, it's a pleasure," she replied sarcastically, her hands still on her waist as if waiting for him to recognize her.
"Please." He gestured for her to sit with his hand. She untied her apron with a single hand and threw it down onto the table. "You understand there's no way I'm leaving?"
"We have our ways of making you leave."
"Oh goody. I haven't seen a public flogging in a while," he joked, nodding towards the platform in the center of town. He figured by the hole in the ground where a very large pole had once been and the trapdoor in the center that there had also been hangings there some time ago.
She turned back to the waitresses and yelled, "Natty, get the whips. We've got us a masochist." He gestured for Natty to stop reaching under the counter. He was getting a little scared. She was serious and worse, determined.
"Look ma'am, I'm just trying to find a quiet spot where no one gives a damn about me. This is as close as I'm going to get and I don't plan on leaving. If I leave today, I'll just come back another day."
She leaned in and glared at him. "You don't know what happened here, do you?" she asked softly.
He leaned in, faking intrigue. "Tell me."
She got offended and leaned back. "I'll tell you if you leave."
"Now you're just being ridiculous."
"And you're trespassing." He made a face like he was getting bored. She looked around for the first time, at the faces of the people who watched around the café. She had to get serious, not for herself but for them. "Ok, maybe not. But you had no right to drive away our customers. If I let you stay, you might buy me off and turn this into a weekend brothel."
"Wow." He clapped twice and continued, "Do you practice being melodramatic? I'm not exactly a weekend brothel sort of guy. I just want quiet. I won't tear it down. I give you my word."
"And what's your word worth?"
"The same as a dead man's. What do I have to lose?"
She could tell by the way he looked elsewhere, as if contemplating his own words, that he meant it. He was not trustworthy. In fact, he was two-faced. It was easy to see. But she saw something in his eyes that made her trust him, a pain she understood. He saw it too. Her lips were pursed, her jaw firm, and her brow furrowed but her eyes – those intense hazel eyes – were begging for something. It made him uncomfortable, made his heart race.
She leaned in again, so close they could have kissed, and whispered, "Who are you?"
"I told you. A dead man."
She smirked and for a very small second, he thought she could see who he was under the lie, like looking through stain-glassed window into his soul. It was eerie but he didn't turn away, even smirked back. He wondered how much she knew.
"Who are you?" he asked, looking her over as she got up.
"I don't really know. A dying woman?" she said. She was about to go back to the counter when she turned around, quite angry and realizing his manipulative charms. "This isn't over, Malfoy. Not nearly. You said it. You'll see me again and next time, I may not be so civil."
After she left back up the stairs, he looked back at his newspaper. Suddenly, world news meant nothing so he folded it and put it aside. He had a very real problem, very near and profound. He could leave and not stir trouble. He could let them have their coffee house. He could find one larger and calmer and farther away, but it was like his feet had been stuck in cement.
Suddenly it became a game, a challenge. He just kept thinking what she had done in the two minutes they'd talked to get him so wired. Was it lust? No. It wasn't love at first sight since he was quite sure he hated her. He had no reason to but the same thing that kept him standing still was making him hate and care for her all at once.
Who was she?
-----
He returned the next day around the same time and watched her, destined to find out who she was. But, instead of watching her, he found himself watching other people around her in the café. They had the same look in their eyes as he'd had just after she left the table. But they were a tad different. They looked at her normally when she smiled at them but the instant they turned around, their faces changed to suddenly reveal hatred.
Just as he returned to his coffee and pastry, he saw the red apron again in the corner of his eye. She sat down in the seat before him as she'd done yesterday.
"Don't you have a bloody life?" she asked with a smile, apparently cheerier than yesterday. It was like being insulted by a teddy bear.
"Oh I try."
"Casual answer, sir. We're rivals. Casual answers like that suggest otherwise. Come on, now. The people came for a show," she urged on as if it were a game.
"That sort of sarcasm might be construed as casual as well."
She smiled brightly, but it quickly faded. He'd gotten the message. Few people ever did. "Nobody else need know," she whispered.
It was almost like a verbal contract, like she was allowing him to enter her hidden world and he was instructed to hide it with her. He had done nothing to make her hate him. She was trying to tell him she understood that and to put on a show. This secret language amused him.
"Right."
She winked at him and got up. He tried not to smile but the hatred he'd felt yesterday was gone. She'd broken her own enchantment and he was left free to be… utterly confused.
-----
She was not in a good mood the next day and he could tell it wasn't just him, but she refused to take her focus off him simply because he was easy to blame.
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" she asked, a bit outraged that he would come again. She felt like something was needed of her, that he was waiting for her to give it. What in the world anyone could want from her, she didn't know. She figured he was getting close to figuring out who she was. She had lived years in the comfort that she'd given people her brutal honesty and so, they would never want anything else of her. It was her way of keeping people at a distance but there he was again. Draco Malfoy. Begging for something she didn't know she had and nothing of what she had in mind.
"What sort of question is that?" he replied with a smile. "I'm having coffee, can't you tell?"
"No. What are you doing here? In this town? In my café, again!" she asked, frantically organizing the coffee cups again and wiping the table. He imagined a small squirrel trying to tidy up her hole in a tree and get all her nuts in order. It only made him smile more, admire her more, which he knew she hated by the way she avoided eye contact at all cost. "What do you want with me? Do you even have a job, Mr. Malfoy? Do you have absolutely anything to contribute to our pathetic little society?"
She spoke very quickly as if she were saying things just as she thought them, even waved her arms frantically as if she were used to ranting by herself.
"Oh I try very hard not to contribute. And no. I don't have a job. I don't need to work."
She scoffed, trying to pretend she didn't know everything about him. "Well, you're in your mid to late 20s which means you haven't had the time to make a life for yourself grand enough to warrant such laziness, so I can only assume you were born rich but if that were true, why would you be here? You've told me nothing, answered nothing, Mr. Malfoy, and frankly it's becoming annoying," she replied, just as quickly and in a single breath.
He laughed. "I don't know."
"But you agree you were born rich, yes?"
"Yes."
"Then you're spoiled, yes? You must be. Of course you expect me to assume this and that your incessant attempts to bother me are a product of this upbringing," she said and stopped to glare at him with both hands set firmly on the bar between them. "Now I can assure you sir that I cannot be bought and nothing you have in mind I am willing to do, so best you be on your way."
"On my way back home?"
"Yes, back home."
"Well that's just over to the center of town, isn't it? It'd be a shame if I left without sharing this cup of coffee with you."
She shot him another look, gave another scoff, and went back to cleaning the bar and refilling cups that didn't really need refilling. She hated having his eyes upon her, his gentle silver eyes. They were like a child's begging her for company, but his smile was devious and deceptive.
"Do you always talk so fast?"
She smirked. "I try to say things as I think them which result in very inopportune situations, as you can imagine."
"Why?"
He hadn't expected an answer that made sense. It was one of those questions that were asked for the sake of being asked, because the cause of the question was just as ridiculous as asking.
But she answered, "Because that way the silence means all the more."
"What?"
She'd slowed down. She didn't want to tell him this. It was an intimate thought and yet she was tempted to tell him. "Love only exists in silence. Words are a wall, a pretty wall. Break that down and you have comfort and stillness. When you can tell how a person feels by their eyes, by their hands, you know you're in love."
"Have you ever been in love?"
She shook her head sadly, thinking of Ron and the grand life he'd made for himself far away. "Never. And I never will, if I have anything to do with it... Tell me. Why come back to your parent's old house?" she asked again, a bit more tired, going back to look him in the eye.
"You know why. It's a home, with a history."
"A history that does not belong to you. A history you know nothing of and never cared to learn because you knew exactly the evils it hides."
She'd given away too much. She proved she knew more about him than she let on. "I know you don't I? From long ago? This is how you know these little details about me and how you pretend to know there's more to me and they think. Tell why they look at you like that!"
"It's not mine to tell."
"You're their victim of pity? Who else am I going to hear it from?"
He'd yelled. He didn't want to raise his tone at her but her contradictive nature was worse than his own. She fought him at every point, trying to blind him with a labyrinth of words and seemingly erroneous thoughts.
He calmed down and said, softly, "I don't know why I'm here. I want to be here. I feel like I need to be here. I've given up running and fate just dropped me in front of that house." He stopped to sigh. "If I pick up again, I'm afraid I'll never stop running."
She calmed down too. At the mention of fate, she tensed up and gulped, turning away. She found his hand on the table though and gave it a gentle squeeze. She understood. He ran in body, which she envied. She ran from her problems and the truth, hid them and obscured them to protect herself and – as she told herself – others.
He noticed her reaction and asked. "Do you believe in fate?"
"No," she said sadly, looking at the floor as she leaned against the wall behind the bar.
"But you wish you did."
She realized he understood her desire. She gave a soft moan, a yes. "Don't we all?"
-----
She intrigued him. He'd casually catch a glimpse of her walking about the café, at the way her hips swayed like she had a song in her head at all times and unknowingly moved to its flow. When she neared him, even if just to clean the other tables, he caught her humming something soft and he imagined falling asleep to her gentle voice. He'd clear his throat just to get her to look at him. And when she did, she always smiled. He'd smile back, feeling like a kid with a crush which was something he'd never felt, even as a kid.
Without knowing the song, he hummed it for days. His long-time maid, Mrs. Jones, noticed of course and casually said one day as she served him dinner, "You know, I think I have one of Sinatra's albums around here somewhere. Would you care for it? It might get it out of your head."
He paused, food en route to his mouth, and looked at her. "Sinatra?" he asked. "Is that who it's by?"
"Didn't you know? Come to think of it, Hermione borrowed it last month and never gave it back. I should send someone to get it from her at the café later," she replied with a devious smirk, watching him hurry on out over the rim of her glasses as she went to knit in the kitchen corner.
He didn't even give it a second thought, not even long enough anyway to notice it was night, before grabbing his coat from the rack by the door and walked over to the café. He was confused, unsure of what to feel. She had never told him her name so she had never lied. It was cold out as it was every night but he found it astounding that it could be the hottest day of the year and he could still see his breath at night.
When he got to the café, it was closed but he could see her silhouette on the curtains above. The faintest sound of music could be heard from the second floor and she had a large glass in her hands, as far as the shadows told him. He looked back at the long road to the house and figured he was already there and he couldn't go back without the album. So he dared.
He shivered, suddenly aware he was in the open and night could not hide him from the town. He used his wand to open the door. It was a simple Muggle lock. He went up the stairs to her front door but she opened it before he could turn the knob. She looked confused but smiled. He couldn't see into the shop to see if anyone had seen him come in but quickly enough, he saw the door open and he was pulled inside.
"Have you gone mad? Do you know the time?" she hissed, leading him up the stairs where it was a great deal warmer.
"Uh--" he began but found himself admiring her outfit. She was in a white nightgown that reached her knees made of something satin-like with a top lace rim that dipped in a wide V. The straps were so thin that he imagined taking it off to kiss her shoulder. He must have been staring because she quickly folded her arms.
"Yes?" She sounded annoyed so he straightened up and pardoned all lurid thoughts from his head.
"First of all, I must say this: bravo. And Mrs. Jones sent me. She needed her Sinatra album back."
"It's after midnight! What's the rush? You two having a romantic night in?"
"Yes. Jealous?"
"Absolutely green with envy," she joked, ruffling through her albums. He took a look at a few titles. None of them looked familiar. They were mostly obscure rock and jazz bands from nearby with strange names like The Reverent Wound and Pink Floyd.
She handed it to him and he looked to the door but felt a great reluctance to go. She must have seen it in his face, in his reluctant gestures, and smiled coyly.
What am I doing, he thought. He wanted to kiss her, not hate her. He knew who and what she was and it made no difference anymore. He realized now why they hated her. He had done that. He had instilled that single word in everyone's minds all those years ago. Mudblood. He knew why they hated her because he had hated her.
He turned around and walked to her, throwing the album onto her couch. He stared down at her loving and she understood. She didn't know he knew who she was but it didn't matter. It was taking every part of her to fight to remember what he had done to her all those years ago.
She had cried.
And now, it was so easily discarded for what could have been lust. It had been weeks, months even, of subtle caresses and smiles and winks. She had looked forward to the stolen closeness, but now that she had his lips mere centimeters from her lips, she couldn't move.
He didn't know where it came from. Maybe a small wince from her or a smirk gave him permission. It hadn't but he took it as such and kissed her.
It was an innocent kiss, just lips on lips. He didn't want it to be anything more. He had satisfied his lust and now he could talk to her as he did in the café but without sexual innuendos and moments of drifting thoughts when she spoke and all he could think about was undressing her. That had all gone in a kiss.
He smelled of tea cakes. She'd never forget that.
When he opened his eyes again, he had his hands on her cheeks and caressed back her hair. Something told him this was real, but he had been fooled before.
"Give me a few minutes to dress. I'll meet you at the front door," she said, slightly breathless. She ran into her room and he walked downstairs to the café. He didn't dare turn on a light. She didn't take long at all and came back in jeans and a green long-sleeve T-shirt.
"Come on. Walk with me," she said, extending her hand.
He took it gladly and followed. She was warm. He would remember that. "Where to?"
"Nowhere. Around. The town sort of transforms after dark. When I can't sleep – which is usually every other night – I walk around to watch."
"What's so different about it?"
"Well, the masks fall off. Nobody cares about being proper or quiet. Like over there by that tree. See the man in the park that's walking his dog?"
"Yea, what about him?"
"His name's Marcus Fawks. He's 37 years old and lives with his very sick but very neurotic mother. Every night, he pretends to walk his dog but really, he just hides under the bridge by the creek and masturbates while his dog runs around town terrorizing little children. And over there? That's Celia Lorne and her boyfriend of five months, James Crowley. She's two months pregnant but don't tell her mother. She's the only one in town who doesn't know. It's going to be obvious soon so it should prove quite a laugh when her mother kicks her out. It's all I have for entertainment around here, watching their hypocritical lives unfold," she said sadly but with certain underlying anger. He stopped them and looked at her seriously, with slight pity.
She couldn't bear to look him in the eye so she lowered her head and kept walking. He ran to catch up. He realized he would always be running after her. She did not live in his world. She floated above him like an angel and he could never reach her. He also found it amazing that no matter how crude or arrogant she tried to be, he would close his eyes and see her bathed in a white light. It was her honesty and her secrets that had him running. It was her forwardness and her insecurities. It was her contradictive humanity.
They walked for some time in silence down Main Street. It was comfortable and calming, and yet their hearts were beating wildly. They reached a bench in front of the bakery near the house and sat down to watch the people pass. It was so different. They didn't pay any mind that they were there, just watching, at 2AM. All the living censors had gone to bed. They were among friends, faceless as they were.
Hermione fell asleep on his shoulder an hour later. He didn't dare wake her. Two hours after that, he lifted her up and took her home to the apartment above the café. He walked home and fell asleep on the couch, experiencing a sudden loss of self that made it impossible to go up the stairs. Strangely, he began to make his place among the gardenias he had replanted. How the smell reminded him of her as if she were sleeping right there beside him, in his arms.
They both dreamed that night, sweet dreams for the first time in many years. Sadly, they would have begun to tear down a wall between them that was built for a reason now too quickly forgotten.
-----
And there he was again for tea, promptly at one, the next day. She couldn't say it aloud, because others were watching, but she managed to mouth out a thank you across the café. Even followed it with a flirtatious smile. He wasn't sure why she was thanking him but looked at her as he always did, fixed and contemplative.
He passed his fingertips over his lips and wondered how she would really taste. Of Coca-Cola margaritas? Of chocolate and strawberries? She was the closest he'd ever come to love. What did love taste like?
Even more strangely, he didn't make up plans for the rest of their lives or organize media functions for exposure. He was living in the moment, which he loved most of all because of its liberty. He wondered what would happen if he walked over to her right now and like something out of a movie, dipped her and kissed her right there in front of everyone. He even tried to think of snappy lines to say just before he kissed her.
Just as he came upon "I know you'll slap me after this but it'll be worth it," she walked up, breaking the fantasy, and sat down in front of him, cross-legged with two tea cups in hand.
"How'd you sleep?" she asked, sliding his cup over.
He smiled and drank. "On the couch, actually. I couldn't have made it all the way up the stairs."
"In that mess of dust? How are you still alive? I know what you mean. I visited your libraries when I first settled here. I was drawn in. It's the gardenias. A little reminder, like sanctuary. Have you made any choices for it? The renovations, I mean."
He smirked. "Well, the kitchen is officially yellow. It's my first decision."
"Yellow? Are you kidding me?"
"No, what's wrong with yellow?"
"Well, it's fine if you want it to look like someone pissed on your walls. Paint it green," she replied bluntly as if she were giving a speech trying to convince people to elect her president.
"What is it with you and green?"
"What? It's earthy."
"Right. You're as earthy as that salamander I stepped on on the way here, love." She laughed. "And now, I have no decisions made. Back to nothing! Just when I thought I had a foot in the door."
"I could help," she said sheepishly, taking a sip of her tea and looking elsewhere. "With the renovations. Nobody knows that place like me. You're the only one to walk in there in a decade, within the family that is."
He nodded and they shook hands like there was a deal to be made, like they both didn't want it. It was only natural after all.
From then on, Draco started to bring samples and drawings and swatches and they'd make choices on her break. They'd flirt, occasionally, but never obviously enough for the others to see. Natty and the others slowly lost curiosity, like their relation was a crime and the less they knew, the less guilty they'd be of collaborating. Some were happy to see her smile though, see her with a sense of purpose and, for once, out of her head. After all, it was a dangerous place to be.
After a week though, the only choice they managed to make for sure is that the vines and the gardenias would stay as they were. Later, it was decided that he shouldn't bring in outside contractors and that he should try to fix it up himself. It wasn't a fun task but of course she agreed to help. He didn't know the first thing about nailing or tearing anything down.
"I say we just set it on fire and start over," he joked one day.
She slapped him so hard his head spun around. "Don't even think such things."
She was quickly back to her usual self later that night. He would stop by often to borrow or lend her records. Sometimes they borrowed books. It was all they could learn about each other without getting too close. To get closer would be like tickling destiny with a red hot poker and they both knew it. It was a nice friendship while it lasted though. They'd grown comfortable around each other. This was even more dangerous.
She still thought he was falling in love with a stranger. It's how she liked it.
They'd begun to anticipate each other's movements. He watched her even more, a bit more freely. It was almost like he wanted her to know he was watching, unlike before. When they were together, when their glances met, there was no town, no blood. It was just them two and a void in the distance from where other people sometimes dropped by with refills of coffee. They were easy enough to avoid.
Still, both knew they weren't in love. At most, it was a crush and even that they wouldn't fully admit to even to themselves. They were not worthy of such things. Such trivial things were beyond them, even beneath them. It was hard to deny they had chemistry but a crush? Flirting? Lust? All blasphemies!
The house was coming along well though. It was coming alive as they came alive, as they grew closer. The kitchen ended up a creamy color, a blend of yellow and white with hints of green tiling. The house was no longer a tool of the Malfoy legacy. It was no longer its foundation in myth. It had a little bit of them both in every wall, in the fireplace, in the checkered balcony floor…
He brought in new linens after they redid the entire floor. As Hermione pointed out, there was something odd about watching a rich man in overalls tear up a wooden floor with a hammer.
At the noise, the neighbors came out to see what was going on and soon they brought half the town to observe. When both left the house for him to walk her home, the crowd was still watching, talking amongst themselves with several gestures and arm swings in outrage. Hermione gripped Draco's hand so hard. They nearly had to sneak off.
"Ignore them," he said, avoiding their eyes.
"How do I ignore the only thing that ever made sense?" she replied.
It was true. These had been her friends, her coworkers… people who practically raised her. It was like letting down a swarm of parents.
They began to work on the roof one lunch in mid-October, taking down and nailing down new boards. The originals had rotted through and several parts of the house had suffered water damage because of it. They had to get it done before the snow pillaged through the dining room below. They worked all day up until 6PM. Draco had gone down to get them more drinks when he found Hermione sitting there on the roof, staring up at the sky.
"Be careful," he said. "You'll go blind."
"Doubt that but it'd be worth it."
He sat down beside her and handed her the cup of Cola. There was a gentle chill in the air, a delightful breeze. The sun was still bright though and hot upon their heads. The sky was riddled with clouds and as the sunlight passed through them, it was split into a thousand orange rays that bounces from one to the other. Suddenly, the world below disappeared from his mind. All that mattered was her hand and the chilly breeze and the grand sky.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
"How do you know I'm thinking?" she replied. "How can you look at that and not feel like every thought you ever had was tiny and insignificant? Set those thoughts aside, love. Just look at it. It's like staring at the face of God."
"It's just the sky, Hermione."
He'd let it slip. He'd said her name. He knew and now she knew too. She snapped to face him, stare at him. Her eyes began to water. With her name came the great feeling that she would lose him.
"How long have you known?" she whimpered back.
"Months."
She gulped painfully. Her throat had completely closed up.
"It's just the sky," he repeated, going back to stare at the sun far behind the clouds. She got what he meant. It didn't mean anything. It was just a name. She was just a girl. And as far as he was concerned, he loved her enough to see beyond their past.
She smiled. "You wouldn't understand. I'm sure you own half of it anyway."
"Own the sky? I wish."
She turned away. "Have you ever been in an airplane?"
"I used to have a few. I made a few. I noticed they don't fly over here."
She took a sip of soda. "We're not on the path of any airport, not yet anyway. It's better this way. The sky's a little freer. I was obsessed with photographing sunsets a few years back. They're stuffed away in boxes somewhere. I've never looked at them again."
"Why's that?" he asked.
"I was close to burning them actually," she replied with a sigh. "What the point in trying to capture the death of something again and again? Just 'cause it's beautiful? It's better to just let it go and admire it in person. Sunsets are eternal. Tomorrow, there's going to be another one just like it. It's constant and assuring and a lovely reminder that no matter how fucked up everything gets, tomorrow is another day."
"Why does it sound like you envy it?"
She snapped to face him again. It was a strange thing to say. It's something she would say. "It's not envy. It's admiration. I used to wish I could fly when I was little so I'd be free. I'd lie down in the forest and look up at the clouds. I used to think I was crazy. I'd stare up for hours and I swear, if I stayed perfectly still, it felt like I was floating up. I know it was just my imagination but after so many years, it feels more like a memory than a feeling. Then I reached Hogwarts and my dream came true. Suddenly, I realized my soul didn't have a flair for flying. I'd trapped it in a paper cage and aged it into cynicism. I grew to hate what I loved most."
She looked down at the people that watched, as always, the renovations with certain fear that evil would be resurrected along with the house. Her eyes connected with them and they followed her sight back up to the sky. Everyone turned around to watch the sun behind the clouds. There were few chances where they could stare at the sun so freely. For a moment, just a moment, it felt like everyone in the town was thinking the same thing. Nothing. Peace.
And just like that, the clouds moved and it was unbearable to stare at it any longer. They all dispersed from the house, having forgotten their reason for snooping. For just that night, they decided to call it a rest.
To make it up to her for all her help, once the floor and the roof were completed and the dust had gone, he invited her over to an early dinner at the manor. Hermione had accepted the dinner but the whole day, she'd been acting strange. He could tell by the way she moved, listless, and the way her eyes looked everywhere but at him. It was like she was lost in her own thoughts again.
Just after dessert, Draco got up and took her plate to the kitchen. She went to help but he gestured for her to sit back down and shot her a smile. She smiled back but it was barely half-hearted. He tried to ignore it but he had just spent the entire dinner thinking what he was doing wrong. Was it having dinner at the house? Was it that he had more than just dinner and conversation in mind? He was trying so hard not to manipulate her, to hide his false charm, but maybe she had seen through it. The entire dinner, they didn't speak. He thought he was going to lose her.
"Draco?" he heard from the living room as he dropped the plates in the sink.
He dried off his hands and saw she'd found his books. "Yea?" He rested against the doorway to the small library. This had just been a summer home so it was much smaller than their manor in London. Here he had his favorite books, for when he had time to read. There were classics but contemporaries as well. Some were Muggle books from Isreal or Iran or Colombia. Some were translated; some were not, and she saw one of the perks of evil in his taste. He was brilliant and he didn't hide it.
She took one from the shelves and led him to the couch. He took the book fondly. It was one of his favorites. She rested her head on his lap and closed her eyes, listening to him read his favorite passages.
"Tell me about your life," she asked.
He looked down at her head on his lap and continued to stroke her hair. "You know about my life," he replied.
"I know the basic outline. I want to know the little details, the tiny inconsequential minutia that cling to memory."
He laughed. He wondered, as he did every day, whether she could deal with the things he'd done in name of war but it didn't seem to matter at moments like there, the quiet moments. Hermione had a way of knowing things through logic that often seemed supernatural. His constant fear made the silence, as she had often said, one of the true testimonials of their romance. Moments like these, them two sitting on the sofa reading, were the ice cream after dinner… sheer contentment. It was the same with dancing. The music faded away during the slow songs and it was just them, in silence.
He wondered if this was love as well but once again, his logic killed it. He knew he could go to any other part of the world and meet another woman and feel the same. What was so unique about one true loves. Did they even exist? The same thought kept twirling around his mind at all hours. It sometimes frightened her to wake at four in the morning and see him staring off at the ceiling. Then she'd ask about his ghosts and he'd smile and take her somewhere wonderful to forget.
"Why?"
"It means nothing. Nevermind."
"No no. You wanted to know," he said quickly, clearing his throat and closing his book. "I was born not far from here in Scotland--"
"That's not far?" she interrupted.
He gave a sharp laugh. "Not nearly."
"Fine, go on." It still amazed him how much of the world she hadn't seen. With all her wisdom, she was still just a child.
He continued, "I spent three years in our cottage there. I don't remember them but when we went back oi… nearly a decade ago, I saw this tiny cave-like thing on the grounds that I remember playing in with our dog, a little golden Labrador that we left there when we moved. We never really stopped moving after that. Next we went to America, to New York. Greatest place in the world for pizza. The maid's daughter Carrie would take me to a really great, really filthy pizza parlor on Skylark. She was my first girlfriend, as I went to an all-boys school in Dean before Hogwarts. My parents didn't have time to teach me themselves like all the other families. She and I had a mostly physical relationship."
She smiled, feeling slightly jealous. "Ah, the weekend shag."
"Somewhat, yes. It didn't mean anything. Just two horny teenagers. When I'd come home from Hogwarts, she'd… keep me company. She wasn't the only one and she didn't seem to care. That was around the time Dad died. I went through a bad patch. I was looking for any sign of affection but all I found was more emptiness. I don't take it back though. It got me through some really hard nights."
She sat up and slid onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Ever grow out of it?" she asked seriously as if scared she was just another weekend shag, even though they had yet to be intimate.
"To tell you the truth, we're all still looking for affection. I've just found slightly more fulfilling ways."
"Oh, like?" She was being coy. This was evidently dangerous.
He leaned his head back as if thinking, which was ridiculous because they both knew his answer was as simple as honesty. He just smiled and got up. She sat there on the couch, feeling slightly abandoned, when she noticed he'd gone to the record player and started playing a slow instrumental piece from his side of the album stack. He extended a hand and they began to dance in the middle of the living room.
"Like this, dancing cheek to cheek with a brilliant, bitchy Brit." He whispered in her ear, "The one and only."
She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder as they swayed from side to side. He did mean it. She was more than just a conquest but could he spend the rest of his life with her? As far as he was concerned, that moment in their living room was a tiny memento of their entire relationship.
He would remember it for the rest of his life. She was wearing a flowy red skirt – her favorite color – and a white blouse tucked into the hem. She'd let her hair loose when she lied down so it was messy on one side and in back and he stroked it but truly, he loved it messy. It was a quirk in the memory, something more to treasure. Women are the only ones who care about their appearance, he noticed. He much preferred her naked and smiling. That smile, that elusive smile that only seemed to form around him. How he'd miss that.
"Well go on, then," she said with her great smile.
"I started working and the girls went away for a bit. I established my company and there weren't little caves or hiding places anymore. I'd grown up and I didn't even notice. God, what happened to your youth? What happened to our innocence?"
"It was taken from me the day I was born," she whispered. He didn't stop dancing.
"Hmm. Maybe. Or maybe you took it from yourself. No one is born empty of soul - even those with no innocence - only purpose. You make your own place in this world."
She lifted her head from his shoulder to look him in the eyes. He knew a look from her, with her brilliant brown eyes, were worth a thousand words and a hundred kisses.
"How did we get here?" he asked. "Us dancing in our living room and touching like this and kissing as we do, whenever we want… how did it get so peaceful?"
"Moments like these don't last, Draco. We can only take memories with us."
"You sound as if we're traveling."
"That's all life is. One long, lonely journey."
He felt a shiver rising up from his legs to his chest to his hands. The hand on her waist trembled and she took it as a sign that he was nervous. She took advantage of it to kiss him, more passionately than she had ever done, so passionately that they had to stop dancing to be able to pace their breathing. His hand moved up to her chest gently and rested there as if to calm her heart. He could feel it beating wildly against his own. He'd had his fill of women but for her, she was fraternizing with the enemy. She was giving in to the evil within him and not bothering to forget it but embracing it as a most glorious on switch.
He bit her lip, hard, and she didn't notice. She was too caught up in pushing him against the wall and undoing the buttons on his shirt. He was trying, quite ineffectually, to find the zipper on her skirt but gave up and his hand found the trail up her thigh. She moaned and leaned her head back so he could kiss and nibble at her neck. She didn't know what she was doing, didn't think.
She didn't think.
There was something natural about being in his arms, having him within her, that told her this was right. That she deserved him. She'd never felt like she belonged to someone, because it was contrary to her nature, but she came to the conclusion after waking up on his living room floor that they were definitely not children anymore and she was free to love him. God help her, she loved him, as all women think the morning after.
He was lying on his stomach and had his arm around her waist, as he loved to do even when they greeted each other. His face was buried comfortably in her hair and he'd find out later that he smelled of her, of gardenias, for the rest of the night.
She got up off the floor some time around midnight. Her blouse was on the couch, slinking over the edge like it'd been thrown in a fit of triumph. Her bra was on the floor nearby. Her bloomers were by his feet. She smiled at his figure in the dark. The light coming in through the balcony outlined his bum and his muscles while his fair hair fell over his eyes.
She looked down as she dressed and found her skirt still on but ridiculously askew and wrinkled. He never found how to work the zipper. She smiled brighter as she buttoned up her blouse. She had bruises on her thighs and her arms and hickeys on her neck. It didn't seem to bother her either but she hadn't noticed how obvious they were in the dark.
-----
When Draco woke up, he found a note by his hand and read it to himself.
Draco,
I'm sorry I couldn't stay. It wouldn't be right. Not yet, but maybe next time we'll at least make it to the couch.
Your Hermione.
He wasn't sure how long he was underwater but he'd spent the entire morning in the bathtub, reminiscing the night before and trying to remember what he did right. He thought he'd fallen asleep beneath the bath water. That's when a knock came at the door. He snapped out of it. It was like the water had preserved her touch on him and he didn't want to leave. The door creaked in the distance and he heard Mrs. Jones calling out for him.
"I'm upstairs, ma'am!" he shouted back, not bothering to get out of the water. The old woman walked up the stairs, humming. "I'm in the bathroom."
She walked in as if nothing before noticing he was in the bathtub. "Oh Jesus Christ! I'm so sorry!" she yelled, covering her eyes and turning away so quickly that he wasn't sure which way her head spun.
He laughed lightly, not quite in the shy mood. He grabbed his towel from the rack and wrapped it around his waist. "It's okay."
"What the bloody hell are you doing in your bathtub?!" she kept yelling, not realizing that it was obviously his bathtub and he was free to use it to bathe at any moment. She stopped for a moment to compose herself. She should not be yelling to her employer, she told herself, but her mind was elsewhere as well.
He could see it in her face, like she had something to tell him but her conscience wouldn't let her. "Jones, what is it?" he asked.
She sighed and handed him another white towel to dry himself off. It felt strange in his pruny hands. She noticed the scratch marks across his chest and immediately thought of Hermione. She hated now more than ever to tell him.
"Be careful, Draco. Her past is just as sullied as yours."
He never paid too much attention to her words but he appreciated her worry.
Hermione came to visit him the next day around noon. He greeted her with such a passionate kiss that she began to feel as he did, that every second was another year they'd spent apart. Time was in a flux. It was like a spell, brought on by love.
The more they wanted each other, the most distance Time drew between them. It was like a force of nature, tearing them apart, and all they could do to stay together was admit that they loved each other and keep on living from day to day, looking forward to the next moment like the next fix. Love had become intoxicating, a force of nature so powerful that it was impossible to control the lust that followed.
After that first night, they gave in fully. The comfort had taken over. They knew each other's every breath, every pain, every need and desire…
Intimacy was shared with words more so than body. They had no secrets in bed. When he messed up and let the secrets of his past meddle, he would bring a flower to her every day until she forgave him. They were careful in public but it was obvious. The town did not agree but did little to interfere out of fear. They still stared and grimaced as if their love was unlike other loves, like it was unnatural or unholy. Draco scoffed but Hermione was beginning to feel the pressure.
Their eyes were upon them, waiting for them to break.
He came home from Mrs. Jones' with a whole new load of bricks on his shoulders, a whole new mess of problems. As always, he felt like he was coming home to relax, to really get away. It was such a relief having physical problems, problems with solutions. It was so tedious to try to solve metaphysical dilemmas that he had given up trying.
When he opened the door to the house, he found it was pitch dark. He saw a light in the kitchen and went to see who it was cautiously when he began to feel a crunch beneath his shoes. He looked down. The tiny shards of glass and mirror were reflecting the light of the kitchen lamp.
There wasn't even a trail. It was everywhere.
He turned on the light and heard a whimper in the kitchen. He ran to who it was. Hermione was sitting in a corner, staring up at the last mirror left intact in the house. He thought it'd finally come, the break. He thought she'd gone insane or unstable but all he could think of was how he was going to stop the bleeding.
Her hands looked covered in it. She'd brushed a hair off her face and it'd smudged her cheek.
"Hermione?" he whispered then yelled. "HERMIONE!"
He slid in the glass and landed quite painfully on his knees beside her, but he didn't notice. She looked up at him for the first time since he'd walked inside. He pulled his scarf off and wrapped it around her hand. Only the right seemed to be really bleeding. "What the hell happened?" he asked softly.
She was surprised to see him, like she'd been away in her head for months and only just had she thought of him.
"Elias from the children's school asked me to describe a mirror today," she replied, even softer as if confiding something in a great echoing chamber. "He thought it was tedious for a person to spend so much time, or any time at all, trying to see how they look to others. I wondered about the last time I didn't recognize myself in the mirror. It was last week. Is it that I change so often or that people's opinions of me change?" She stopped and went back to stare at the last mirror. It was just over the key rack. It was small so she couldn't see herself from that angle of the floor. "When I look in the mirror, can I see what they see and is that who I am? How do I describe a mirror to a blind child and not want to smash them all to pieces?"
He gulped down his worry and sat down beside her. She obviously didn't feel too much pain since she was perfectly lucid and calm. "Why did you leave that one?" he asked. He hadn't thought to worry himself with her ramblings at the sight of the blood but he did because her logic intrigued him. He realized she knew exactly what people thought of her and she'd fought every day of her life to stop herself from becoming it. Now, staring at herself in the mirror, she realized it was inevitable. No matter what she did, they would never know her as he did. They would never be free of their own ridiculous nature. She could not save them all. She couldn't save herself. They were victims of a faceless evil, of expectations and rumors and lies and the monsters that flourished from them.
"A reminder. No one can judge you but yourself. I looked in the mirror, bloodied and broken-hearted and I recognized myself. That horrid creature was me, is me, and they can't take it away."
"No," he said, helping her stand with great determination. If she couldn't save herself, he would do it for her. He took her by the arm, forcefully, to the last little mirror on the kitchen wall. He put his hands on her shoulders, stood behind her, and both looked in the mirror. "Do you see what I see, Hermione?"
"What?" she replied, at a loss for energy.
"If you cannot see the beauty I see then I lend you my eyes. I have no expectations, Hermione. I have no reason to stay or to go, no motive to want or need you. I just do. I chose to not because of what I see or what they see but for the person you are. You… you are magnificent, more so for allowing a fool like me into your heart. Do you understand?"
She turned around, her lips too dry and broken to speak. Her eyes were as heavy and tired as her soul, and still she managed to lift her tattered hand up to caress his cheek. She understood.
He loved her. He couldn't say it, but he loved her. And now she knew.
She gathered up the strength in his eyes and said, "Draco… there's something you should know."
He was scared, worried it wasn't enough.
"I'm pregnant."
Draco froze with his mouth open and his eyes wide. "Are you trying to kill me?"
She tried to laugh but she was crying. "I found out last week. I didn't know how to tell you."
"It's mine, right?" he joked, trying to avoid the implications of being a father like the plague.
"YES!" she yelled. "What are we going to do?"
He froze for a moment, thinking about it. "We're getting out of here," he said, determined, and ran upstairs to pack.
She huddled in the bathroom, cleaning her hands and thinking of the torments her child would go through. It would be a half-blood, like her. She'd think of that for weeks. They escaped the town, without a word, and mounted a train to London. He had connections there. They stayed in a lavish hotel before heading to what was once his parents' house, his house.
He showed her the little places he'd play in as a child and how to fly over Big Ben. They went to New York and had some pizza in a filthy parlor named after an Italian and went to Italy to a parlor named after a pizza. She began to show. It was becoming more and more obvious, despite how much they wanted to run from the responsibility.
On her eighth month free in the world, she begged to go back. She wanted her child to be born in the house they built together, a symbol of their love. He didn't understand symbols like she did, didn't understand why she would want it to be born amongst the hatred and the love, but he respected her choice. She wanted to go back to the town.
On the way home, her water broke on the train.
She was going into labor.
He wanted to take her to a hospital but she refused. "It has to be born in the house!" she pleaded. He took her all the way to the front door then slowly led her inside. Something was wrong. It was coming too early.
They made it to the living room floor. She couldn't walk anymore. It was fitting that it should be born in the place it was conceived, or so she thought it. He remembered she screamed but smiled. He looked at her and his worry was swept away. She accepted what was to come, almost as if she could see it.
The baby was born, right there on the floor. "It's a girl, 'Mione! It's a girl!" he shouted. He went to place it in her arms but she had closed her eyes and rested her head. He tried to wake her but couldn't. She'd bled out.
His hand started to shake as he went to caress her cheek. He knew it was coming too. The last eight months had been a goodbye, a long testament to her memory. And now, he would never forget her.
He looked down at the creature in his arms, the last beautiful part of Hermione left alive. It had her dark hair and his light eyes. He didn't want to cry, because it was not new. She had told him she was a dying woman. She had known.
She had known.
"Hey, girl," he whispered to the baby. "You're my family now. You and I are all that's left. And years from now, when I'm gone, you'll be last reminder. You'll keep what happened here alive. You'll keep our story not just in your heart and in your mind but in your blood."
He took out his wand and without a word, it understood him. He kissed Hermione goodbye and with a wave, her body was covered in gardenias and vines and swallowed into the earth so she could live in every part of the world, so she could follow them wherever they went.
Draco took his daughter to London. He visited the house every year on that day. April 13th. Mrs. Jones would greet him and nobody else. They blamed him for her death, for every death and every betrayal. He would leave a rose on the living room floor so she'd know he never forgot her.
And when he returned the next day, it would be gone – swallowed by the earth so he'd know that she'd always be with him, alive inside them all in the little space in their hearts where time was still and she would be remembered.