Author's Note: A few of you asked for a piece from Draco's point of view, so here it is! Again, a warning: this will spoil the ending to "The Resilient." Repeat, only read if you have finished "The Resilient"! Enjoy!
Masks
Draco hated masks. He hated the feel of them on the smooth skin of his face even though, with the aid of magic, they were feather light. He hated breathing recycled air, hated the smell of his own lungs. He felt like he was slowly suffocating, pulling in less oxygen with every breath he took, an interminable asphyxiation. He hated the condensation that built up around his nostrils and upper lip. He hated the muffled sounds that came from his mouth as he tried to communicate with others and hated it even more when they tried to communicate with him. Enunciation was lost and his ears, as attuned to the delicacies of language as his tongue was to fine wine, had trouble picking up the essential nuances of speech.
He hated that his peripheral vision was cut off. It was claustrophobic and he felt like a horse with blinders, only able to see what was in front of him. Maybe it was a metaphor for the narrow-mindedness of Voldemort's regime. Yes, Voldemort's, for the mad wizard had long since ceased to be a Lord of any sort over him. It made sense, Draco supposed, but he held little appreciation for the coincidence.
But tonight, he was grateful for the mask, despite the thick cloud of smoke that hung in the air, making breathing even more difficult, making him feel like he was choking; despite the raucous, muddled conversation that was lost over the short table space; despite being seated in front of several dozen masked strangers who he trusted not at all. His mask hid the disgusted curl of his lips and the hard anger in his eyes. But that was not why he was grateful.
He nodded absently to a remark Brannon made, his grey eyes trained intensely upon the reedy man leaning against the podium. A ragged woman was shoved onto the stage and the provost stood at attention. Draco felt his back stiffen as well and suddenly there was nothing else.
There was only Hermione.
Now he was grateful. The mask showed a man who was impassive, uncaring and cool. Hidden was the tortured wretch whose raison d'être had been mutilated almost beyond believing. All semblance of control evaporated and his hard expression shattered.
What had he done?
She was nearly unrecognizable. Her hair – her beautiful, chocolate-colored curls, shiny and silken strands which twined so perfectly between his long fingers – was matted with filth. It hung limply to past her shoulders in snarls so severe he doubted they would come out except with the help of magic. And she was thin, impossibly thin. The bones of her shoulders stuck out from beneath the shredded rags they had given her as clothes, and her cheekbones were no longer delicate or flowing. She was all angles now, the curvy, blessed femininity starved out of her.
An overwhelming urge exploded within him, an urge to murder every person in the room. No one else should see her like this. This should be his private torture, a torture that should last for centuries. Then, if the gods were kind, she would let him nurse her back to health. Under his protection, she would never want for food or fine clothing again. Under his protection, her hair would shine and her body would be full and healthy. She would smile at him and whisper his name and he would hear her laugh – Merlin, her laugh! – and he would be saved.
He would be whole.
Hermione jerked away from the host's pecking fingers, and the movement brought him back to reality. The man pulled her to him and moved his hips lewdly. Bile surged up Draco's esophagus. Hermione stomped on his foot, then the man's fist collided with her cheek and she sprawled onto the floor. Draco's vision turned red as his body flooded with rage and adrenaline. His hand flew to his wand, though of course he would not use it.
She spat at the provost's feet and glared out at the audience. Draco tried and failed not to stare. His heart ached for her, longed for her, loved her. She was his world. She was everything he could never be. He wanted desperately to save her – to save them all – but first… He glanced at Brannon and felt another surge of hatred, a loathing so deep and fierce that one day it would have to be fulfilled. One day, he would kill Brannon for what he was doing to her. To him.
The bidding started. Brannon waited, waited, and for an insane moment, Draco fostered a hope that the man he had once called brother would abandon his betrayal and give her over to Draco like originally planned.
Brannon raised a hand and shouted a price that Draco did not hear. Another surge of bile and rage as the gavel slammed down twice, sealing the bargain.
He would not wait for the money to change hands. As soon as this was over, he was going to Apparate home, walk out to the cliff, and get shitfaced off the oldest, most expensive, and most potent bottle of firewhiskey he could find. If the Fates intended for him to live, then he would wake up facedown on the grass in a pool of his own vomit, like the time before, and the time before that. But if they were merciful – and he would beg them for mercy tonight – he would wake in hell.
For whatever else happened, whatever other atrocities he might commit, Draco knew that this – this moment, this bestial, damnable, soul-shearing moment – was a turning point. Nothing he did after this would ever be so evil. He was dangling the woman he loved before death and hoping beyond hope that it took no notice.
He would never forgive himself for this betrayal. She would never forgive him for it.
He would never deserve it.
XOX
Draco hated masks. He hated how they concealed his face, how they limited, pigeonholed him. A mask was one thing and that thing was whatever the mask was. It could be a mask of tragedy or comedy or a dragon or a Death's Head, and that is what everyone would see. That is all they would see. A mask did not allow room for interpretation. A mask was one face, but one face was never enough.
He wore a mask of apathy tonight, had plastered it on thickly. Not a literal mask, of course: he could see and breathe and speak very well. But it was a mask nonetheless and one that did not crack when he saw Hermione – his world, his being, his life! – staring at him from the edge of a doorway.
She looked better than she had in Azkaban. Her hair looked healthier, more vibrant, and it was nice to see her wearing something that was not covered in her own refuse. Her eyes, however, looked sunken and she was still much too thin. He would have words (which would inevitably come to blows, wands forgotten) with Brannon about that.
Brannon. Once an old friend and now an estranged colleague. The sight of him made Draco's mind roar with hatred and his fingers flick toward his wand. The thought of what he was doing to her, of how he was using her… If he could not kill before, Draco was readily capable of it now. Brannon did not know how close he was to experiencing a slow, torturous death.
But Draco was not delusional. Blame Brannon he did, but the root of all this madness was himself. Deviant, betrayer, coward, madman, and executioner. He was disgusted with himself, sick almost to the point of vomiting when he reflected on who – no, what – he had become.
How could he claim to love her and let her live through this? A higher cause? The damned greater good? What pitiful excuses his mind shouted at him! After years of existence, he had finally mastered self-sacrifice, but at the expense of the woman who held his heart captive.
He turned around, tearing his gaze away from her. The action crippled him and he nearly stumbled, steadying himself just in time. Leaving her here was intolerable. He wanted to snatch her away from this prison, this hell, and hide her somewhere safe, somewhere with him. He could heal her and love her like she deserved. Like he did not.
Forcing his legs to move, Draco took one step, then another away from his humanity. Soon, he promised himself. Soon he would take her away, Brannon be damned. Soon he would take her to the Keep and rehabilitate her. He would teach her and prepare her and steel himself for all the pain he knew she had yet to endure.
The mask was firmly in place. While all Draco felt was self-loathing, all Hermione saw was indifference.
It was torture.
It was all he deserved.
XOX
Draco hated masks. He hated wearing them, hated hiding behind them, but more than either, he hated when others wore them. Draco had always considered himself a reader of people, their words written in shades on their features. A lifted brow, a quirked lip, a narrowed eye… They were beautiful, subtle expressions and revealed so much more than the speaker could ever intend. They were useful in that way and Draco used them daily to direct conversation and steer his agenda.
But that task was becoming more and more difficult with Hermione. When he had first rescued her from Brannon, she was an open book to him. He read the pain etched along the lines of her full, perfect mouth, followed the story of her suffering written so clearly around eyes that never failed to draw him in. Upon her brow was the death of her hopes and the suicide she clearly planned to commit, which he had prevented at the last moment. He saw it all, and his heart broke each and every time.
He also saw her smile. That she still could manage the expression was a marvel, a testament to her strength of will and determination that fortified him when he felt weakest. That she could still manage to make it sincere was nothing short of a miracle. The effect her smile had on him was beyond speech. Mind boggling. Heart rending. Nectar and ambrosia. Torturous euphoria. Orgasmic. Terrible. Heaven. Hell. Exquisite. Divine.
His. Egotistical, selfish, presumptive bastard that he was.
But as he worked with her, taught her to conceal her mind and deaden her face, she lost those things. He could no longer see her story nor predict her actions. Her smiles were oddly expressionless and left him rather chilled. It at once pleased and horrified him to see her so emotionless. Pleased because emotional displays would get her killed once she left him (no, he corrected: once he gave her up). Horrified because once her mask was in place, it would be difficult to remove.
Never did he hate it so much as when she came to him on Christmas. He could see just a sliver of her from beneath his eyelids when she stood at his bedside looking over him. For the first time in months, she looked unguarded. There was tenderness and affection with just a hint of nostalgia. Then she walked away, leaving him cold. He listened to her mount the stairs to the second floor of his room and once her footsteps stopped, he rose and joined her.
Hermione was radiant. Her skin was opalescent from the faint glow of starlight. Her hair was fuller and more beautiful than he had ever seen. Her body was healthy, lithe and strong, and the dark green negligee she wore set his heart beating an irregular tattoo. She had always been beautiful, but tonight, she was radiant. She had withstood so much and come out better for it. Stronger. And that strength shone through her, brighter than the stars.
His love had always been fierce and unyielding, but in that moment, it consumed him.
In that moment, his mask shattered.
All the while, it had been cracking. This was unintentional but unstoppable, a product of his unconscious trying to protect them both from a bitter and apathetic world. It was making him mad. Seeing her made him giddy and sullen in turns. The sound of her voice soothed him but then he would lash out at her for no reason. He was not worthy of her voice. But her unhappiness was even worse. He could see that, every time he snapped at her, a small piece of her armor fell away. But instead of falling to pieces, she built it back up, tougher than before. She distanced herself from him, unknowingly, and the idea made him want to fall to his knees before her to beg for forgiveness and love.
Insanity, he supposed, was to be expected after what he had done to her.
But as he lay with her beneath the endless stars, talking of infinity and the unknowable, he forgot himself. He forgot his insanity, forgot his mask, and just was. He longed to explain everything to her, and was on the verge of doing so, when she left.
Hermione had not forgotten herself. Nor had she forgotten him.
It was a cruel reminder of what he had done.
It was no more than he deserved.
XOX
Draco hated masks. So, by extension, hated masquerades. He hated the pageantry of it. Hated the pretentious music and the audacity of anonymity. Hated parading around in a skin that was not his own in clothes that were equally foreign. Hated the gilt and the glamour; hated the mystery and suspense. Hated the entire spectacle. Hated pretending.
True, he could breathe well enough: the mask only covered half his face. No condensation, no muffled words, no spoken lies. But what it covered was more important than what it left bare.
The eyes.
The quiet liars.
He stood with her on the beach. He lost himself for a moment when she kissed him, allowed himself that fleeting taste of paradise, the warmth of her body and the strength and conviction of her love for him.
Then he hurt her.
Again.
His skin was his own. The moonlight was his raiment. The music was the sea and the gilt the silver of the stars. Surrounded by the natural, he was the sole beacon of artifice, transforming what should have been a beautiful, open moment into something wrong, something false.
A masquerade.
Lips freed, they spoke nothing but the truth to her. His words laid bare his soul and he spoke to her with an honesty he had never shared with anyone. He told her of how his love for her had grown around him like a vine, capturing him, completing him, and how he – an idiot boy, a frightened rodent too weak to take responsibility – had thrown it away for himself and for his parents. For love of a different sort.
He could not begrudge his parents, so he did not. But he did wish – ardently and often – that it could have been any other way.
Wishes are wind. And a masquerade is still a lie. A sin of omission.
He longed to confess it all to her, but he had come this far, had suffered for his long. To give in to his weakness now would be to fail her.
Draco would not fail her again.
His eyes remained hidden, but he thought she may have seen through him. Draco had never been a religious man, but that night, he prayed. First he prayed that he had hidden himself well enough, though, in a sudden moment of clarity, he knew he had not. Then he prayed that she had lost faith in him, that she would ignore the poisoned knowledge he so carelessly laid out for her to consume. He prayed for her hopelessness. He prayed that she would give up on him.
It would be exactly what he deserved.
XOX
Draco hated masks. And by the time he was able to remove it – all of it – he had almost forgotten what it was like to live without one. Where was the discomfort? The protection? The emboldening obscurity? Was this what it was like, to experience emotion as it was meant to be experienced? Uninhibited and unfiltered?
There were so many extremes, such intensity! The swoop of joy, the breathlessness of relief, the unburdening of a job finally finished, a path at long last trod to completion. It dizzied him and his vision shifted and re-shifted, unable to focus on one thing. Emotion or poison – who could be sure? Weren't they the same? The point was moot: he had succeeded. He discarded his mask.
The success had not been without casualties or considerable pain. It was not over, either, not by a long shot, and Draco knew that. But it was a step in the right direction. Voldemort was dead and now it was time to heal.
Now it was time to confess.
Hermione deserved to know everything. Draco had only dared to imagine this day twice before. Both times, the words flowed like cool water, soothing and explanatory. Believable. Logical. Almost – almost! – justifiable.
Tonight was nothing like his fantasies. The truths he spoke to her were like knives, flaying her open. Her mask decomposed and fell away beneath their bite as he bared himself to her once again, and soon she was as naked as he.
When their palms touched, he felt her. Felt her like he never had before. It was excruciating and intimate. He wanted to tear himself away and run in self preservation. It was wrong for someone to see him so clearly, to feel him like that. It was equally wrong to feel her. Her mind was a profoundly private place, and he was the interloper, the intruder.
It could become an obsession, this touch. To know, to see, to feel her to the very depths of her soul. She was so passionate and ferocious, all extremes. Pain, pleasure, grief, confusion, love. She was an emotional maelstrom, and the force dashed him upon the rocks of misery and desire. Her soul was a siren's song and Draco was Odysseus unanchored. She could drive him mad, if he let her. Draco would welcome the madness with open arms.
At long last, they parted, and she delivered to him the killing blow. He did not blame her for it.
As Hermione disappeared through the green flames, Draco truly felt what it was to be beyond the protection of a mask. He hurt like he had never hurt before, his lungs breathless, his body bloodless. His heart tore from his chest and leapt into the flames to accompany her, and – though he screamed in wretched, unbearable pain – he wished them well.
He had begged her to stay knowing full well that it would be in vain. It was right for her to leave. She was free. Finally free. Free from the bonds that had held her captive for over three years. Free from obligation to him, though, by a cruel twist of fate, they were joined by blood for eternity. She could heal and live as she wanted. If it was to live without him, so be it. He didn't blame her.
It was exactly what he deserved.
XOX
Homes were rebuilt and lives with them. Trials were held and those found guilty of crimes against humanity – including Draco himself – were sentenced appropriately. Some paid with their lives. Others – like him – paid with their fortunes, though most could not claim financial freedom after reparations were made – quite unlike him.
According to the papers and, years later, several best-selling books, Draco accomplished great things for Wizarding and Muggle worlds alike. But he had no memory of them. He had no need to remember them. There were others that would remember for him.
What he needed to remember was her.
He gave four years of his life to the rebuilding of their worlds, but lost four years of his sanity to the maintenance of her memories. Slowly, they faded. Just as slowly, he drifted into madness. He limped along, from day to damned day, forcing himself to breathe, forcing his heart to beat. The world had no color and no definition, and Draco was suffocating on the nothingness. As soon as he could manage, when both worlds were as stable as they could be, he left his position of power and retired to the Dragon's Keep to live and die alone.
But not before getting hit with a curse that nearly killed him before his time.
He lost another three months of his life to unconsciousness, a blackness still cursed by the absence of her face but blessed by the sound of her voice. She read to him, spoke to him, even sang to him on a few occasions, and he understood every word. It was all crystal clear, as if she was sitting right beside him and speaking in his ear. He reveled in the texture of her voice, the easy lilt of her tone, the warmth infused by her smile, and the richness of her laugh. Sometimes, he thought he could feel her – delicate, effervescent tingles hovering inches above his cheek, his forehead, his hand.
It was a delusion. His madness manifesting itself physically.
It was enough. He was content with the sound of her and the memory of her touch. His body mended. The curse which nearly killed him sent one final, feeble stab into his being before fading completely. But he refused to change, whether for better or for worse. Though he was in limbo, trapped in a strange purgatory, she was there. If he died, he would go to hell, and she would be parted from him forever. If he woke, she would still be gone, and that would be worse than hell.
But sometimes, the body knows what the mind cannot. And one day, the faint tingling of her touch coalesced into a true, physical sensation. It flamed through him, igniting his nerves and searing his brain. He wanted to leap and scream and sing and live and love, and it was all so real, so undeniably visceral, that his body made a decision all on its own
And so, Draco died.
His eyes opened slowly. Everything was light, so bright that he had to squint. The curtains were open and the sunshine streamed in. He was in his bedroom. Birds chirped, insects hummed, and Hermione, clothed in white, sat next to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. She stared at her scarred palm. Tears glistened in the corners of each eye. Absently, he wondered how he had made it to heaven, then wondered aloud how she had died.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. She touched his hand again, overwhelming him with memories, and then she laughed. Laughed! In that moment, she became real. Present. He could have died a happy man then, just for seeing her one last time.
Then his parents burst into the room and she stumbled away from him, staggering toward the door, and Draco felt sick. His mother smothered him with a hug; his father wept silently behind her. He remembered his responsibility, his survival without her. He forced a smile and listened patiently while his parents explained everything. But he couldn't care less about himself. She had run from him. She would always run from him.
Yet she stayed. Her presence was less than that of a phantom – mealtimes, evenings when she thought he was asleep. He felt her near him. Felt her eyes, felt her heart, and felt pulled to her. He retraced her steps. He learned her patterns. He waited, he watched, he listened.
He met her under the stars after a week, and she deigned to walk with him to see the secret he should have shared with her before he ever let her go.
Seeing her cry again was like a kick to the gut. It knocked the will to stand out of him and, once he lurched out of the clearing and away of the forest's danger, he collapsed onto the cool earth and sobbed for her. He did not remember standing or staggering to the cliff face, but that is where Hermione found him and fisted his shirt in her hand.
They had always been connected, by circumstance or, much rarer, by choice. This time, it was by choice – her choice – and the realization broke his heart. The feeling manifested itself as a weak chuckle.
She spoke in echoes, and he yelled at her. She snapped. He tried to convince her that he wasn't good for her, wasn't good enough for her, that she was making the wrong choice, that she should go back, go anywhere, go away until she was alright. She called him names (they were all true) and the venom and fire in her tone reminded him of better days. He tried to walk away from her and she followed, stubborn to the last. She grabbed his hand, launched herself into his body and soul, and won it, won both, won everything, won him, worthless prize though he may be.
What could he do but cede to her? He was so tired of fighting. Bone weary from denying himself, exhausted from denying her. As she collapsed against him – or was he the one collapsing? – his world fell into place inside her arms. There, he was just as helpless and weak as he was worthy. And above all, he was loved. And accepted. And, in time, forgiven.
Though he was scared and hurt and uncertain, Draco was also fairly sure that he had never known joy before that moment. And despite what Hermione said, one thing would always be true:
She was far more than he deserved.