Author's Note: PLEASE READ THIS FIRST! Thank you. There are some hefty trigger warnings for this fic you should be aware of before reading. Namely, depictions of violence, referenced self-harm, substance abuse, and even death. If you are one to be upset by these things but still insist on reading... I did warn you. If you are looking for a fluffy, happy one-shot, this is not the place for you.
Thank you to my amazing alpha reader, Witches-Britches, for helping me out with this story. I had been wanting to try writing something in first-person for a change, and while I'm not sure it's for me, I still had to share.
To give credit to the poem at the top... those are the opening lines to 'Death' by Emily Brontë.
.
.
Death! that struck when I was most confiding
In my certain faith of joy to be -
Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing
From the fresh root of Eternity!
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Nothing was right after the war. How could it be? It felt like everything that had once been normal, routine, or good had been sucked out as if through a vacuum, leaving only empty nothingness behind. Yet, we had won; Harry had defeated Voldemort in a battle that was sure to be lauded for ages to come.
But the aftermath...
The aftermath was hell. And not just for me.
There was a grey period of purgatory before any healing occurred, where no one was themselves and everyone was broken, desperately trying to pick up the shards of who we had used to be and fit them together with the pieces of who we had been forced to grow into. It was a messy process - emotionally, physically, psychologically. Susan Bones committed suicide two months after the slew of funerals we all attended. Little Teddy Lupin went to live with his grandmother, who was an unshakable force of nature, despite all she had lost. It hardly mattered that she had gone completely grey within the course of those two months, she had as much spunk as ever.
Happy moments did not last long. It felt disrespectful to take any pleasure from life at first; we felt guilty for enjoying small moments when so many others had suffered or died.
Harry brooded; Ron dissociated. I locked myself away for three days, to reflect and to allow myself to break down - until the boys noticed. You see, I was not long afforded the luxury of brooding or dissociating. I had always been the most unruffled of our Trio - and the fact that we were all hurting and healing did not change that. I had a duty to uphold, both to them and to myself.
The problem was, none of us knew who we were anymore. We clung to what character traits we could remember of ourselves like driftwood in the choppy sea… so long as it carried us somewhere other than where we were, there was the hope we could start again.
It had never occurred to any of us that the post-war world we had inherited would be just as challenging to live through as it had been to achieve it in the first place.
There was something else I had not expected… or rather, someone else.
I was surprised to see Draco, able and sharp, looking very much like the head of the Malfoy household paying respect at his relative's passing. Yet, as it had been Tonks's funeral and his family had always dismissed her before, I had to wonder why now. I soon found out that he had made amends with Andromeda with such alacrity, it was as if he simply could not wait to have relatives he could be proud to stand beside. Lucius had been immediately jailed, while Narcissa awaited trial and was placed in a holding cell in Azkaban for a few murders she had apparently committed over the past year. Harry had spoken up for Draco, about how he had refused to identify them during their time as prisoners at Malfoy Manor, and later described how Draco had thrown Harry his wand in order to defeat Voldemort. It enabled him to walk free, one of the few acts of mercy Harry troubled himself with.
Once I was well enough, I signed on to the Hogwarts reconstruction team, determined to spend my summer in the rebuilding efforts, just to have something to do with my hands and my time. I quickly discovered that Draco had been assigned to this task as well, as a form of community service. After that first awkward morning of being together in the same room, he approached me on a lunch break to apologize for all the times he had wronged me over the years. I forgave him instantly, unwilling to harbor any hatred for anyone. By the end of the week, we had become friends, preferring to work alongside one another and taking our meals together.
I still occasionally blush when I reflect on how quickly I fell for him. Following the trials of war, Draco had become a repentant individual. He was intelligent, witty, and generous - and still his pompous old self, just a bit less irritating. It seemed we had just become friends, when we traipsed into the territory of lovers.
It happened by accident. That morning, we had started on the Hogwarts library - and I had suffered a particularly bad mental breakdown that was equal parts embarrassing and exhausting. Yet, Draco had seemed to understand completely that I could not be there, in that particular part of the destroyed castle. Seeing my former haven in pieces - pages of parchment fluttering with movement - covered in the fine, grey dust of rubble - splattered with blood and even bits of gore - no.
No.
No.
Every inch of me rebelled against the sight, the smell.
Once night had fallen, Draco guided me down to the Black Lake, where the summer breeze was cool and rustled the grass and sorrel, softly singing through the hanging limbs of a tall willow by the shoreline. The tree had been blemished by a huge gash in its trunk during the battle, which would eventually be the cause of its death - but not yet. We had lain together beneath that tree on a conjured blanket and beside a jar of my bluebell flames. Any thoughts of mine that this was unplanned, were quashed when he produced a bottle of wine.
After my second glass, I whispered, "I just need to forget everything for awhile."
"I wish I could make it so," he had softly admitted.
Though his grey eyes were nearly obscured in the dark, I witnessed the emergence of worry lines on his forehead, even in the shadows. To this day, I do not know what gave me my boldness - whether the wine or my sorrow - but I lifted his chin with my fingers and entreated, "Help me to. Just for now."
His kiss came hesitantly, as if he were questioning that this was what I had really meant. I met his lips readily with mine, melding us before he could think to second-guess himself.
We made love under that willow and the eternal stars, to the sound of the lake lapping at its edges. The next day, before breakfast, he admitted he had never slept with anyone on a whim before, and that it was not sitting right with his honor. Neither had I. But I was ready to put him at ease and begin a relationship with him.
Two months later, the rebuilding efforts were wrapped up for the start of classes and we returned to our lives, such as they were. Draco voiced no desire to return for his schooling, and while my old self would certainly have insisted upon it, I was simply so tired I could not muster the energy for it. I could finish another time, or earn a certificate of completion from home.
Months passed in a state of dubious contentment as Draco and I formed the boundaries of our relationship. It was the ultimate form of healing, at least for me. Ron did not understand, of course, but both Harry and Ginny were quietly accepting of us. It was not long before I was certain that I would one day marry him.
There were things he taught me about the world, about magic, that I had never thought of, from perspectives I'd not considered. We would pore over books together for hours, debating theory. He was a well-informed wizard on many subjects - but he was masterful at potions. Even I could not keep up with him on the topic of alchemy; he was simply more learned than I was.
Draco was fond of the piano, and of poetry. Something that surprised me, though I am not sure why. Whenever he slipped into a melancholy mood - and that was often - he would retreat to the music room to twiddle out a melody on the keys, or else to just sit at the bench and stare down at the ivories. I soon discovered it was easier to let him brood; he would rise from it when he was ready.
He introduced me to poetry that had been written by wizards, and would read those poems to me while playing with my hair, sometimes until I fell asleep.
A generous lover, he always sought my pleasure before claiming his own, no matter which mood he was in.
Even more importantly, he made me bold again: a characteristic that had shrunk briefly away once it was no longer required of me. I will never forget the time he convinced me to sit in front of him on his broomstick.
"I can't do this," I told him. My feet were planted firmly on the ground, though I straddled the broom as instructed.
"Close your eyes," he whispered. "Don't open them until I say."
I did. There was something about him that made me want to trust him. Still, when my feet left the earth a few seconds later, I could not help but sneak one eye open.
He chuckled, somehow knowing. "No peeking, Hermione…"
I closed my eyes again. To his credit, it did not feel much like we had moved before my feet touched something solid again, and he was telling me to open my eyes. It was not the ground, however. Instead, he had brought us to the top of a tree, with the strongest limbs for support. He helped me to settle myself in, despite my thudding heart and spiking adrenaline. It was the tallest tree for miles - in plain view of a perfect sunset. He handed me an apple and we both enjoyed the sweetness of the fruit in silence, simply watching.
I kept my eyes open on the ride back down.
On another day, it rained so hard, it beat against the roof of Malfoy Manor furiously as if exacting a vendetta against the house. We sat, snuggled into one another under a blanket, and watched the raindrops slide down the windowpane. He murmured a spell, causing the condensation to form into different constellations, which I would promptly identify before they transformed again.
We did that until he ran out of constellations. I finally told him what I had been thinking for months: "I love you."
He let out a deep breath, kissed me, and admitted, "I've loved you, too, for some time now. But didn't know how to say it, and worried it might be too soon..."
It felt like a guilty pleasure, to feel such happiness.
I did my best to help him heal - and he was very broken. He took over as Lord of Malfoy Manor, and set about trying to do some good in the world. When he was inevitably knocked onto his knees by someone who could not forgive him for the Dark Mark on his arm, I was there to guide him back to his feet. This was easier said than done; he sometimes descended into such despondency that it could take days to lift him out of it.
Once winter descended, he took me through the Manor's greenhouses to introduce me to the rose-bushes that were his mother's favorites. Carefully plucking one, he whispered a spell and glided his wand across the stem to remove the thorns before tucking it behind my ear and into my curls. Cupping his hands under my chin, he looked me in the eyes and told me I was beautiful.
For the first time in years, I actually felt like it.
In the Spring, he took me into the forest behind the Manor, where the ruins of an old shrine still stood in their crumbling glory. The ground there was rife with mushrooms and fairy rings, and he told me tales his father had once used to relay to him about the Old Ways.
I taught him to produce a patronus, which was something he had long wanted to be able to do. It took perseverance on both our parts - but the payoff was sweet when we watched my otter and his barn owl playing in their own silvery intangibility. Somehow, though unexpected, his guardian was fitting for him.
Then, after much scholarly discussion on the subject, we each consented to taking Polyjuice Potion of one another - and to make love. I can no longer remember who initiated that conversation, but experiencing sex from the other's perspective was something we were both wildly curious about.
It was an eye-opening, almost spiritual hour… unexpectedly so. Though it took some time to grow past the pseudo-narcissism of making love to our own physical selves, there was a headiness in the idea that something so innately foreign could simultaneously be so pleasurable. To this day, I still prefer to have sex as a woman... but the bizarre feeling of blood rushing south and clouding my mind is not something I'll ever forget.
A few months later, Narcissa died while still in holding. Her cause of death was dubious, but horrifyingly, only a half-hearted investigation was launched. Draco was predictably crushed, not to mention suspicious, but flatly refused to visit and condole with Lucius, despite my assurances that it could help him with closure. Refusing to go near his father, he became angry - and like a great flood, out came the story of how his father had pressured him into service to Voldemort as a teenager. How Draco had used to be told tales about the faithful, how he had been groomed for such a thing. It was the first time I had heard him declare such bitter thoughts toward his own father. He had so much residual resentment toward Lucius, I wondered how he could not be corroding on the inside.
We spoke of the war, the end of which was nearly a year ago now. We had done this before, of course, but never in such depth. We discussed both our involvement in our separate roles, and made peace with our conflicting personal histories. This was not easy for Draco, as he still blamed himself, regretted many things. But he had hopes for the future - that maybe one day, he could grow into the type of person that others would not associate with his parents, with their mistakes, with his own past.
I stayed with him that night, which was not something we had often done, preferring to respect the boundaries of privacy.
That was how I found out about the nightmares.
He suffered from them often, I later gleaned. The first few times I woke up beside a thrashing wizard, I was frightened. Soon however, I learned to keep Calming Draughts on hand. My heart sank when I discovered the nightmares had only got worse after his mother's death. It quickly became customary for me to spend the night with him at the Manor, instead of in the spare room at Grimmauld Place which Harry had given me so that I would not be homeless; my parents' memories had never been restored.
It was nearing summer again when one night, I heard him screaming again. I had not yet come to bed, often preferring to stay up reading in his library; it was difficult to find repose beside someone who was frequented by night terrors as Draco was. When I heard his yelling, I closed my book and made my way to his bedroom, where I expected to be confronted with the sight of him writhing in bed, in the throes of another of his nightmares.
What met my eyes instead, was blood and agony.
Where the Dark Mark had once blemished his arm - the skull vomiting the snake and imparting a violent energy - Draco had stripped away the flesh. I found him slumped over on the hardwood floor in a spreading tarn of his own blood, moonlight streaming in through the window. There was a knife in his hand, along with several large swaths of his skin sitting weirdly by his side.
The hours following this discovery are still something of a blur to me. I dosed him with pain potion and healed him as best I could with spells, blood replenishers, and dittany. It was some time before he woke, and when he did, he had no memory of inflicting such violence on himself. It had likely been a vicious manifestation of his usual nightmares - at least that is what I suspected - and perhaps also brought on by the questionable circumstances of his mother's death. As I expected, he refused to go to St. Mungo's so I continued to treat him at the Manor, dressing his arm with bandages and administering pain potions.
I had a new worry to contend with when I noticed him continuing to take the potions even after the bandages had come off, and his skin - now riddled with an ugly scar - had healed over.
"You should wean yourself off of them," I remarked in earnest. "You can build up a reliance or an immunity if you take them too long. Not to mention, they make you glaze over and sleepy."
"You're right," he admitted. "I'll begin that right away. Start with half-doses and work my way off."
The potions did reappear in his stock cupboard - this was not out of the ordinary, as it was typical to have one or two on hand in any household, just in case. Yet, something was not quite right. They appeared as if they were being replaced… which of course meant they must have been emptied at some point.
One evening, he was sitting in his usual armchair in his study, a book in his lap and his eyes trained on the words. I sat across from him in the window seat, occasionally glancing over and wondering how he could read only by the flickering light of a candle. He had not moved for well over an hour, and after some observation at his unnatural stillness, I noticed that he did not seem to be scanning the sentences, that he never turned a page. He nearly seemed dead, except for the fact that he occasionally blinked.
Worried that he was in a stupor, I prompted, "Draco?"
He did not answer.
"Draco?"
Nothing.
I stood from my own seat and walked over until I was directly in front of him and said his name again, but he continued not to answer. Gently, I placed a hand on his shoulder and shook him. His reaction this time was to turn and peer at me. But I could not see Draco in his eyes, which were glazed over with numb nothingness. He still said nothing.
I turned and fled the room, disturbed. Later, he did not bring it up. I had to wonder if he even remembered it at all.
The months that followed were something out of one of my worst fears as I watched him descend into a miasma of his own making. He no longer ate much - and as he had never been a large person, this quickly made him look haggard and weak. Old, even. I wanted to scream - or slap him - anything to make him see what he was doing to himself. I suspected he had failed to wean himself off of the pain potions, and was now succumbing to their most dreadful of side effects. But I never caught him with a single drop of it, and every time I brought the subject up, he brushed it away.
Eventually, his denial became anger. I threatened to turn him into a rehabilitation facility, and we fought, cruelly. I escaped back to Harry's after that fight, for the first time in weeks.
He was not himself, I told myself. That was the only reason we had fought. It had not been Draco I had argued with, but his medication.
I blamed myself for having given Draco those pain potions in the first place.
I returned the next day, contrite and ready to help him with his addiction - because now, I had come to terms with the fact that that was what it was. Draco was not Draco; the wizard within his eyes was not him any longer. Once, not long ago, he had been a man of grace and dignity, but those traits were gone now. Yet, I had been so much in love with the man he had once been, that I was unable to forsake the one he had morphed into. In my mind, I knew he was still there… somewhere… underneath all that. I could not force him to find himself, but I could guide him. I had done it before, when the only demons he had struggled with were post-war traumas. I could handle this, too.
Or so I told myself.
I discovered his secret potions stash five days later, having torn apart the Manor looking for it. It had been in his collection of decanters the entire time, the revelation of which, was disgusting to me, as if he considered this just another drink by now. The issue was, I had not thought through the next part of my plan, and simply destroyed the potions upon discovering it. Why I had thought he would not retaliate, was perhaps very naive of me. But I had become a semi-crazed woman myself, rationality leaking away in the face of my desperation to make him whole again.
The fallout was dreadful. We had never fought with such intensity before - and when I confronted him about his addiction this time, he snarled at me and then turned on his heel and left. I heard the Floo moments later, and the realization that he had abandoned me completely hit me like an unseen hex.
In all of my imaginings, I had never expected him to simply leave.
I sank to the floor right there in the Manor's main corridor and picked apart my own emotions for the next few hours, trying to decide who had been in the wrong here, because it was no longer obvious to me.
When he came back the next day, his vision was clear for the first time in months, and he had brought flowers and fresh promises. By now, my expectations of him were so low and my emotions so entangled with themselves, that even this, the most meager of apologies when one considered his behavior and distance - seemed special, adequate.
We made love that night for the first time in weeks. It was so tender, so perfect, like the way it had once been, that I wept.
The next morning, he was gone again. I never knew where he went when he disappeared, and he always refused to tell me. With a frown at the empty side of the bed, I traipsed to the master bathroom to freshen up, when a familiar smell made my heart sink. Sure enough, there were a few drops of pain potion on the sink's edge, clearly unnoticed by him considering the similar shade to the marble, but recognized by me because of its distinct juniper smell.
Again, I wept. This time, for a different reason.
I could not go to any of my friends for support in this. Though Harry had never understood my relationship with Draco, he tolerated it - but he had always been rash, and admitting I was going through something like this with him, would make his anger flare up. Ron had never approved from the get-go.
Ginny would be the worst, because she would judge him, instead of feeling sympathy. I knew that if Draco ever recovered from this - and in my heart, I had to wonder if he ever would - Ginny would never forgive him for what he was currently putting me through.
As to everyone else, I had fallen out with many of my acquaintances over the past few months. I had stopped going out after Draco's self-inflicted injury, determined as I was to take care of him. The psychological warfare I had endured since then had left me too exhausted to socialize, even after he had healed. I had no other friends beyond the ones I had made while at Hogwarts.
None of Draco's few remaining friends thought much of his relationship with me. He did not keep in touch with Greg Goyle after Crabbe's death, and Theodore Nott had essentially broken off their friendship when Draco had opted to date a Muggleborn. I considered going to Blaise Zabini, but learned that he was currently living in Italy - and if that was the case, how close could he and Draco be, really?
I debated leaving, but every sweet memory of what we had once shared made me reconsider.
Something needed to change. Somehow, without my realizing, Draco's demons had multiplied and become mine, too. I gathered my courage to confront him.
That evening, when he came home, he was glazed over again. I shook him, tried to make him understand.
He swung at me, which I dodged just in time, and he put his fist right through the wall where my head had been. Draco had never been one for physical violence, so the fact that he had opted for his fist rather than his wand, was additionally upsetting on top of how shaken I was that he had lashed out at me in the first place.
Even in his altered state, he seemed to recognize that he had crossed a line. He apologized, but I would never look at him the same. For the next day or two, we both walked on eggshells with one another. I debated leaving again, but worried over what harm he might do to himself if I did. I could not abandon him to fight the demons alone.
When he glazed over again, I withdrew into myself. We were two silent planets, orbiting around the same dying sun, never seeming to make contact. When he kissed me, I pulled away. I did not want to kiss this False Draco. He frowned at me, but said nothing.
Then, one night he came to bed noisily, waking me from my sleep. This time, the now-sickeningly familiar smell of juniper was tempered with firewhiskey.
I wanted to be sick; but even more than that, I just wanted to leave. Leave and get someone to take him away, fix him. I was so tired… tired and defeated. I could not take any real action for the moment, however. My disgust and exhaustion would have to be examined again by daylight.
I feigned sleep, even when he sat beside me and said, "Hermione."
When I was unresponsive, I hoped he would merely fall into bed and drift into slumber... sleep off such a dangerous mixture of pain relief and alcohol.
It was not to be so.
His hand snaked up my nightshirt and began fondling my breast. His touch made my skin crawl. I grunted in my pretend-sleep and rolled over onto my front to dissuade him, hoping this would be enough to get the message across.
Instead, he yanked down my pyjama bottoms, exposing me to the crisp, night air. Panicked, I went very still. Surely he wouldn't…
I heard the zip of his trousers. Swiftly, I turned over to glare at him. He was now stroking himself, even despite that he was only half-hard, likely from the combination of inhibitors he had taken.
"What are you doing?" I demanded. It was shrill, even to my own ears.
He chuckled darkly and in a mockingly sweet voice, he sneered, "I love you, don't you know?"
It pierced my chest like a jagged spike, hearing that affirmation delivered in such a way. "Draco…"
Pinning my wrists down with one hand, he began to position himself with the other. Apparently, we were done with talking.
This was not him, I knew. But still… this was violence.
A wandless spell burst from me, unchecked as the accidental magic of my youth. The strength of it flung him clear off the bed and into a mirror that hung on the wall, where it smashed, littering the carpet with sharp slivers of glass before he tumbled onto it all.
It was déjà vu - seeing him lying there in a spreading pool of his own blood, while crimson rivulets poured from gashes on his bare chest and arms.
Despite everything, I tried to go to him, to administer aid - but he turned his wand on me. He had never done such a thing before, not even in our Hogwarts years. The shards of mirror that clacked beneath his movements reflected his crazed eyes in the moonlight that streamed in through the window.
The Draco Malfoy I had loved was gone. Beyond reclamation. That fact hit me like a sackful of galleons.
I fled, yanking my pyjama bottoms back up as I did, but he made chase. When I began to outmaneuver him through the corridors in my desperation to get to the Floo, I heard it.
"Crucio!"
A jet of red light zoomed past my head.
I sped up, my heart thudding. I just had to get down the staircase to the fireplace… get away. To anywhere, really, so long as I could get past the anti-Apparition wards and into relative safety.
A quick glance backward at him showed him falling behind, his blood flying after him and spattering the walls as he stumbled after me, wand still aloft. I took the stairs two at a time, focusing all the concentration I could spare to ensure I did not slip and fall.
"Crucio!"
I dodged the red light and cast a protego behind me as my foot left the final stair. As I neared the fireplaces, tears stung my eyes. How could it all have come to this?
I made it away, and went to Harry's, casting the spell to close the Floo connection the moment my feet hit the floor. I promptly dissolved into a fit of tears. The hour was late, but Ginny had still been up and heard me. I knew it was futile to keep my secret any longer - and in any case, I had no desire to protect Draco now that he had thrown Unforgivables at me. In my desperation to return him to the wizard I had fallen for, I had allowed my standards for personal treatment to slip this low without thinking it wrong.
The whole scenario came out in a flood. My hysterical sobbing woke Harry, who heard just enough to summon a team of Aurors to Malfoy Manor, in order to arrest Draco.
They found him at the bottom of the marble staircase I had fled down. He had slipped in his own blood and tumbled to the bottom, breaking his neck.
Dead.
I could not comprehend it.
I had to be taken in to sit trial, but was quickly acquitted. Diagnostics had been performed on my wand which showed that I had used only defensive spells; his proved that he had attempted to use two Unforgivables on me. The pain potion he had taken had been tested and proven to be compromised somehow, perhaps having been brewed incorrectly. That, tempered with the alcohol he had also imbibed, made it the likely reason he had lashed out so uncharacteristically. Not that anyone at the Auror office seemed surprised that a former Death Eater had attempted to torture me. I did not try to correct them, too exhausted of making excuses for him for so long.
I was now even more broken than I had been following the war.
My friends all wanted to know why I had not confided in them. I could not say. They would not understand, and I had no energy remaining to exchange bitter words.
I also could not stay away from the funeral.
Where had been the man I once loved, who once loved me? It did not look like him in that coffin. That was a shadow of the man I had fallen for, of the man I had once persuaded to make love to me under that willow tree by the lake.
I stayed long after he was interred, my eyes fixated on the patch of dirt covering his body. The shadows grew long as the day waned, but I only moved to sit on the ground, uncaring if I got grass-stains on my good skirt.
When finally I stood up again, the sky had darkened almost completely. My eyes were drawn upward by a movement on a nearby tree branch.
A barn owl. Blinking intelligently, the bird looked pointedly at me, though it had no letter. A silvery patronus twisted before my eyes, a shadow of memory...
I fled the cemetery, wondering if what Draco had become would haunt me forever.