End.
By: Etern
Disclaimer: I do not claim any rights to the Harry Potter characters, who belong to JK Rowling.
A/N: I was in a sappy, angsty mood, and so I wrote this. This is what happens when you read cheap romance novels -_-. But anyway, I sort of like it…I'll leave it up to you decide though.
Time has stopped before us
The sky cannot ignore us
No one can separate us
For we are all that is left
The echo bounces off me
The shadow lost beside me
There's no more need to pretend
Cause now I can begin again
-The Beginning is the End is the Beginning, Smashing Pumpkins
"I don't care. I just don't care," she had said, her jaw set, her eyes blazing.
He had only looked down at her in pity. "Being with me might cost you your life."
There had been no denying her stubbornness, even then, in the wake of the end. What had she done? She had only resolutely shaken her head. "I don't care," she'd repeated.
His heart leapt and died all at once in his chest as he grabbed her shoulders, held her so tightly that she bruised. "How could you say that?" he had whispered urgently, brokenly. She was to be the end of him.
She had not struggled in his arms; she had relented to his touch. Her eyes had shimmered every color he had ever loved at him then, so bright and dark and light and goddamn lovely, so lovely, even with tears starting to cling to the ends. Even through the tears, she had parted her lips, she had set her face, and she had pulled him towards her.
"I could say that because simply, Draco Malfoy, I'm in love with you."
He had held her close until they came to get him.
He had held her close until he felt the tears fall down his neck, one by one.
He had held her close until she had been the only thing left, even after she was long gone.
--
Neither knew just when it had started. Neither knew just why it had started. All that really mattered to them was that it had started and it had happened.
What had once been insults melted into sensual teasing that often ended in a romp or two in some classroom, or in his secluded dormitories deep in the dungeons.
They didn't know how it had started, but they had known that after awhile, they didn't want it to stop.
--
She was feeling guilty again. He could tell she was by the way she kept pinching her lips together, by the way she seemed to turn slightly away from his touch.
It was in her guilt that he hated her friends the most. The bloody Gryffindors, the two dolts who thought that they could save the world just by existing. They never failed to make his blood boil, just as they never failed to make his own feelings of guilt stir.
He knew what she was risking by coming to him for their clandestine meetings. She risked her friendship, her hard earned role as the Gryffindor Princess and most of all, she risked her own life.
She knew what he was. She knew what his father was. One night she had seen it, flashed across his arm, and she had given into tears, right there in the middle of a passionate kiss. It had taken the whole night to console her, and ever since then she made a habit of avoiding his right arm. The tainted arm.
Sometimes, when she was gone and the first rays of sun were starting to pour in through the windows, he would turn his own face into his pillows and scream, cry, weep. He would let his mask fall, and let all his built up anguish out.
He could not choose his own fate; he had his life already preset for him, and there was no choice, ever, but to follow it. Be a puppet. Kill in the name of a being that will kill you yourself in a second, no regrets, no thoughts. A thoughtless killer.
He could remember standing there, in the circle of black, and wonder where he was. He would look at the hooded faces and play a guessing game as the real game of Russian Roulette played out before him. Whenever he got home, he would vomit. Whenever those crimson eyes fell on him, whenever masked faces leered down at him, he would think of her. Her, and the way that her nose wrinkled when she laughed, and how she always smelt a little musty, like old pages in a book, a book that he knew by heart. He would remember her smile, her twinkling amber eyes and sink into unconsciousness, the mark on his arm burning only slightly when he immersed himself in her.
There was no coming back up.
He'd always been afraid that he would end up relying on her, and that was exactly what was happening. He woke every morning thinking of her; he would stare at the back of her head in class almost all the time, wishing he could run his fingers through her wild mane of hair.
It was getting dangerous—his own form of Russian roulette, and this time he was the only one who could possibly get hurt.
He wanted to pull the wand—the gun—away, but he couldn't. Not when she came to him every night, so alive and goddamn perfect that she made him forget all his problems and feel like maybe, maybe he could have a life. Maybe he was not to become the murderer he was meant to be.
Maybe there was something other than the name Malfoy.
And damn it all, the guilt inside him only grew worse.
He was feeling guilty again, and she didn't know a thing about it.
--
It was on the eve of the New Year, of all times, that a grave mistake was made.
She had been talking to Ron, the Weasel, the bloody little git, looking so lovely in her cream colored dress when he had leaned in.
There, in a room full of people Ron Weasley had kissed Hermione Granger.
It was expected, to everyone. Of course they would end up as a couple, of course; Ron had always liked her and Hermione…
Well, Hermione Granger had not kissed Ron Weasley back.
Some speculate that she would have had the chance if had not Draco Malfoy stormed up to them and, without a word, punched Ron Weasley right in the face.
But the ending of all chances came at Draco Malfoy's quietly hissed words, for all throughout the Great Hall to hear with stinging clarity in the silence.
"She is mine."
The beginning of the end.
Stupid Draco Malfoy, letting jealousy destroy him.
Stupid Hermione Granger, leaning into Draco with a small smile.
The secret was out, the darkness was stirring.
In Ron Weasley, laying on the floor with blood gushing from his nose in shock.
In Harry Potter, standing there with a shattered glass of Pumpkin juice in his now bleeding hand.
In Lucius Malfoy, who would hear of the news the next morning by word of post, and slash Draco's name from the family tree hanging in his room.
The beginning of the end.
--
That night they had never let one another go. That night, they had not left their own world.
They'd lain there, entwined in his large bed surrounded by shades of green and silver, when she'd turned to look up at him, her great eyes sad. He had only held her closer.
"Draco?" she had whispered against his chest. He would never forget the feel of her warm breath on his skin, so alive, so there. He had answered without words, simply because he could not find them. He had answered her only with a kiss to her warm cheek.
"Well everything…be okay?"
He had stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours then, when it was really only a minute, thinking. He had thought and thought and thought, felt and felt and felt. Would things be okay? He'd wanted to be the type of man that told her that it would be. He'd wanted to shield her from all abuse, all pain and agony, even from himself if need be.
But Draco Malfoy would only ever be a liar if he had done such things.
And so he had honored her not with colorful lies to make her heart feel lighter, but with the truth so that she could be ready for the inevitable.
"No Hermione. Things really won't be okay."
They had stayed awake the entire night watching the shadows dance across the ceiling in silence. In one another's arms.
--
It had all been expected. The owl had come with breakfast, black wings swooping down to place a letter with a blood red seal in his lap. He had dropped his fork with a clatter and just stared at it for awhile.
He'd been aware of all the eyes watching him as he'd stood, holding the condemning letter limply in his hand as he'd made his way out of the Great Hall. He had not looked back.
It had been in the confines of his room that he had broken the seal and read the elegant writing that made his stomach churn. His father.
Dear Draco,
It had started, like all letters. Like there had been no fucking problem at all.
I have been informed through various colleagues of yours that you are involved with a Mudblood by the name of Hermione Granger. It is a disgrace all in itself that you are with a Mudblood—have I taught you nothing?—but it had to be one of Harry Potter's closest friends as well. You know what this means, for the entire Malfoy family. You are a disgrace, unless you break off this ridiculous affair and offer your humblest apologies to myself and the Dark Lord, who also shames you.
Draco, I trust you will make the right choice.
After you are done with her meet me at the Malfoy Manor—there is much to discuss, and you need to be punished.
Sincerely,
Lucius
And there it had been—the verdict he had been waiting for. He'd known that it would come down to this—Hermione or his family's name. Could he forsake everything in the name of one girl, and a Mudblood Gryffindor at that? It seemed so foolish, but then again he was foolish—he had started all of it in the first place, when he could have just left her alone, left her to rot. He'd never been forced to meet her in the dead of night and yet he had, every time. And he could not stop now.
He'd cursed himself more than he cursed her. He still did. He'd known what his future was, and yet he had ignored the consequences. Stupid, stupid fool. He had wanted to tear the room apart after reading the letter, had wanted to forcefully pull the Dark Mark off his arm.
The only thing that had prevented him from doing just that was her interference. She had seen him leave the Great Hall, and she had followed him. She'd found him slumped against the wall with the letter held to his chest, immobile, almost lifeless, and she had knelt next to him. She had knelt next to him and taken his hand, squeezing it. He had not squeezed back.
His face had been perfectly, eerily blank when he had looked at her, this girl that he could lose everything for, this girl who haunted him as much as she tempted him. This girl that somewhere along the line, as he had feared, he had fallen in love with.
He had looked at her, and he had tried to understand. He had tried to conjure up words that did not exist, but all he could feel had been the pressure of her small hand in his, holding tighter and tighter until he'd thought that they would become inseparable, their hands, until he could barely tell where his hand started and hers ended.
She had been the first to speak, quietly in a whisper into the space between them. "It was from Lucius, wasn't it? He…doesn't want us to be together."
Just like that she had said it. Without flinching, without crying. He had stared at her and realized for perhaps the first time how strong she was. Sometimes, she was stronger than he was, his Gryffindor. For perhaps the first time he had found himself turning not to himself but to her, the genius, the brave one, for the answer that he'd known all along.
"Hermione, what should I do? Lucius and…you…"
Her grip on his hand had stopped being painful by then; his hand had gone pleasantly numb. He had not been able to look at her; he had known what the answer would be, and to look into her eyes…
It only had taken her a second to say it. "Draco, this has to end."
He had not needed to ask her what she meant. He had heard his own heart breaking into the silence that followed, into the feeling of her hand sliding out of his like water.
No, his heart had rebelled, no; it can't end, not like this. But what could he have said? The letter had been heavy in his hand, on his soul. His father's threat had been so real, and it had echoed in her retreating footsteps, in the sobs she had tried to muffle as she left the room, left him for good.
He had become as numb as his hand.
By the time he'd arrived at Malfoy Manor, he hadn't been able to feel anything at all.
--
He had found him right where he'd known he'd be, leaning up against the mantle as he stared down into the dancing flames. He had simply stood behind him for a long moment, at the edge of the room where he'd been hidden by shadows.
He hadn't thought that his father was even aware of his presence until he'd spoken, his voice thunderous in the otherwise silent room.
"So you came with your choice?"
He had wanted to laugh then. The flames danced brightly in the fireplace. "What choice?" he had spat, "You clearly gave me no option."
He'd watched his back go tense. He'd watched the knuckles on the mantel tighten.
"So you really thought of staying with that Mudblood? Despite all the risks?"
He remembered the flash of utter anger that had gone through him then, as his eyes had narrowed on the dark form in front of the flickering fire. He had looked then just as the person he'd been named after. Lucius—the Devil. All flames and pain. Draco had only known that he could not bear it anymore.
He had screamed then, he had screamed his heart out. Nonsensical things, things that he had not even heard himself saying. Things that had not made sense even to him, things like I'd die for her, and she means more to me than any Dark Lord.
He had only stopped under the pressure of a fist cracking into his jaw. He had only remembered where he was when he'd looked up from his place sprawled on the floor and met the dark, churning eyes of his father. The Devil, his mind had not stopped echoing. The Devil.
"Draco," the bastard had begun again, and he had seen him trying to fight for composure. His slim hand had reached down to touch the place where he had struck him. Draco had flinched away.
"Draco, it's not too late to take it back. It's not too late to forget about her. All it takes…all it takes is a single spell."
He had known instantly what his father had meant. A simple spell, the tip of a wand pressed to his forehead. A muttered word, a flash of white, and those brown eyes would be gone, that soft laughter, the feel of soft skin, the whisper of his name in his ear.
"Draco," she had always called him. "Draco". Not Malfoy. Draco. To forget her would have meant forgetting himself too. Could he let go of someone he was just beginning to get to know?
It had always been about his father, the Dark Lord, his father. What about Draco? Had anyone ever asked about Draco?
She had held him, she had kissed him; she had looked into his eyes and seen not the killer that he was to become, but the boy that he was. A boy who needed love, a boy that needed to smile, needed someone, anyone to hang on to.
She was smart; she'd known all along the consequences, but she had not cared. She had held him close to her, whispered into his ear all the he had ever wanted to hear, with no regards to herself.
Mudblood? Yes, she was.
Angel? Yes, she was.
The pure Malfoy blood had fallen in droplets from his nose to the floor when he had looked up at him, into the grey eyes that were so like his own. And he had screamed. The wand tip had just touched his temple when it had gone flying through the air, into the hearth where it burned to ash, burned to nothing.
And then he had lunged at him, all fury, all pain, all Draco and nothing else mattered as he'd stared into those cold grey eyes, so like his own, and pressed the slim weapon to his hollow chest.
Two words, was all he had murmured into the still, silent air.
"Avada Kedavra."
--
He had returned to her that night. He had not told her what he had done until they came to get him. Lucius Malfoy's body had been discovered in front of the fireplace, the remains of his wand buried in the cold ashes. The last person who had been reported seeing Lucius alive had been Draco Malfoy, his only son. Draco had not denied this.
He had gone to trial, and he had listened to them ramble on about all Lucius had done, all the evils and the deceptive goods. He had been a Death Eater, so his death had not meant much to the Ministry; what had mattered was the mark that the dead bastard had imprinted on Draco's right arm, a snake and a skull that condemned him.
The Ministry had not listened to his explanations; they had refused to believe him when the one time perhaps he had ever told the complete truth.
I'm not like my father was; I don't want to be a Death Eater. I don't. I have a reason—
There had never been a reason for a Malfoy.
He had been sentenced to a prolonged, undetermined amount of time in Azkaban, where he would be monitored.
But none of that had ever mattered to him. He would let them watch him, let them take everything away from him. After all, without Hermione, Draco was sure that there would be absolutely nothing left for them to even take anymore.
The verdict had been final. The goodbye had been said.
I don't care, she had kept saying.
Like there would never be any dangers for her, now that in their goodbye their relationship had been made public. No danger for her, the lover of a man who had betrayed the dark lord. No danger for her, the love of the man who had killed the influential Lucius Malfoy.
I don't care, she had kept saying.
Had he imagined that all?
In his cell, in the bowels of hell, every night led him back down this same path. Was she in danger? He could see in his minds eye her lifeless body, laying there beside his father's. The wand that had killed her still glowing green in his hand. He was no better than his father…
And yet…
What had she said?
I don't care…
But why? How could she have said that, said all of that, for him?
A detail, as solid as the bars he was trapped behind.
I could say that because simply, Draco Malfoy, I'm in love with you.
In his darkest hours, when the lifeless eyes of his father had stared up at him—
I'm in love with you.
In the daylight hours when he was questioned, over and over, over and over and over—
I'm in love with you.
In the days that passed, in the nights, the time, that slipped through his fingers like sand—
I'm in love with you.
He left Azkaban with nothing to his name but his own verdict.
I love you, too.
--
There is a small flat above the local drugstore in the middle of Muggle London.
Within this small flat, lives the woman he has waited over nearly a year for.
He can not understand why she had chosen to live here, as he studied the warped front door. But then, he does not know much of anything anymore. He is a starved man, and all he wants now is his food, the sweet oasis that lived beyond this beaten door.
His hand trembles as he raises it, knocks once on the door. Once is enough.
His mind spins, the world tips unevenly. How could he do this? It had been over a year—had she waited for him? He knew that if she had not, then his life would be worse than what it had been in Azkaban. At least there he had at least had hope.
There are footsteps beyond the door. His heart seems to jump and stop in his chest. He knows those light footsteps, from his memories. From those sunlit times before the shadow. He still knows everything about her, but they are just memories; he knows nothing anymore.
Nearly a year, his treacherous, tormented mind whispers in his ear as he sees the doorknob start to twist. One more moment, one more heartbeat. One more memory, one more year.
The door opens, and light pours out of amber eyes. He sees nothing else. He knows nothing else. Obliterated by her gaze, he only stands there, staring, and watches water start to flood those perfect eyes, rain start to taint the sunlight they emit.
From somewhere, he hears his voice, cracked, saying the name that he has repeated in his mind, his heart, everyday until this moment.
"Hermione…"
And just like that the year flies back. There are no cells, questions, sneers, cold grey eyes turning lifeless. Her warm body slams into his, and her tears are hot and alive on his neck.
"Oh god," she is sobbing into him, and it is filling him up. "Oh god."
Yes, god. She is in his arms. She is here, she is real. Yes god. His own tears, held in for far too long, creep down his cheeks in streaks unbidden, and yet he does nothing to stop them. He just holds her closer.
"I waited for you," she whispers, as the sobs start to diminish. Her grip on him is unbreakable. "I waited for you, Draco."
He wants to laugh in joy at that name, that name that only she could have. Not Malfoy, but Draco. It is the sign that lets him know that it really is over.
"I waited for you too," he whispers back, softly, resting his head on hers. "Do you want to know why?"
She pulls back long enough to look up into his eyes, grey pools of life. Her lips curve into a wet, trembling grin. "Why?"
Her lips are everything he has forgotten, everything he has needed as he brushes him over them, relishing, relishing. Against them, his whisper slides along like silk.
"Because simply, Hermione Granger, I'm in love with you."
Her joyous laughs echo in every thud of his heart as she takes him by the hand and leads him inside, the warped door slamming behind them.
The beginning is the end is the beginning.
Credit to the fabulous Smashing Pumpkins for the last line to this story—it is the name of one of their songs. I recommend that song too, it's really good! It was the background song for the movie Watchmen during the previews.