Still: A Draco/Hermione One-Shot
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Love stories like this liked to begin in the final year of school. It seemed like the right time for friends to become lovers after all. Suddenly everything he'd been working for seven years became towards a single goal: to get that girl. And what an easy goal it could have been, for he was no slouch. If he wanted someone, he would get that someone. The only thing that could be slightly problematic was that friend was no friend, not even a fellow Slytherin, or other peer he grudgingly recognized in order to climb the social power ladder. She was his enemy's best friend, which made her his enemy, which made it all the more agonizing.
That was then.
She fell for him a month later. And suddenly she could never see him without a smile. Lying in bed, he found himself replaying their heated debates over Transfiguration theory and arguments over whom out of the two could kiss better. Before dinner he would whisper into her ear to sit facing him so he could gaze at her from across the Great Hall, and then she would giggle and nod her head. Soon it became their common practice because he wouldn't take his eyes from her. When she caught his eye across the sea of heads, she would instinctively blush from that wicked look on his face, and then some nosy Gryffindor would ask whether the soup was too hot. He would run his fingers through her hair while her sweet head lay next to his on the far bank of the lake, draped in ivy. It was their spot, the one hidden from every window of Hogwarts. He would take a single ringlet of hers, stretch it out and watch it bounce to its original shape over and over until she would grin ask when she could play with his hair. It was the primary reason they were together after all, she laughed. On the lazy days he would pluck a dandelion flower and tuck it behind her ear as she looked up at him expectantly. He would tuck his arm around her waist and think to himself how perfect the night was.
She was his.
Soon he realized that she couldn't stop thinking about him, and how could he not love her for that? She would pass him notes in class telling him she couldn't wait for class to be over so she could kiss him again. This was Hermione, his Hermione wishing class to be over. Sometimes she wouldn't be the first with her hand in the air anymore, and he knew thoughts of him invaded her mind once again. Late night in the deserted library, he would watch as she wrote her Potions essay in a long, girly scrawl, pausing just in time to dip the quill he gave her as a Halloween gift into the empty ink bottle, screw her brows together in concentration, and continue her confident script. She never made a mistake, while he prodded his wrinkled parchment every five minutes (or less) with an Erasing charm. But his final product was hardly less brilliant than hers. He wouldn't accept anything less from himself. Even today with his head bent down writing, he can sometimes still feel the light impression of her fingers that picked off a piece of lint or a stray hair off his robe, waiting for him to finish. Before they parted for the night he would back her hard against the dusty tomes and kiss her long and hard, reminding them both of the better things in life.
He loved her.
They kept the relationship secret until she couldn't take lying to Potter and Weasley anymore about their late night rendezvous. He told her they wouldn't accept him, but she looked at him with such fervor in her eyes telling him again that they would let her be happy with him. He wasn't as trusting as she was. But who would have known, they did accept him because as anyone could see, he made her happy. Secretly, she had started cheering for Slytherin in their Quidditch matches even against her best friends. He treasured being able to dig out her inner rationale, discovering her loyalty extended more to himself than her House. They often spent weekend afternoons together on the grounds. He would wake up from dozing off under the glow of the sun to feel her tracing his face with her fingertips, and upon entering his room at night discover she had organized his entire book bag by subject.
Satisfying her was too easy, for she needed nothing from him, even when he needed everything from her. She would kiss his cheek in greeting, let her hand linger in the small of his back before running off to class, late from his prolonging their snogging session in the boy's bathroom on the fifth floor. And she wouldn't complain later because she knew he hated it when she went off on the importance of their studies. She wouldn't complain when he told her to quit acting so prim and proper because she wanted it has much as he did. She pleased him for he was the person she felt the overwhelming inclination to take care of when he went astray, someone to talk to about reoccurring friendship troubles, and the one at night to remain in her mind as her final thoughts of him transformed into dreams.
Even before graduation he finalized his plans for their future together. With a small portion of his family inheritance, he bought an extravagant flat in the prominent side of wizard London, complete with a furnished two story library and a balcony overlooking the city. When she first arrived, only two suitcases in tow, she jumped into his arms for a quick hug but before he could get anything else out of her, was dragged into giving her a complete tour of the centuries old gothic building. That night she gave herself entirely to him, in their new home, for their new life.
They hung on to each other, passion overwhelmed. One time she wore the form fitting blue dress he surprised her with on her birthday to an anniversary party celebrating Voldemort's defeat. He just couldn't control himself anymore, watching her move her way sliding between mingling groups, that silky material wrapped around her curves…he took her to a deserted corridor and pinned her against the wall, her hot breath on him whispering in his ear her pleasure. And they'd continue their routine as always, fighting daily over the most trivial things, but always managing to make up minutes later. In the mornings she'd whip up breakfast with her wand for him, make sure he remembered all his meetings that day, and looked after all their finances. It was so easy to care for him, even if neglecting herself.
He loved her. She was his.
So why did it surprise him when one day he returned home found no trace of Hermione left? The potpourri she replaced everyday on the mantle ("Don't you want to come home to something sweet?") was gone, her favorite Arithmancy book by the loveseat ("Just because I'm not in school anymore doesn't mean I shouldn't stop learning!") gone, her toothbrush… The battered twin suitcases she inherited from her parents must have been packed full of her clothes on some train compartment traveling farther and farther away, for nothing remained in the large closet they shared except his own dismal robes, which he promptly ripped in pieces. His favorite photograph of them on their third year anniversary, taken in Verona…her face tilted up at him, unwavering, and what's this? His photographic self stared in the far unknown, no, into her affecting eyes that never conveyed as much sadness as they did right then.
He remembered. Her mind going to waste in the confining house that he bought for the purpose of disappearing, the Order meetings that tore her open at every news of more deaths and violence, it wasn't all triumph and glory even if that's all that people liked to remember. There were no distinct fortunate times, the onslaught he received for taking Hermione with him, disowned by his parents, cast as a traitor, and worst, the memory of how he took her against the wall, her hot breath whispering upon his ear to stop…
He was a closeted soul, perhaps starting when he was finally flown aside for turning against his family, or maybe he had subconsciously begun to resent Hermione for everything she had and everything he lacked. She wouldn't tell him things anymore because having her cry over another Ernie Macmillian found dead in a ditch, or hearing about another Neville Longbottom readily sacrificing everything in the sake of war, would only remind him how she cared too much about 'not him' and how he unwillingly lost his name for caring too much about her.
He had already started to drive away the blessing he unknowingly held for years in their one best year, their first year. Once, he was late meeting up with her after Herbology and found her on the grave end of Ginny Weasley's wand. A fiery shouting match was in progress over one girl's disastrous selection of men, and another's fervent defense of his righteousness. How it would have played out, he didn't know, for in the next second Potter rushed between them, looking at Hermione with a hint of scorn before leading Ginny off and leaving her alone and deserted in the wide open, her own aid nowhere to be found. Nowadays he would never forget that manifestation of her devotion, despite effortlessly overlooking it every time between then and now. But he didn't comfort her or remind her of why she loved him. Instead she touched him every time she could as if reminding herself he was still there.
In the late night hours she would ask him to stay with her while she studied for the rapidly approaching N.E.W.T.s, but he would say he didn't feel like spending time with her if all they were going to do was study. Then she would huff and tell him not to bother speaking to her for a couple days and he would gladly acquiesce. Remembering their fight, he would now best recall her fiery beauty magnified by the soft glow of the twin candlelight, one set for him, one set for her. He couldn't remember the irritated scratch of her quill or her lips turned in disgust. He couldn't remember how she sat with her back to him between her blasted friends, the hints of her pleasure from the occasional glances at her profile. He liked to remember her happy.
She discarded her pride came back to him a week later only to run into his outer stoicism. He was still the same, the same that he will be for the rest of his life. He didn't tell her he never felt this right since before she left. He had his own pride, reveling in the fact that she needed him. He was hers, whether her friend or her lover or her cause, he was hers. Either one, she wouldn't just give up so easily on it. She just didn't know she would have to keep fighting for so long.
This is now.
History liked to repeat itself because he liked to forget. When she finally left him, he was confused and angry because she never needed anything from him. Five months later, he learned of her engagement from a front page article in the People section of the Daily Prophet. She was still as precious to the public as she was to him. Whoever she's married has since become a faceless name to him, as most other people who passed through his life. But he will not forget her anymore.
She was his.
Once
The house was dead to him, but there he remained. It possessed a stillness he wouldn't have comprehended had she'd been there for him. The worst part of being together was knowing it would end. For loving is so short and forgetting so long. But despite their troubles, he loved her. She was his only source of comfort and support. Now that she's gone he knew he loved her.
He loves her.
Still