A/N: Hi guys! Hope you enjoy this story! It's AU. Ignore the sixth and seventh books completely. Set six years after they graduate from Hogwarts.
NOT A GHOST STORY
Disclaimer: I own nothing. JK does. I wish I did though.
CHAPTER ONE - PRESENT
His fingers slid through the piano keys smoothly, familiar and nimble as he softly played Debussy's Clair de lune. It was one of the most famous muggle peices that he knew. It was also his favorite piece- the melody that struck him the most. It was the melody that made him feel everything and nothing all at once. It was the melody that reminded him of her.
His playing grew rough as the memories of her smile flashed through her mind. Somewhere in his humungous empty flat, he heard her delicate whispers. It was barely audible, but not loud enough to be understood. He smelled her scent, a mixture of parchment and vanilla and something else. She smelled like that no matter the weather, even if she was standing in the pouring rain or sweating heavily from running. The smell comforted and agitated him at the same time. A mixture of orange and apple flavors erupted on his tongue- her taste. He felt warm hands press down on his shoulders, making him tense and relax at the same time.
She had always made him feel contradictory feelings at the same time. She was a paradox.
But she was a paradox that he could no longer reach.
He finished the piece, breathing heavily from playing so harsh. He reached out towards the bottle of scotch placed on the table, but he found it empty. He started to panic, knowing that without the alcohol. His mind would never sustain the apparition that he had conjured. Without the alcohol, he wouldn't be able trick himself into believing that she was still there. Without the alcohol, she would fade. Then he would remember.
He threw the bottle at the far side of the room, making a dozen pictures placed on the mantle fall and crash to the floor. He glanced at them, not caring, but a flash of her smiling face amongst the debris was enough to make him rush towards the wreckage in an instant. He didn't care about the glass shards puncturing his knees as he bent over to brush off the dirt from the picture. He sat down, on the broken glass and splintered frames, staring at the photograph.
He didn't remember putting it up. He didn't remember putting up anything in this house, really. When he moved back here in London six months ago, he didn't bother setting up anything. He hadn't even bothered to unpack, but when Blaise and Pansy heard about the move, they had marched to the door and plastered every surface with stupid decorations.
It was a photo of them, but she was the focus of the scene. It looked like a shot taken on the start of school feast during their seventh year. He was looking at her, frowning slightly and eyebrows drawn in vapid concentration. Even then, before everything had happened, she had intrigued him. The picture was proof of how much she had baffled him. She on the other hand, was smiling happily. Smiling that damned smile that made him want to smile fondly to or curl up and cry.
The pain of her loss hit him strongly as the effects of the alcohol started to wear out. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." He whispered gruffly, his voice cracking and his eyes releasing a torrent of tears.
He wiped away the droplets of salty tears from her face, gripping the picture tightly as he curled up while his body was rocked with sobs. He struggled to breathe, crumpling the photograph from the strength of his grasp.
"I hate it when you cry." Her voice said from somewhere above him. Frail fingers ruffled his already messy hair. "Stop that. I hate seeing you like this."
"You're the reason why I'm like this."
"You were always so dramatic." Her voice whispered softly, the hint of sarcasm that he had loved was evident in her tone. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"
"You know that I can't help it." He sobbed.
He felt hands stroke his arms and tucking his hair behind his ear. "Oh, you git," Her voice said sadly, but there was a hint of fondness there. "Look up, love."
"No."
"Please." Her voice begged, and he felt warm hands gently tug his hair.
"Stop that." He snapped, gripping his knees tighter. "I said no."
The tugging stopped, instead he felt the hands slide down from his hair towards his arms, rubbing them softly, and resting them on top of his hands.
"Love, look at me." Frustration edged her tone, the same edge that she got when she was having trouble with her homework. A surge of sadness went through him.
"I won't."
"Why, love?" She asked softly, sadness lacing every syllable. "Why won't you look at me?"
"Because," he whispered ruefully, "You'll disappear if I do. You always do."
"This time, I won't. I promise."
"You've never kept your promises."
"I do." She protested, her hands now over his. "I keep my promises."
"No. No you don't." He sobbed softly. "You left. Even though you promised not to. That was the most important promise that you broke. You left. You left me here to rot."
He felt her hesitation, almost as if it was real. Her thumbs run circles on the back of his hand, just as she always did before. Her breath caressed his cheeks as she leaned in closer. He felt soft lips touch his ears as she whispered, "I'm sorry."
"No, you're not."
"I am." She insisted. "Look up, love. Look at me."
His resistance was fading, his grip was relaxing. He knew that he was about to relinquish. He never could resist her. His body was aching for a look. A glance. A moment of seeing her outside his dreams. He was caving. And he knew that she did too.
"Draco, please."
Her voice cracking and saying his name was enough to make him stop trembling. He let out a slow breath, after which, he made sure that he could still feel her there. To somehow check if she hadn't left. To see if she was still there. She was.
He looked up.
She wasn't there.
The alcohol's buzz faded for good and the realization of her absence hit him with as much intensity as the first time. He hated this moment, when he realized that none of it was real. But it was worth a few seconds of talking to her, a few moments of feeling her touch, a few stolen lungfuls of her peculiar scent.
And with feeling her absence came the even more crippling realization of why she was gone.
He would remember.
He would remember that she was dead.
It was exactly 5 years and 364 days since she died. Almost six years of misery. Six years of trying to function instead of trying to live.
Six damned years.
He sat up groggily, picking out the glass shards from his injured knees and limping towards the bathroom. He glanced at the clock; 6:57. He might as well forgo sleep and head early to work. Sleep would just bring dreams and dreams would mean seeing her and seeing her would mean going all through that pain of separation again.
It was still dark in his humungous flat. He never drew the curtains apart, knowing that seeing the place in full brightness would just reminded him of the life that they could have had. It was decorated with dozens of pictures- Pansy and Blaise's doing. Those two idiots never did know the boundaries of friendship. But he was grateful for their presence. They were the only ones who knew how much he grieved - and still grieves- over her death.
After her death, he had been a shell of a person, but they never did give up on him. Comforting him, shouting at him, hell, even bribing him to at least stop moping. His depression somewhat lifted, though only because Blaise reminded him that she wouldn't want him to act like a zombie, but he never really stopped moping. Even now, they were still trying to get him to stop. They were idiots, but he appreciated their efforts.
He folded the photo and placed it on top of a shelf as he grabbed a towel and ducked in the bathroom. Warm water coursed through him, waking him up and clearing his thoughts. He lathered himself, scrubbing over the wounds and letting his thoughts wander. Nights like these were common. But he preferred it to the nights that he dreamed. At least, these drunken hallucinations were hazy, less corporeal. In his dreams, she was as real as real could be. He dreamt of lifetimes with her. And it always, always ended with him waking up. But every night was the same, even if he dreamed or if he'd stay up all night drinking. When the night ends, she would be gone. And the pain would resurface, getting stronger and sharper with each passing day.
Sometimes, he wished that it would stop. But he never could resist the temptation of feeling her, hearing her, smelling her, seeing her again. He would try to stop dreaming, to avoid drinking, but in the end he would rather feel the sting of pain and the stab of guilt again and again and again, if it meant that he could spend moments with her.
Six years after her death, he was still so whipped. He was still trying to catch her. He still refused to give up.
He was an idiot.
But he hardly cared. After all, all of it could somehow relate to her. And for him, he would rather act like a savant than forget about her. Even if it meant living in a world where she wasn't by his side. In a world where every little thing would remind him of the sting of the past.
He stepped out of the shower, feeling significantly more alert than he had been fifteen minutes ago. He took the picture, placing it on his bedside table, by his briefcase as he pulled on a set of suit-robes and knotted his tie. It was Gryffindor red. He snorted at this, frowning sadly. Another reminder of her. It was amazing how much every little thing and gesture made him think of her, made him remember her.
He shook his head, trying to clear his already wandering thoughts. He picked up the photograph, intending to put it inside the briefcase, to tuck it in between the dozens of files.
He sighed, tracing the contours of her face softly. "Granger, stop driving me crazy. It's been six years, and I'm still pining for you. Damn it, woman." Photograph-Hermione laughed and smiled brighter. He shook his head, folding the photo and tucking it in his breast pocket instead. He let out a quiet breath, reminding himself of why he even bothered to get up in the mornings.
'It's all for her. You can do this. This is what she would want.' He told himself, rolling his shoulders back and tightening his grip on the briefcase.
It was a new day. He was expected at work. She would expect him to go to work. She would expect him to live a normal life. And of course he would try to live like that, after all, it was what she wanted.
He always strove to do what she wants. Always.
A/N: There you have it, guys! Hope it intrigued you! :) I'll post the next chapter as soon as I can :D
THIS IS NOT A GHOST STORY :)