fall into me
this tiresome love...i don't want it.
x
x
x
Draco sneers as he watches her cry over the bodies. Her hands touch their cold faces—no no no Harry, Ron, my boys they aren't dead they can't be please—in desperation, trying to find a pulse, trying to undo the definitive end that a shocking green light causes.
For wizards, green is death. Hermione supposes that's why Tom Riddle was in Slytherin—why Bellatrix was in Slytherin—why Draco was (is?) in Slytherin.
"You!" she says, suddenly on her feet with her wand out. "You did this—this—this is all your fault!" he finds satisfaction in the way she stumbles over her words. "I HATE YOU!" Hermione screams in his face, and then, a low hiss—"I hate you."
"Okay," Draco replies, a frown on his pretty—handsome. Not pretty—face. He doesn't hate her.
And then she's yelling, sending curses and hexes and charms his way and he's dodging them because he's not going to fight her.
He's never going to fight her.
Next time Hermione sees him, she's in a cell, surrounded by death eaters.
(the last of the Golden Trio, they say, Hermione Granger, the mudblood, the brightest witch of her age and
—oh look, she's the Dark Lord's prisoner.)
When his face appears in the crowd of jeering spectators, she straightens up and sneers at him. Draco is shocked that such an ugly expression could find a place on such a pretty face.
Bellatrix is up front, spitting awful words in her face. He flinches at each one, though she doesn't. Maybe she is a lot stronger than him.
The skin on his forearm burns.
"Filthy mudblood," Draco hears himself say, and isn't sure if it's just his mind providing memories. Either way, he thinks he sees a tear trail down Hermione's cheek.
He leaves the room and pukes, once he gets outside.
Hermione tries not to think nowadays. When she does it only reminds her of Ron and Harry and Hogwarts. And sometimes—sometimes Malfoy, though she would never admit it to anyone.
Her hands clench, and she screams. Hermione cries, for once, and clutches at her clothes. She misses the fire of the Gryffindor common room, the smiles that broke across Ron's face, the smell of the dark, dusty library.
The only smell in the cell beneath Malfoy Manor is urine, and sweat.
When she sleeps, she sees gray eyes and blonde hair and pale skin, green ties and mocking smirks. Hermione remembers, constantly, the black ink on Draco's arm, the look on his face when she knelt over Harry's dead body. She thinks that perhaps, he doesn't hate her.
She thinks that perhaps, she doesn't hate him.
It's a scary thought.
Draco visits her cell, occasionally, but only when she is sleeping. He watches her, silently, while her breath comes out in short bursts. Sometimes he thinks she says his name but Hermione would never whimper 'Draco' in her sleep.
Once, she wakes up and swears there is a tall silhouette in the door way, staring at her but when she blinks, it is gone.
Hermione believes that she's going insane. It's just an illusion of my failing mind, she convinces herself.
Deep inside her, she knows it isn't.
The window is dirty. Hermione can't see the moon anymore. She can't see anything outside of her tiny cell anymore, and it scares her. She is used to knowing things. Her hands grasp the metal bars and suddenly she feels someone's fingers brush her face, brush her palms. They are gentle, soft and not Ron's. But she was not expecting him, anyway.
When she looks up, she sees Draco, and inhales sharply. "Come on," he says, and the door swings open. "Come on," he repeats when she doesn't move.
"What are you—what are you doing?" Hermione gasps, eyes looking for any trace of betrayal on his face. "Why are you doing this?"
His head jerks, turning away from her and glaring at the wall. "Because," he replies, and pulls her off the floor.
She smiles bitterly, and follows him.
is this love? this can't be love. it is not love. i do not love him.