Disclaimer: I own nothing; I make no profit. All hail Queen JKR.
This song is heavily inspired by "The Crow and the Butterfly" by Shinedown. I have thought about turning this into a multi-chaptered (and possibly happier ending?) fic, but I want to see if there is any interest first. Please consider reviewing. Thanks!
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Hermione Granger was, after almost 8 months into the relationship, still an enigma to him. Despite losing everything after the war (his father, his money, most importantly—his pride), Draco still believed, somehow, that things would get worse. That was his pessimistic, gloom and doom nature. It annoyed Hermione to no end.
It really didn't surprise him then, when she finally realized he wasn't good enough for her; never had been, never would be.
She was beautiful. Like a precious butterfly, the urge to touch was strong, yet if you were too rough the flying beauty would be irrevocably damaged.
Draco, he thought bitterly, was more like a crow. Large and overwhelming and stoic. Sinister, and feared. Yes, that was Draco Malfoy.
He was the crow, chasing a butterfly.
Despite that, the inevitability of her leaving still hurt. It had taken him awhile (until just before the final battle to be exact) to realize the pure ridiculousness of blood purity. He, finally, in one moment, realized that he had been brainwashed. Hoodwinked. Swindled. To say he was pissed, now that was an understatement.
He had heard his father, his high-and-mighty father, discussing with his mother the possibility of switching sides.
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Draco immediately burst in the room. The memory still left a small pang of betrayal, even though he was now glad for it.
"What do you mean about switching sides father? What the bloody hell are you prattling on about?"
"Draco," Lucius began, and his voice was almost as soft as Draco had ever heard it, "It seems The Dark Lord's reign is in decline. Potter and the Order are gaining ground every day. The inevitability of the matter is, my boy, that our side may come out on bottom. It is because of this that"—
At that point, Draco cut him off.
"You disgust me, father." Draco spat. He now, with the privilege of hindsight, realized what a mistake that had been. In his youth and naiveté, however, it felt amazing. The blood pumping through his veins at finally, finally standing up to his father made Draco feel higher than any potion ever could.
"Just because bloody Potter and the rest have captured Dolohov, and raided the Parkinson's Manor, doesn't mean…"
At that point, Narcissa cut in. "Draco, dear, they have Bella too." His mother started to weep. Lucius, his fleeting moment of calmness to his son long gone, wrapped his arms around his crying mother.
Draco, despite everything, hated seeing his mother's tears.
"Draco, I am the head of this house. My word, my wisdom—they are law. I know what I am doing. You must trust me that everything I do, I do for the Malfoy line. It wouldn't do well to die out serving a falling Lord. This does not mean we abandon our ideals. It means we realize the futility in upholding them at the present, and we adapt. We adapt Draco, in order to survive, and to carry on the Malfoy name.
Leave us now; you are upsetting your mother."
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Draco remembered, through the fog of time past, being utterly dumbfounded. He had run up to his room, yes, quite like a petulant child, and slammed his fist into the first thing he saw. He absent mindedly stroked the still visible scar on his knuckle, from punching the door to his wardrobe repeatedly. He then got piss drunk, and woke up the next morning even more angry. It had taken him several broken pieces of furniture, large quantities of fire whiskey, precisely three talks, no, arguments, with his father, and some serious self reflection before he finally rejected the blood purity bullshit all together.
His father had been right. The Malfoys switched to "the light" just in time. The war ended a mere 6 months later. Thanks to his father's work with Snape, and his mothers harboring of families at risk of Death Eater attacks at the manor, the family was exonerated of any time in Azkaban. Admittedly, they had to pay a large, crippling actually, sum of money to the ministry. Sure, the Malfoy's may have been helpful, even influential, to winning the war, but the public at large had to make sure they were financially destitute for all their past sins. That was okay with Draco; he realized the need to restore the family name honorably.
The part that still haunted Draco was his father's death.
His father's death, however, was also what brought Hermione to him. She, for reasons still unknown to him, attended the funeral of Lucius Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy: the man who had allowed Hermione to be tortured in his home by his sadistic sister in law; the man who had, until 6 months prior, made his soul mission in life to eradicate her kind on no other basis than the circumstances of her birth.
The man who had been killed by a falling Death Eater. It pained Draco to know that traitor was the last word his father ever heard.
Draco could honestly say that's when his feelings for her started.
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She didn't offer condolences. She actually didn't say anything. When everyone had cleared out, and his father had been placed in his tomb, he stayed behind to mourn in silence for the man. The man Draco had always wanted to be, and finally, finally was glad he wasn't. He didn't hate his father, and yes, after everything, he still respected him. He finally respected him for the right reasons however. Just when he felt more alone than ever, she was there. She didn't say a word. She just placed her small hand on his arm, and offered a tentative smile. Not a smile of joy, just a reassuring gesture. He wasn't sure what it was that made him do it, but he quietly said the words he never thought he would say to the princess of Gryffindor, "Thank you."
After both offering curt nods to one another, they parted.
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He saw her again about a month later.
She had been working for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She was assigned to the sector responsible for collecting fees of those fined (both sentenced and not sentenced to Azkaban) after the war. She came round the Malfoys to set up the reparation schedule; she stayed for tea, at the insistence of his mother.
Over the next few weeks, well after the Malfoy's ministry account had been settled, they fell into a relaxed friendship. He came to rely on her, and, Merlin help him, he thought she had relied on him too. She, too, had lost a great deal from the war. Both of her parents were dead. Weasley, the stupid third of the golden trio, as Draco often thought of him, was dead.
So many lives lost; so much grief to pass around.
Through that grief, they held onto each other. The light banter was a welcome return to normalcy. He remembered their light flirting with fondness. Sometime after the friendship but before the love, he remembered her saying:
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Draco Malfoy, you are the most infuriating man I've ever met.
Draco had been insulting Potter to no end. He usually did, but this time, he was relentless.
Surely, Granger, you can't be serious. How can you say that the boy-wonder had even a modicum of brain-power? We all know he wouldn't have been able to accomplish a thing without you.
Draco chuckled softly at the memory.
At the time, he thought he had made a mortal mistake. He had, gasp, complimented Hermione Granger, although subtly.
She opened her mouth into a pretty O, one that Draco realized, for the first time, he would very much like to kiss.
And so, he did.
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Nevertheless, the arguments were brutal. Draco had a tendency to be a bit, well, selfish.
He could not help that it was in his Malfoy nature.
The recent row had been, for lack of a better word, epic; the argument to end all arguments. Draco Malfoy wasn't quite sure what made this one different—they argued all the time. That was what happened when two childhood enemies turned friends, and then lovers. They were Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger after all.
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Draco came home late; stumbling in, as one tends to do when drunk. It wasn't that he was an alcoholic—no. He just had a lot of past he had to drown out, from time to time. On this particular occasion, a night out with Blaise and some other reformed Slytherins, he had gotten particularly sloshed. Hermione always made sure to remind him that he drank too much.
Draco, Hermione said with a small sigh, you're drunk again.
Stating the obvious, Draco slurred, ten points to Gryffindor.
This is not the time to be childish, Draco, you can barely stand. Here, let me help you…
At this point, the memory became slightly fuzzy. She walked over and put his arm on him, he remembered, but the next few minutes were slightly dulled. The next thing he knew, they were in his bedroom.
Draco, Hermione said hesitantly, why do you smell like a sodding knockturn whore?
I don't know what the fuck you're on about, Granger. Just what are you accusing me of?
And in went downhill from there.
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In reality, Draco would have never dreamed cheat on Hermione. He loved her; he had even told her so. Yes, that was one of the hardest things he ever did: Telling Hermione bloody Granger that he was, unquestionably, in love with her.
Still, he had, in his drunken state, said many things he didn't mean. He vaguely remembered, and it hurt to think so hard as he was still quite hung-over, telling her that if she didn't remove the very large stick lodged up her perfect Gryffindor arse, that she would be the manifestation of the perpetually alone cat-lady. Of course, he didn't mean that in the slightest. He never intended her to be alone; he always intended her to be with him.
One step too far, one insult too many. He had finally pushed Hermione Granger over the edge—and away from him. It would take awhile to process the ramifications of what he had done. She was still so bloody emotionally damaged from the war, so he wasn't sure how far the damage would reach.
Draco thus decided that if he sat in his apartment, that had practically became their apartment (he was planning on offering the formal invitation for her to move the small amount of things still at her place over next week), he would go insane. He stormed over to the floo, fisted a handful of powder, and left in a green flame of fury.
I painted your room at
Midnight, so I'd know
Yesterday was over
So, 4 hours later, there sat Draco Malfoy. His soft gray shirt speckled with light yellow paint. Anything to cover that horrible chocolate color they had painted his bedroom 2 months prior.
The color of her eyes.
Those beautiful, deep, chocolate eyes. He had looked into them so many times, yet he never failed to find some new speck or dot to admire. He loved her eyes, probably more than any other physical feature. His soul would forever be haunted at the look in her eyes last night. He had never seen her so hurt. Tears? Yes, he had caused those before. They always hurt him, but tears he could handle. But the disappointment in her eyes, now that, that broke him.
I put all your books on the top shelf,
Even the one with the four leaf clover
He got up too quickly, having a sudden urge for fresh air. He knocked over the bottle of Ogdens he had been nursing, causing a quick stream of profanities to fill the silence. Running a shaky hand through his hair, he decided that those bloody books she had been reading were currently taunting him from the dining room table, and needed to be disposed of. When he walked over and picked them up, fully intent on throwing them into the fireplace, he realized he couldn't do that. It had only been two days. Surely, surely she would come around.
It didn't matter that she hadn't responded to any floos, or owls, or even calls from the damned cell phone she had made him get. She would.
After all, she loved him.
He picked up the books and walked over to the bookshelf. Putting them on the top shelf, within easy reach; he was getting more confident that she would return. She had to. The more he told himself, the more convinced he was. Still, he couldn't help that nagging feeling that maybe the fight was worse than he thought; maybe she really was gone.
He had stacked them all up on the top shelf, sans one. He flipped the old book over in his hands, and smiled, despite his pain.
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Happy Birthday, Hermione. I hope you like it.
Draco, Hermione said warily, how original— a book. I do like other things you kn-
Just open the damn present, Granger, and quit prattling on, Draco said good naturedly. He knew her offense at receiving only books from people who obviously didn't know her deeply enough to put in a little effort. They had discussed it. This book, however, was different. He inwardly smiled as she opened the paper.
Oh, oh, Draco! This is, just… wow! Just, oh wow! Where? How? Oh, oh Merlin. How much! I can't accept this. I just…
At this point, Draco remembered promptly shutting the witch up with a passionate kiss.
Don't ask where, or how much. Just know why; I love you, Hermione Granger. Every little quirk and flaw, every out of place hair, every know-it-all comment. I accept you, as you accept me.
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Draco opened the (very valuable, very rare) first edition copy of Hogwarts, A History and leafed through the delicate pages.
He almost dropped the book when he saw what was just inside the front cover. It sent him catapulting into another memory.
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I don't know why I let you drag me to a bloody picnic with the Weasel famil—
Weasley, Draco Malfoy, Hermione said with a grin. Say it with me, Weasley, Weasssllleeey.
He smirked at her, and planted a kiss on her cheek. Nonetheless, I cannot believe I came with you.
He thought back at how everyone had reacted to their relationship at first. It was accepted by some, surprisingly the Weasley elders, or, as he now called them, Molly and Arthur. He had thought out of anyone, they would have reservations. After all, Hermione had been quite attached to their Weasel spawn, even though they were just friends when Greyback sent the killing curse his way during the final battle. Still, they said they just wanted everyone to have a little happiness, and they welcomed him into their breed as one of their own. Others were more resigned. Potter, namely, had taken quite awhile to work up the courage to act even civilly towards Draco. They were far from friends, but they could be polite when forced to interact.
He thought back to the picnic where she had first introduced him as her boyfriend to the Weasleys and Potter.
They walked away from the group for some much needed alone time. It had been tentative, but not near as bad as they thought it would be. Draco had already prepared himself to be hexed by at least a few of those present, but, amazingly, no hexes came. Hermione led him over by the slow-moving stream, taking his hand and pulling him to the dewey grass.
You did amazing, Draco, Hermione practically sighed. I can't believe it, but it seems like this will be okay. I feel better, don't you?
Draco just nodded, and the silence lingered on for a few minutes, and until he spotted, among the tall grass, a small four leaf clover. He plucked it from the soft dirt, and handed it to Hermione.
Granger, he said with a smirk, I think this may be a sign that luck is on our side.
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Man, I'm getting older
I took all your pictures off the wall
and wrapped them in a news paper blanket
Two weeks after the fight, and two weeks sans one day after he furiously painted his bedroom walls, he still hadn't spoken to her. She was still gone. His heart—still broken. At this point, the only thing that would dull the ache a little was to remember the happier times with her.
He slowly removed the photos he had of her off the wall. He decided to stop contacting her. She would come around to him if she decided to forgive him. She was probably better off without him anyways, he thought with bitter resentment.
One photo in particular caught his eye:
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The photo showed them, about 3 months ago, at a quiditch game at Hogwarts. The short sequence showed Gryffindor's seeker catching the snitch, and Hermione smirking triumphantly at Draco until he laughed with her in a rare moment of unguarded affection.
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He sighed as he wrapped the picture with all the others.
I haven't slept in what seems like a century,
and now I can barely breathe
Narcissa had just left Draco's, and he couldn't be more relived. She had said she was worried about him. He hadn't been eating enough, she said. Looked sick and peaky, she nagged. He just stared into space and tipped the glass with his favorite amber liquid back a little harder.
It had been one month, one month, since she had left and shattered his world. The worst part was, he hadn't even tried to contact her after the first two weeks. He figured she should know that he would never betray her, and if she didn't, then he couldn't convince her otherwise. He had just wallowed in self pity and hoped she would see reason and return.
Little did he know his silence did just the opposite; it further cemented her mind that she had been betrayed.
Draco could remember segments of that night at the pub. He had had a particularly hard day at work, and the memories of his father had been acutely strong lately. A night of heavy drinking was just what he needed, or so he thought.
There had been a girl, at the bar. And Hermione was right; she did smell like a whore. She had to have one thrice the necessary amount of her cheap perfume. And Draco cursed himself when he thought of her flirting. She sauntered over in her tight blouse and leaned on him, just as his guard was lowered from inebriation. Why didn't he just push her off?
Oh, he had refused her advances, to be sure. That didn't mean that he didn't let her linger just 5 or 10 seconds before doing so. He was a man, after all. And he was drunk.
He didn't kiss her, certainly didn't fuck her. No, he did not cheat on Hermione. Still though, perception is everything. She perceived that he did, hence Draco's sorry state of affairs.
He knew she had trust issues from past relationships. It seems both the Weasel and Krum had cheated on her. He had had to, in the beginning, promise her over and over that his nights out did not mean infidelity. The fragile trust he had built up with her shattered that night, he knew. What he was only starting to realize, a month later, was that it may have been shattered irrevocably.
Your words still serenade me,
Your lullabies won't let me sleep
I've never heard such a haunting melody.
Oh, it's killing me
You know I can barely breathe
6 months, and still no reconciliation. Time though, as it tends to do, had made the wounds heal, albeit slightly and slowly. The previous night, conversely, had been particularly brutal. She had come to him in his dreams, as she did with less frequency but still often. She didn't speak—she rarely did. She just walked up and lightly brushed his jaw with her fingertips. The look in her eyes was one of love, of longing. She had forgiven him, she still loved him.
He woke, sweaty and still tired from tossing all night. He apparated to Diagon Alley; it was his day off, and if last night's dream was any indication of the day, he needed to restock his alcohol cabinet.
It was then that he saw her. The first time in 6 months. She looked radiant, beautiful. He hadn't thought her so at first. Love has the uncanny way of turning an otherwise plain person into the most breathtaking person you've ever seen. Draco froze. She saw him too. A sad look graced her pretty features. She was frowning. Draco rushed forward; unsure of what he would say when he got there. They stood in an awkward and tense silence for a few moments, before she warily said,
"It's good to see you."
Draco damned himself all night when he thought back to his actions.
For the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words. He wanted to apologize, to tell her he never cheated on her. To apologize for not owling or trying harder to get her to listen after the first few weeks. He wanted to tell her he was a broken man, and that he needed her. So many words and feelings in the pit of his belly and on the tip of his tongue.
Draco Malfoy stayed silent. His mind rushed, but he just stared, suddenly unsure of how to open his mouth. When he finally thought he the words would barrage out, her eyes started to water. She shot him the same disappointed look that had haunted him for months, and turned and apparated with a defiant pop.
Just like a crow chasing the butterfly
dandelions lost in the summer sky
When you and I were getting high as outer space,
I never thought you'd slip away
I guess I was just a little too late
If time heals all wounds, then even time held a grudge on Draco Malfoy. One year, one year he thought, and he was still alone. Still without Hermione. Still dreaming of her.
It had gotten better. He got up, had breakfast, and went to work. If he thought about it, he would eat lunch. He almost never forgot dinner anymore. Then shower, sleep, repeat. He had even gone out to dinner with his mother last week. He was getting better.
It was still there, though, like a dull ache.
His mother had asked him incessantly at first why he didn't just contact her, and let her know it was all a misunderstanding. He meant to, he really did.
It was just, whenever he finally figured out what to say and how to express himself, the window of time in which to apologize had passed. It was too late. He couldn't come back after months of no contact and apologize—she would never believe it.
One year later, and Draco Malfoy was broken, but healing, both from the sins of his father and his own.
One year later, and Draco Malfoy still loved Hermione Granger as much as one man could ever love a woman.
One year later, and Draco Malfoy only vaguely remembered her last words to him, just before she slammed the door in his face.
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I honestly thought you had changed, Malfoy, she spat. I've put my whole heart into this relationship. This is what you do in return? You bloody cheat on me with some whore? I don't deserve this, you know how broken I was before you. I trusted you, you fool.
She softened, with hope as clear as day in her eyes, a hope that he would prove her assumptions wrong. You go out and drink, and yes, Draco, I know you're in pain, but you won't find it at the bottom of a glass of fire whiskey. Things will get better; you just have to let time heal them.
At that point, she realized he wasn't listening. He had passed out on the couch, the alcohol finally overtaking his rational thought. She looked over the man she loved. Hermione decided she needed some space, surely he would apologize. He would have to. He would tell her it didn't happen, that he didn't break her trust like all the others.
Draco stayed silent.
With one last heartbreakingly disappointed glance, she walked out the door, just as Draco roused enough to negate her accusations.
It was too late; she was gone.
xxxxx
Just a little too late
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