This is a follow up to my previous fanfic, And All That Could Have Been. Not necessary to read the other first, but they go together.
Disclaimer Note: I don't own these characters, they belong to the lovely JKRowling and her wonderful mind. This is just my own thoughts on something that very well could have happened in their lives, based around the lyrics of Back to December, by Taylor Swift. Enjoy.
Back to December
I could hardly believe we were standing face to face again, couldn't believe it was actually his silver eyes I was looking at. His eyes, not just some old picture I'd never admit I kept hidden beneath my pillow, only pulling it out to look at if I wanted to cry. I never wanted to cry.
But here we were, visiting Diagon Alley with our parents who could care less about us. Well, at least mine. Mother was only worrying about marrying me off by next spring and my father hardly ever looked at me anyway. I noticed his mother wouldn't let go of his sleeve when he tried to walk over. I asked about his family, I hadn't seen them since last Halloween. He says his mother is clingier than ever, his father's still the same angry man he always was. Not the most cheerful news to start a conversation after not having seen each other for eight months.
He's nervous and I can tell. He won't meet my eyes, not for long, and I can tell just talking to me hurts him. It hurts me too. We're both probably just reliving in our minds the last time we saw each other. I wish it had never happened that way.
It was strange wasn't it, watching all the Hogwarts students running around, getting their books so they could had off to school in a few days. The two of us were finished at Hogwarts, living in the dreadful real world. We have been for the last three years, most of it together, but the last eight months or so, well, I hadn't seen him since that night. Twenty years old now, adults, working and living at home, at least until their parents could have them married off, suck in some house of their own to live proper pureblood lives. Not the way we'd imagined things at all. He invited me into the pub for a drink, so we could sit and talk a while. I followed him in, grasping a mug in my hands as we took a seat in the corner.
He brought it up, that last night. Not right away, but the whole conversation was heading toward it the whole time. I knew he would, knew it was inevitable, but I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't know if I wanted to pretend it had never happened or just pick up where we'd left of. I didn't know if we should give it up or move on, say some pleasant goodbyes today and go about our business as shadows of our former selves. It was impossible to deny, I knew I wasn't the same without him. He looked different too. That mischievous glint in his eye was gone, his smirk was gone, that arrogant way he used to carry himself, all of it was gone. All of it had left that December night.
Wind blowing, snow falling, the two of them in a field in front of a house. She was begging him to just come home instead, but he was pressing the portkey into her hand, telling her to leave before they saw her. He walked away, stopped, came back and kissed her goodbye. The portkey took her back to the Malfoy Manor, and she went into the parlor, wrapping herself in a blanket and sitting by the fire. Neither of them knew when he would return, and all she could do was sit and wait for him at home, try and keep Narcissa company until he came back, try and not let his mother see her cry. She sat there in the parlor all night, Narcissa bringing her a cup of tea before kissing her on top of the head and going to bed. But she stayed awake, in case he came home, in case he left sooner than expected. She wanted to be waiting for him.
She waited for two days. Five days. A week. Two weeks. A month. November passed. Winter arrived in full force. Christmas was closing in on them. In that month long wait she grew desperate, depressed, anxious, terrified, irrational, and eventually angry. Furious. She heard nothing from him, not a note, not a single word that he was okay, that he would be coming back soon. She couldn't live like this, just sitting, waiting. She'd decided that before he came back. She wouldn't be a part of this life if waiting was all she could do. It felt like he'd chosen them over her. Like he'd chosen those monsters above the girl who had always been there for him, always held him when he was broken, the one who put him back together time and time again. She knew she deserved something better than second place. She wanted someone who could make it seem like they loved her enough to put her first. She'd packed her things, was getting ready to go back home, carrying her last bag down to the foyer when there was a loud crack behind her and he spoke her name. She froze, turning slowly. She was hurt, angry, and felt forgotten, and there he was, smirking at her as if he'd only left yesterday. He was holding roses in his hand, but as his smirk fell away, so did the hand extending them to her. He asked what she was doing with her things all packed up at the door. She told him she was leaving, that she couldn't be expected to just wait around forever, not knowing anything, not knowing if he was even okay or alive.
He crossed the space between them, pushing the flowers into her hand and resting his other hand on her face. Please don't go. We can make this work, he said, but she knew it wasn't that easy. He'd said that time and time before, and look at where it got them. It was never that easy. Pretty words now, but the next time he was called, it'd happen all over again. It always did. They were happy for a while, nearly perfect, even thinking about getting married. At least she was. And then he left, and they fell apart a little bit, an endless vicious cycle tearing them apart every time she thought it was okay again. She couldn't do it anymore, and she was going home, going abroad, traveling maybe. Either way, she wasn't coming back. Her heart couldn't take it again.
Both of them looked like they could have cried, but they were both too stubborn to let it happen. She dropped the roses at his feet, picking up her bags and turning to the door, walking out into the cold December wind and forcing herself not to look back as the tears fell from her eyes. Even when he called her name from the doorway behind her, she kept walking until she was beyond the gate, apparating away before he could come after her.
I watched her over the rim of my mug. She wouldn't meet my eyes, just stared at the golden liquid in her own cup. I asked her about what had happened that night. She finally turned her eyes on me, but they were so hurt I almost wished she'd just look at her drink again. She started talking about what had happened while we were still at school. She said she should have known how it was going to be from that first night when I'd told her about my father's plans for me, about joining them. She should have known that from the moment I'd taken the mark, when I'd promised her I would do what was asked of me and then come back for her, from the moment I was chosen, marked, she was demoted to second best, second most important, and it wasn't fair if I was her most important. I reached across the table and took her hand, breathing a sigh of relief when she didn't pull away immediately.
A dark hallway past curfew, a small note clutched in her fingers. It was only a few weeks into their sixth year, but he'd been distracted. He had been gone often, for days at a time she wouldn't even see him. He was so obsessed with proving himself, with doing what he was chosen to do. And all she could do was sit back and watch. He wouldn't tell her what was happening, wouldn't let her help him. He just told her he had to do it, and he had to do it alone.
She hadn't seen him for days. But he'd sent her a note, told her to come meet him on the second floor. She went, of course she would, she'd do anything for the boy, and when she saw the lanky blonde figure leaning against the wall, she ran the rest of the way to him. She hugged him, but he was stiff, his hug not as warm as it usually was. Something in his eyes was wrong, he wasn't happy to see her, he wasn't happy at all. Sure, he'd had times of grumpiness before, but this wasn't like that. She asked him what was wrong, and he shook his head, denying anything.
They sat on the windowsill a while, talking. She held his hand, his grip on her fingers tight as if he didn't want to let go. Finally he fell quiet and she noticed he'd stopped answering her. He rested his hand on her face, looking her hard in the eye and gathering his thoughts. He told her she had to try and understand that he couldn't keep her so close to him, couldn't let what they had be known to anyone. The fact that they were dating, it had to end, disappear, and no one could know that she was important to him.
It felt like he'd slapped her, though his hand was still soft on her cheek. She was speechless and he continued. He couldn't endanger her for what he had to do. If he had someone important to him, they would use it against him if he failed, and he wouldn't let that happen. She asked who they were, and he pulled his hand away, looking out the window to avoid meeting her eyes.
Finally he tugged his shirt sleeve up, showing her the skin of his pale arm, marked, hollow eyes staring back at her from a skull with a serpent. A tear spilled from her eye and she grasped his wrist, begging him to tell her it wasn't real, to tell her that he wasn't one of them, but it was too late. He kissed her, told her it would be okay, that he'd figure something out and do what was asked of him, and gain favor in the eyes of his master, and then he'd come back for her. It would all be okay.
He told me he knew he'd hurt me that night, but that we were young and stupid then. We'd done a lot of growing up since that moment, and we could figure this out if I'd just give it another chance. If I would give him another chance and try to forget that September night. If I could explain to him what had happened back in December.
I remember the look in his eyes that night when I told him I was leaving, going somewhere, it didn't matter where, and I wouldn't be back. I hadn't set foot in his house since that day, hadn't gone back to my own house since then either. I'd left for Venice, somewhere far away, somewhere we'd vacationed once on a whim. I rented out a tiny apartment, dumped my things there. I never even bothered to unpack, kept waiting for him to come find me. It was ironic wasn't it? That I left him because I hated waiting, only to end up waiting even more without the comforts of his home, his mother to check on me. I spent my time wondering when he'd show up at my door, and he never did. Why didn't he come? I couldn't figure it out, and the only solution my pathetic self was able to come up with was that everything I'd thought and feared was true. I was his second most important now, second best in his life. It was them, and then it was me. Maybe not even second place anymore.
There's that stupid saying, that sometimes you have to run away just to see who will come after you. He didn't come after me.
My heart died that night. As far as I could tell, she didn't love me anymore. Hell, maybe she never loved me. Maybe she'd never forgiven me for taking the mark. Maybe she'd been building up to this night for a long time and I was too in love with her to see it happening. Maybe she was always planning on leaving me, just waiting for an excuse to do it. I couldn't go after her, not after how she'd looked at me that night, as if she honestly never wanted to see me again. I was afraid of what would happen if I were to show up on her doorstep.
She may have never seen me, but I was in Venice. I went there, found where she was staying, kept an eye on her for a little while, hiding in the shadows. She smiled sometimes, she looked happy enough. Maybe she was okay without me, though i wanted nothing more than to run up to her, take her in my arms and beg her to never leave again. I even got so far as standing outside her door, my hand raised to knock. I couldn't do it. Call me a coward, a fool, whatever, but I left that day and came back home, tried to forget about her, tried to get over the hurt I felt. I thought she was over me, and so I thought I should try to get over her. But here we were, both hurt, upset, sitting in some pub in Diagon Alley about to cry over a couple of butterbeers in the corner. She ordered something stronger as we sat there, drinking it as though she'd done a lot of that lately. I still held onto her hand, looking her in the eye and asking what had happened to us, if she thought we could fix it. If she even wanted to fix it.
It turns out freedom was nothing but missing him. I missed what I'd had when I had him. I missed the comfort I felt with him, the love we'd had, our friendship, our support for each other, everything. I didn't sleep the whole time I was in Venice, at least it felt that way. I only got back home last month, and it's been no better. But once I'd gotten home, I remembered how everything was, the night after night after night that I spent alone, waiting, clueless. But I also realized that I'd never be happy again without him. It was time to swallow my pride, apologize, ask him for another try. I missed him. I understood if he didn't want to, understood what I'd done to him because I was stupid then. I wish I could go back, change my own mind, make it right, but I couldn't. I was sorry, so incredibly sorry for what I'd done, and I couldn't see it until now, not until I'd seen him again. Not until I'd fallen back in love with him.
He stared at me, shoving his chair back and standing up. He was leaving, I knew it. I'd screwed up and hurt him too much but then he was pulling me out of my chair, wrapping his arms around me, burying his face in my hair. I was frozen for a moment, unsure what to do, but I hugged him back once I'd realized what was happening. He let go, looking at me with his hands on my shoulder. He said he needed me to come outside, and I followed him, tears welling up a little in the corners of my eyes. I couldn't believe it was that easy, that I'd just apologized and he'd wrapped me up in his arms like before. My hand in his, I hurried behind him out of the pub and down the street a little until he pulled me into a small shadowy alley. It had begun to rain, giant heavy drops that soaked your clothes wherever they fell. He held my face in his hands, talking softly but urgently.
I swore to her I was going to make this right. She would never have to feel like that again, and if she never felt like that again, I'd never have to feel like this again. We would make it work. I would make it up to her, she wouldn't have to wait at home clueless again, and I would do anything I could to not ever leave her alone for so long again. I was determined about this, and to prove how serious I was, I wanted her to come with me back home, to never have to stay with her parents who didn't love her like I could, to never have to stay in an empty apartment. She would stay at my home, and I would be there whenever she needed me, whenever she waned me. A tear slipped down her cheek and I wrapped my arms tight around her again, the two of us clinging to each other as the heavens opened up and the rain fell more quickly. We paid it no attention as it soaked us, only concerned about having each other back. Finally. We couldn't go back and change how things had been in December, and it was eight months wasted that we spent away from each other, but I had her back.
In his arms again, everything felt right. I hated what I'd done in December, hated that I left him, hated that he'd left me. We'd destroyed each other that night, but we were together now, we could make each other whole again. We could figure this out. And whenever I grew frustrated with him again, my mind went back to December, remembered his eyes, his pleading, remembered this moment in the pouring rain, remembered his promises that we would make it right again, that we would make this work. Freedom was nothing but missing him, and I never wanted to be apart from him ever again.