She was writing, trying to get lost in the safety of words and phrases, when she heard the creaking of the door
Title: The Fear of Failing
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger
Genre: Romance/Angst
Synopsis: "We are at war, Draco. People get killed. Everyday. You didn't fail, so don't start. Don't give up." Draco has failed in so many things. Will he fail and give up on love, as well? Or will someone affirm him instead? DHR Post-Hogwarts. AU One-shot Complete
Date Written and Finished: April 3, 2008 11:45 PM—April 4, 2008 12:38 PM
Words: 2735
For: 100situations.
Prompt 66. Fail.
A/N: When I first wrote this, I had it on my mind that I was writing it for prompt number one, tired. Then Draco took over with his strong belief of failures, and fortunately for me there was a prompt for fail. This is my second one-shot—tell me what you think. I think I like my first one better. Hehe. Still, read on.
This time I'm giving away recalls what's in her refrigerator slices of Brazo. (Meringue at the sides and egg yolk in the middle?) Oh, if you haven't read my other one shot, Moving Past the Fear, please do and leave your comments. I'd love to hear what you think.
1 down and 99 to go.
Snow particles were scattered over his coat, his hair, and even managed to tangle themselves in his eyes lashes. He had to blink several times to be able to see properly. He couldn't use any of his hands to extricate them—in his right was a gift, and while his left hand held nothing he couldn't risk having it unavailable. He had to make sure, even when he was already near HQ, that his wand hand was free.
It was, and it would remain that way every time he was out in a mission—pre, during, post.
His boots, one of the few possessions left that reminded him of his earlier years, his formation years—before their reformed years, as Flint had termed it—made no marks on the pristine white snow. No evidence that anyone or anything had traipsed through these crystallized precipitation.
The team went on ahead, leaving him for a job he volunteered to do. Checking and double-checking. It was the opposite of what a point man did, leading the team, making sure there were no traps. He had to make sure their mission stayed covert, such as no prints, no scent, no mess.
A recon mission was a simple extraction of information from considered enemy territory. In and out, just like that, without the enemy knowing any better. It was a relatively simple one, but which started an argument between him and Hermione, and proceeded to raise a few brows from Potter and Weasley. No longer paradise, mate? they seemed to say.
He laughed bitterly at that, and watched as a white puff was released from his pale lips. He didn't want to admit it—it pained him to admit it— but for the first time in his life the two idiots were right. No. It no longer was paradise, and he needed to fix that.
She glared at the piece of parchment she was writing on, when she couldn't come up with anything more coherent—a place, a phrase—from these random Greek words. She was forcing herself to get lost in the safety of said words, when she heard the creaking of the door. Instantly, her head snapped to the source of the noise and met a team leader's eyes.
"Zabini," she murmured in greeting, as she watched members of the resistance enter the room one by one. Her eyes were sharp, running quickly among the heads that were entering. At the same time, she was forcing her heart to beat normally when couldn't see any trace of his hair.
"I swear the next time we go on a recon, I want to be point!" Terry groused, an ice bag nursing his left eye.
Someone scoffed and said something insulting. Another responded, and soon their voices mashed against the walls of the room. Zabini had to raise his voice to be heard over the pandemonium. "All right! Dining room, everyone! I know we're all dying to eat."
Soon, all she heard were the dying sounds of footsteps, and she was left to herself.
"Oh, God," she whispered brokenly to herself, within seconds of being left alone, her task of translating was forgotten and abandoned on her desk. Where was he?
"Hey," came a tired voice. A voice she knew. The voice she was waiting for.
She whirled around so quickly that the chair tumbled back, hitting the floor with a loud thud! She was staring at him, then an "Oh, thank God!", before she realized she was running to him, pulling him close, and dropping her head on his shoulder.
Why was his shoulder wet?
"What's this?" he asked gently, his fingers playing with her hair. "You're not crying aren't—" he stopped, suddenly scrutinizing her, feeling the wetness on his shoulder "—you are," he finished, stumped.
"Hermione," he proceeded with hesitancy, "is it this time of the month?"
She gasped and stared at him, incredulous. "No! Of course not." If she weren't feeling upset, she would have laughed at his reaction.
"Then why are you crying?" he asked, each word pronounced clearly.
"I was worried about you, that's all." She pulled back and offered a small smile, trying to push back the tears.
His eyes narrowed. "That's not it."
"What—"
She saw the exact moment, when his eyes narrowed even further into slits, he realized the true reason. "You thought I wasn't coming back, did you?" He muttered something incoherent, the mere sound raising hairs on her nape. "You thought I was—I was—" he chocked on the word, "dead!" She knew the acidic taste the word left on someone's mouth; she, however, saw it on his face.
It didn't matter though, because all she felt was the sharpness of her nails on her palm, almost drawing blood, when she heard him say it. It hit right home. "No! That—"
"Then why were you crying?" he interrupted, his tone biting, she almost winced.
Why am I crying? she asked herself. Wait, why was he suddenly mad? He had no right to— She made an exasperated sound and threw him a dark look. "If you keep interrupting me, how can I tell you?"
His only response was a raised brow, telling her he knew she was stalling and he was not falling for it. Not by a long shot.
She folded her arms on her chest, finding comfort in this false bravado, steering her thoughts away from words such as death and loneliness and tears. "I told you," her voice was loud, "I was worried about you."
"And I told you I was going to be all right. That I was coming back." He sighed and walked towards the couch, dropped something on the floor, then leaned back. "We've gone over this a number of times," he said, as he rubbed his eyes.
She stayed quiet, taking the opportunity to observe him, searching for any sort of injury.
"Merlin, Hermione!" She almost jumped when she heard him speak. "It was just a recon mission!"
She knew that. She also knew the small percentage that they would be caught when everything was planned and timed right. Now that she realized how silly it was to worry over him, she felt like a fool. Obviously, her worrying over him was not required.
She didn't know why, or what, but she heard something snap. Was it her? "Just a recon mission?" she repeated, stunned. This wasn't right, she knew it was a recon mission. None of the boys were injured badly, nor were they grim when they got back. Nobody was mourning, but she jumped to the conclusion that h-he wasn't coming back because he wasn't with them when they came back. "Just a recon mission?" she heard herself say again before actually realizing she was talking. She wasn't disconcerted about the recon mission; she was disconcerted about something else entirely. Something she had no inkling of what. And that troubled her more. Her not knowing. Her not having any clue. For that, she was prepared to scream at him, to think illogically, to conclude irrationally— to completely be not herself. "My God, Draco! You could have been, oh, I don't know, Avada'd! Terry had an ice bag on his eye—"
Under his breath, Draco muttered, "'Coz Johnson was a stupid point, that's why."
"—nursing who knows what! Just a recon mission, you say, well that's just it!" Her face was probably turning a shade of red. She didn't care. She had to let out her emotions out, if she wanted to get some sleep later. "You don't have to be part of a recon mission! It's risky! You have more important things to do than be with them, damn it! You're not a bloody team leader!" Her body went slack, and she fell down beside him, her breathing coming in loud and quick. Amidst her tirade, she missed the point she started walking, ending up near the couch, close enough to seek support from it.
There was a moment of silence between them, then he looked at her, his eyes glassy. Quietly, he said, "Blaise is my friend."
She knew that, too, of course. Really, she wasn't being herself. What was wrong with her?
Zabini was the only Slytherin left, other than him, fighting with and for the resistance. Goyle suffered burning to death; Flint experienced the pains of a Sectumsempra; others still died more agonizing deaths. But when Parkinson died, there was a change in everyone, in Draco especially. Finally, people started believing that Draco and his friends were serious about being in the resistance. They were serious enough to die for the Cause.
She didn't want to be cruel nor unfair, wanting Draco all for herself, but she was. She didn't want to be selfish, but she was. Oh, she was—plus all the other things people go to Hell for.
She nodded, numb. "I know." She wanted to cry and beat herself for exploding at him. When he didn't say anything, she apologized, resignation evident on her voice. "Forget what I said, all right? I was just tired."
She pulled herself to her feet, and, with her shoulders squared, moved toward the doorframe leading to the staircase. "Good night, Draco," she said softly, after her knuckles gently rapped thrice on the frame.
Before she stepped into the hallway, however, she heard a word powerful enough to follow its command. Only, it wasn't a command, but a request.
"Wait." He pressed his lips together, and stood up slowly. He was avoiding her eyes. W-was he nervous?
Did he sense something off with her? "I'm sorry," he started, the words stumbling awkwardly from his lips. "I'm sorry for making you worry, for…" He closed his eyes, unsure how to proceed. He was never good in expressing how he felt, in explaining why he did the things he did. "It's hard for me—"
"—to tell me what you're thinking," Hermione finished slowly, suddenly enlightened of knowledge why she was reacting in such a horrid and impossible way.
Months ago, she had accepted that he would never confide in her. After two years of working with him, seven months of being with him, she still couldn't solve the puzzle that was him. She didn't know the thoughts that went circling inside his mind. She didn't know why he changed after Parkinson died. Did he love her as a sister, as a—as what? Did Hermione even have a chance?
She was tired, so tired: of the ongoing war that claimed hundreds of innocent lives every day, destroying homes, breaking families; of pretending to live when there was no promise of a tomorrow, not in their current world; of second guessing Draco—his thoughts, desires, dreams. There was just no escape from exhaustion. Every single day that progressed took a whole lot from her. Even the release she received from Draco was no longer enough. She wanted more from him. She wanted what he couldn't offer, what she couldn't get—not from his current state.
She didn't know if he was pushing himself every mission, deliberately taunting DE's to finish him off once and for all. She didn't know if he—
"I go out and kill those bastards, trying to atone for my ignorance, but it's never enough. Never." His voice was so soft that she barely heard him. Only the intense emotion she could feel behind his words told her what he was trying to say. He had his fists clenched on his sides, a purple vein visibly throbbing in his neck. This was heartfelt. She didn't think he'd say something at all, and yet, here he was… talking.
Talking, and finally explaining.
"I can't get back what I've lost in the past. Years of innocence spent on loathing humans like myself; years of forming spent on believing Voldemort's lies; years of living treating you like crap.
All of us Slytherins who joined you made a pact among ourselves that we would do everything in our power to make sure our children would never live to see this chaos, this brutality. That we would watch out for each other. We swore to each other, and I've let them down."
He was carrying the burden of being responsible for his friends's deaths, and she was busy pitying herself for not getting Draco's attention. "Draco, I—" Her breath caught on her throat.
His shoulders were trembling, she could see. He then dragged his palm across his moist eyes. "I don't know if I can make you happy, Hermione." He drew a ragged breath then lifted his eyes. "All my life I've been taught to hate. Love is a foreign word. I'm not sure if I'm even capable of such a feeling, of giving to you what you deserve. Because, damn it, you fucking deserve it.
I've failed in a lot of things," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've failed in being a Malfoy. I've failed in protecting my friends. I think, I'll fail in loving you…" He told himself before he entered the room that he would fix this, but he just wasn't sure anymore if he could. He dragged a frustrated hand through his hair, blinking his eyes as if it would rid of the tears. "I don't think—"
"Then don't think, damn it!" Hermione's voice cut clear, freezing him. She was approaching him, determination, hope filling her every being. She could do this. She could help him. "Don't stop trying, and I won't."
She took a shaky breath, and proceeded walking, her confidence building with each step she took. "We started good. In fact, those first few months we shared made me want to live. It gave me a reason to wake up every morning. Despite how badly injured I was every mission, how terribly tired I was, I could still smile because I had you."
You haven't failed, yet, Draco. But giving up means that…" Suddenly, she found herself in front of him, facing him. Only a few inches separating them. "You didn't fail your promises, nor your obligations. You haven't failed in loving me. You didn't fail in protecting your friends. You did everything you could."
She took his hand and gently squeezed it. "We are at war, Draco. People get killed. Everyday. I'm angry and frustrated that I can't save all of them, but at least I try to. Your friends died knowing that you've kept your promise. You didn't run the other way whenever we were being attacked. No, I've seen you fight, and you always killed those bastards.
Draco?" She released his hand and placed her arms around his neck, drawing him close to her. "You didn't fail, so don't start." Then she kissed him, and he groaned.
"Please," she murmured, against his mouth. "Don't give up."
"Hermione?" After what seemed an eternity, he broke the kiss, and she whimpered at the loss of his soft lips on hers. "You said I haven't failed at being a Malfoy," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "How? Why?"
Before she could answer, he asked her. "Are you pregnant?"
A beat later, and still she didn't respond.
Underneath the frankness, she sensed the undercurrents of fear for the unknown; of eagerness for a chance to correct the past wrongs, a chance to prove that he was nothing like his father, that he would not make the same mistakes; and of awe for he had a part in a miracle. Those were enough for her.
She smiled to herself, grateful to the Gods above, before a corner of her mouth lifted minutely. She wasn't going to reply yet. She was punishing him for braking their earlier kiss. She let a second pass, another second, then another still, before she finally responded.
"I could be," she answered innocently. When his brows furrowed, she almost laughed out loud. She tiptoed and whispered in his ear, "With your help."
He groaned, again. Accusingly, he whispered, "You witch."
She laughed then, but the sound she made faded the next instant rendering her speechless, when Draco closed on to her, a special glint in his eyes,
She closed her eyes and arched her neck. "Hmm—ah— before I forget—" she moaned, as he nipped her "— w-what took you so long?"
She felt him grin. "I brought Strawberry ice cream—as toppings."