Alright, starting out with a super sad fic. I must warn you: most of these aren't going to be happy. xoxo -cookie
Summary: My perspective if Voldemort won the war and if Draco loved Hermione. Super sad and drama-filled.
Rating: T
The manor isn't supposed to be this quiet. It's supposed to be filled with shouting whenever I'm in her presence. But instead, silence.
Silence.
Silence.
All the time. It was becoming unbearable. I had begun to look forward to Voldemort's Death-Eater meetings just to escape it. But when I return, it's always there, like an echo, haunting me.
Silence.
Voldemort had won the war. My father was dead, killed when he failed with the diary. My mother was dead too, killed at her sister's own hand. I know my mother's death was my fault. I knew that she was dead because Snape had to kill Dumbledore on my behalf. I knew that Bellatrix killed my mother on Voldemort's orders. But the grief is gone. Long gone. It had molded me into who I am now. An empty shell of a person. I used to be very smart, with thoughts always swarming around my brain. They had stayed for a while after the war. The thoughts were the only things keeping me sane. But now they are gone, replaced with whispers and horrible images. Sometimes it's not even that, sometimes it's silence.
Harry Potter, the one person who could get me out of this mess, is dead. Voldemort had seen to that. I had killed a lot of people in the war too. Two I regret the most. Neville Longbottom, who will never kill the snake. Ronald Weasley, whom she loved. I killed him and now she hates me.
There are very few members of the Order left. Voldemort held an auction to let the Death-Eaters buy a slave. I knew who I wanted even before I saw her. I knew I wouldn't make her a slave. I would make her my wife, for I had loved her since fourth year. Being the right-hand Death-Eater, I got the first pick. Everyone thought that I would choose Luna Lovegood, for she was a pure-blood. When I didn't, Blaise Zabini did. He admitted that he fancied her.
When she and I reached the manor, she screamed at me, threw books at me, tried to strangle me. But the iron cuffs around her wrists prevented her. I finally told her to stop. I am the master and she is the slave. She has to obey. I don't want to treat her like a slave, though. I lead her to an extra bedroom, and after glaring at me for what seemed like an eternity, she laid down on the bed. I watched her sleep, not knowing that I would never hear her voice again.
Silence.
When I woke up in the morning, I went into her room, but she ignored me. She sat in a chair, which was facing a window, and stared outside. She would come out of her room for meals and that was only because I sent the house-elves up to get her.
For days this was happening. I would shower her with gifts. Clothes, jewelry, and books. She would never speak, just stare out of the window. The only gift she accepted was a small silver locket with an H and a D carved on the inside, and that was only because I put it on her myself. I could feel myself breaking inside. I wished she would yell at me, throw books at me, kill me. Anything. Anything to hear her voice again.
During the earlier meals, she wouldn't eat. She glared at me skeptically, like she thought the food I placed in front of her was poisoned. I assured her that it wasn't, but I had to eat from her plate to make sure that she didn't starve herself. After three days, hunger clawed in her stomach. I could tell from the pained look on her face at breakfast. I told her to eat, but still she ignored me. She said the only words that she had said in days. "I want to die."
Every day, I would ask her to be my wife. Get down on my knee with a one-karat engagement ring, asking her to marry me. Every day, she refused. Tears streaming down her face, staring out the window, rain or shine. I knew she was thinking about Weasley.
When I awoke on that fateful day, I could feel that it was going to be a great day. Except that was just the opposite. I went to my Death-Eater meeting, thinking that when I got home, she would accept my proposal. Except when I got home, I saw blood on the street outside my manor. Blood and a body. I ran to her, her face to the sky, her hair mussed around her beautiful glazed eyes. She was dead. I looked up to see a broken window, the same window she always stared out of. She had thrown herself out of it, killed herself. I picked up her cold hand, now cut into shreds. Tears trickled over the bridge of my nose. She had killed herself because her life was miserable. And who had made her life like that? Me.
I, Draco Malfoy, had killed Hermione Granger, the only person I had truly loved. Truly loved. I would never hear her beautiful voice again, never see her hazel eyes. My manor had turned into a prison I could never escape. All because of the silence she left behind.
Silence.
She was gone. And now I have to live in this damned world without her.