Rating: PG-13/T
Warnings: Dark!fic
Word Count: 2,377
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine.
Category: Angst/Dark
Author Notes: The winning entry for a contest at the draco-hermione-club at DeviantArt.
Summary: Things are not always as they seem. D/Hr. No DH spoilers.
Ghosts of a Life Lost
The heels of her Mary Janes clattered a loud, discordant rhythm in the silent corridors as she walked back to the Gryffindor common room with more books than she could carry. Fumbling with the voluminous tomes in her arms, she could barely see where she was going, and the dim lighting certainly was no help. Maybe she should have taken the long way instead of the shortcut. Flames from the torches on the walls cast long, eerie shadows along the cold stone floor, and she could feel the hairs at her nape stand erect. She wished more students would use this hallway and help make this place a little less, well… creepy, she supposed.
Suddenly, something large rammed into her as she turned a corner, and books flew out of her arms. She swore under her breath and bent down to pick up those scattered books but abruptly stopped in her movements when she heard a very irritatingly familiar chuckle above her, sending her blood boiling. She straightened up slowly, with as much dignity as she could muster, and glared defiantly.
"Well, well, well…" he drawled in the most annoying way possible, as if savoring the moment. "What is our good little Gryffindor doing in these parts?"
"I could ask the same of you," she said in a low voice, her fingers reaching for her wand. Just in case.
He arched an eyebrow but ignored her comment. "So where are your boyfriends?" he asked nonchalantly. "It's not safe for a girl in these parts, you know, even for filth like you."
She clenched her jaw as anger flared from the pit of her stomach, and she withdrew her wand, but she let it hang loosely by her side. Not yet.
"I could say the same for you." She smiled sweetly. "Are you sure you don't need your goons to protect your precious, spoiled little butt in these dangerous parts? I seem to remember that you're quite the screamer, Malfoy. Tell me, do you cry?"
She watched with satisfaction as his jaw worked furiously, his silvery gaze smoldering. So she had touched a nerve.
"Shut up, Mudblood," he hissed furiously.
"Yeah?" she said defiantly. "What are you going to do? Cry for your mommy?"
Before she could even protest, he had grabbed her tightly by the wrist, bringing her close, so close to his own body. She could smell him, feel the heat emanating from him; they were so close. Her gaze met his, and for the first time, she felt genuinely afraid of him, but she did not show it. She had never before seen the frightening, wild spark in his eyes, like he was losing control. Harry had said that Malfoy appeared tense and stressed lately. Could this be true? Did the arrogant bastard finally lose it?
"Do you really want me to show you what I'm capable of?" he asked in a menacing whisper.
"What, are you going to pull your dark Death Eater tricks on me?" Her voice was steady, despite the fear that began to mount.
He said nothing, but his grip tightened for a moment, and she felt her fingers becoming numb. Then, without a warning, he let her go with a little shove, but his wand was raised, merely inches from her face. She reciprocated this gesture. For what seemed like hours, neither moved, their gazes locked, animosity crackling in the air around them.
Then, a meow at the end of the corridor broke the spell, and both turned to the source of the sound. It was Mrs. Norris, her green eyes glowing in the dark. They could hear footsteps shuffling nearer, and Hermione swallowed.
"What is it, Mrs. Norris?" came the voice of Argus Filch. "Misbehaving students?"
His figure appeared from around the corner, and immediately, he saw the two enemies. A gleeful, twisted smile curled his thin lips.
"Magic in the corridors, eh?" he said happily, glancing from one to the other.
Hermione and Malfoy exchanged a glance, realizing that their wands were still outstretched, and they quickly tucked them away.
"Sir," began Hermione tentatively, "we didn't use magic."
"'Didn't use magic'?" Filch repeated. "Oh yes… I know... I have just the thing for little liars… That'll teach you…"
"But, sir, you don't understand—"
"I'll chain you up against the wall… yes… and let you hang upside down…" interrupted Filch loudly. "You'll never forget…"
"Argus, is that you?"
Professor McGonagall had appeared, and she did not look happy as she eyed the two students.
"These two were using magic in the corridors," said Filch cheerfully.
"Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger," said McGonagall, her hawkish eyes looking from one to the other. "You are both Prefects, and I expected much better of you. You know the rules."
"But Professor, we didn't—"
"That's enough Miss Granger," said McGonagall wearily. "There are cauldrons that require cleaning. Come with me. There will be no wands allowed."
She extended her hands, and the students reluctantly handed their wands to her. McGonagall was already heading away, beckoning them to follow.
"My books…" murmured Hermione uncertainly.
"They will be taken to your room for you," answered McGonagall shortly.
Seeing no escape, the two students followed the Professor to the dungeons, through the familiar hallways to the Potions classroom. McGonagall knocked on the door. A red-faced Slughorn pocked his head through and allowed them inside. Hermione smelled a faint whiff of firewhiskey but wasn't sure if she had imagined it. When McGonagall had gone, Slughorn turned to them, and with a little hesitancy, said:
"I trust you two can manage your detention yourselves?"
Hermione nodded slowly, and before she could say anything, Slughorn had disappeared through the door to his office, and slammed it shut, probably to return to his liquor, Hermione mused.
Grabbing an old piece of cloth and some cleaning solutions, she sighed and proceeded to the table where piles of dirty cauldrons were piled up. Malfoy, on the other hand, was already moving toward the door to the corridors outside, which unfortunately for him, did not escape Hermione's notice.
"What do you think you're doing?" she asked angrily, watching him with his hand on the doorknob.
"Leaving," he answered curtly.
"Don't you even dare!" she said, her gaze smoldering.
He scoffed derisively. "And what are you going to do?"
Colloportus, she thought and heard a satisfying click. When Malfoy tried the doorknob, it would not budge for him.
"Unlock the door!" he shouted.
"Professor Snape taught us all wandless magic," she replied with a smirk. "Unlock it yourself."
She knew he had yet to master wandless magic and was glad to finally have the upper hand.
His jaw worked furiously.
"You got us in this mess in the first place!" he said. "So you unlock the door, and let me go! I have better things to do, unlike you."
Hermione threw down her piece of cloth, pivoted on her heels, hands firmly on her hips as she glared.
"And pray tell, how is this even remotely my fault?" she asked, venom dripping from her words. "As I recall, you were the one who crashed into me and took sick pleasure in annoying me! How are you blameless in this? And why do you always, always paint yourself as the victim?"
"You're the one who took out your wand first!" he retorted. "And if you hadn't done that, Filch wouldn't be suspecting a thing!"
"Yeah, but you were the one who was going to use it first!"
"I was defending myself!"
"No, you weren't. You were threatening me!"
"You just want an excuse to pin this all on me!"
"As if you don't deserve it anyhow, you disgusting, vile, inbred little—"
"Shut up, Mudblood! And for the last time, let me out."
"No."
He sauntered toward her, and she saw that same wild spark in his eyes reappear. What was he going to do?
"Unlock the door," he hissed menacingly, and she could feel the soft puffs of his breath tickling the inside shell of her ear. A shiver ran down her spine.
She shook her head. He leaned in, almost as if for a kiss, but just short of touching her. Nervously, she wet her lips, and she glared defiantly back at him, though her gaze occasionally dropped to his lips, and she would wonder distractedly what it would be like to kiss him. For a moment, neither moved, frozen in time. But then, she did the craziest thing she had ever done. She leaned in as well, her lips faintly brushing against his, and before she knew it, he had pressed his lips against hers…
"Wake up, Hermione…" said a disembodied voice somewhere. The voice was so faint, yet so disturbingly familiar, and she wondered if it came from a great distance. Somehow, however, she knew it was close.
Her eyes were still shut, and she frowned.
"Wake up," repeated the same voice, though much stronger and clearer now.
Her eyes continued to remain firmly shut.
"Wake up, Hermione." The tone of his voice seemed more irritated and insistent.
When she opened her eyes, the world was in a haze. She blinked several times, waiting for things to refocus, and reality finally washed over her, and she was drowning in it. Everything came back to her, and she nearly cried.
She was so weak, lying sprawled on the cold dungeon floor, her wrists chafing from the merciless metal cuffs on the chains that kept her from moving more than a few feet. She was a dirty, bloodied mess. Her heart pounded painfully against her ribcage as she watched him, impeccably clean and standing on the other side of those metal bars.
"Hello," he said quietly.
She did not return the greeting.
"Tilly, here, reckons that you've been dreaming," he said, smirking, "and that you've been moaning my name."
Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing as she watched the house-elf whimper.
His smirk faded and was replaced by a deep scowl.
"Leave us," he said curtly to the small elf and give it a sharp kick that sent the elf running for the exit.
Hermione didn't even have enough energy to be indignant at his appalling treatment of the house-elf. With a few clanks, the door to her cell was opened and he stepped through, crouching before her, with that malicious smirk plastered across his face.
"Enjoying yourself?" he said.
At that moment, she wanted desperately to hate him. To hate him with the same dark fire that used to burn in her heart back in Hogwarts. It would make things so much easier. But she couldn't. She forgave him time and time again for his transgressions against her partly because of a guilt that continued to eat through her day by day but also because she still loved him.
His thumb caressed her cheek, brushing away the tears that she didn't even know she had shed. His touch was so surprisingly but deceptively gentle; she almost let herself believe that he was her Draco again. Instead, her mind drifted back to that peaceful night under the stars, a stolen moment, away from the atrocities and devastation of war. It had been a night of hope, of happiness. And it had been the first time he had told her that he loved her, and he had held all the sincerity and tenderness left in the world in his gaze. And she had believed him.
"Reliving old memories?" he asked softly, with that poisonous smirk that sent her crashing back to this nightmarish reality.
She hated how he always knew her so well.
"Draco, please," she begged, her voice hoarse and barely audible.
But please what? Let her go? Make the pain stop? Love her again?
"Did you hear?" he murmured. "Weasley's dead."
And this time, she felt the tears that rolled down her dirty cheeks. No… Not Ron too… He stared at her with that smile, as if she was the most amusing thing he had ever seen.
"What will precious Potter do now?" he said in mock concern. "No Weasley to sacrifice himself for him, no Granger to figure things out for him… What will Saint Potter do now? Face it, Granger, the Dark Lord is winning."
The last words were spoken in a deadly whisper.
"Harry will come through," she said, her voice surprisingly firm. "Harry will fight to the end, and he will win. He won't let us down."
He shook his head, a quiet mirthless chuckle spilling from his lips.
"Such hope, such faith," he said. "Too bad you're wrong. After all, it wouldn't be the first time."
She knew exactly what he was referring to, but she made no acknowledgment to the fact. He made it clear that he did not love her, never had, and never will. And yet, at times, she wondered. How could he have possibly faked that earnestness during their relationship? Could he be that compelling of an actor? But it didn't matter now anyway. He was a different man now, ever since her betrayal.
"Forgive me," she whispered, her heart clenching painfully. It was the first time since her capture that she had uttered those dreaded two words, but there was nothing left now for her. All the pride and dignity in the world didn't matter anymore.
For a moment, something like pain flashed across his stormy gray eyes, but it soon disappeared. A look of dark resolve crossed his features, and she felt more defeated than ever. After all, how could he forgive her? He had opened his heart and bared his soul to her, and she repaid him by turning him over to the Order. He hadn't spoken to her or even looked at her for days until he had escaped. She had justified her actions as a necessity of war, but she never had foreseen the methods the Order had used to extract information from him. But it was too late now. How could he possibly forgive her when she could not even forgive herself?
He stood up and left the cell, shutting the door with a sharp clang. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks, and she berated herself viciously for crying.
End.
A/N: Please review!