Disclaimer: Belongs to J.K Rowling
Idea Dedication: Written on request by Write all about it and based around her idea.
Thanks to my beta JDeppIsMyLovely for fixing this up and helping me.
Forget Me Naught
"Would you ever let anything happen to me?"
"No, never."
He squeezed his eyes shut, the thundering music adding to his massive headache. Next to him he felt the girl shift closer, but he didn't care. He didn't know her, and she had yet to speak to him. Besides, he didn't need her. He didn't need anyone.
The half empty glass of liquor sat before him. How many had he had? Opening his eyes, his vision blurred by the intake, he stared down at it. What had he been drinking? He couldn't recall anymore. With a sigh, he turned away from the alcohol. Nothing seemed to soothe his soul nowadays. Reaching into his pocket, he traced a finger over the sole item that lingered there.
Don't think about that Draco; stop putting yourself through this.
He didn't retract his hand, just crushed the object in his grip. It wouldn't break, but he almost wished it would. At least then it wouldn't haunt him like everything else. Looking around, he couldn't help thinking back to darker times, when events like this happened just a floor below where he slept. She would've had something to say, she always did.
"Shouldn't they be asleep?"
"Not everyone has your bedtime silly."
She pouted. "Can I go see? You never let me see."
His grip tightened on the bed, face paling. "No, I don't want you to ever see any of that."
He tightened his grip on the bar. She would've been curious about this too; she was always curious. He hadn't ever wanted to crush her imagination, her curiosity, but he had needed to keep her safe back then.
As if it matters at all now…
The blond man shoved off the bar. He would not let himself think of darker, crueler times. If he did, the scars on his body would reopen. Stumbling as he attempted to find his footing, he nearly ran into the woman who had been sitting beside him. Finally on level ground, he looked up to see her pretty face twisted into a scowl.
"Look who it is," she sneered, her friend joining in the look. He bowed his head, knowing what they were thinking; the same thing everyone was thinking. "I thought they had you shipped off to Azkaban."
Her friend laughed, joining in the mockery of one Draco Malfoy. "No, that would be too easy. He doesn't deserve to have the demons held off." She looked over at his downcast expression, his sad attitude. Had this been just a few years prior, she would've been throwing herself at him, but not anymore. Spitting at his feet, she continued, "You deserve to be punished."
He didn't speak, didn't know how to react, and just nodded stupidly. He had this confrontation with people more than he liked to admit, and it always made him feel beaten down and worse than before. No one cared how he felt, or that it affected him too. If he was someone else, they would have pity, but because he was a Malfoy, all they could see was red.
The first girl opened her mouth to speak again, but he had heard enough. Turning, he stormed from the club, hoping no one realized it was him again nor tried to say anything demeaning. He didn't have the fight in him anymore to retaliate. Finding his way out onto the streets, the girl's lingering spit glistening on his once expensive shoes, he pulled the cloak tightly to his body. He just wanted to go home.
One may question why he came out at all anymore, or how he could show his face. Everyone knew what happened on a general basis, but no one really knew the details. No one ever thought that it hurt him too. He was just the bastard that let her die. But in a way, it was everyone's sin, not just his own; they had been in a war, and everyone had killed and everyone had let someone they knew die a brutal death at some point.
He just got all the flames.
Wandering down the street, he could hear them talking, all those fucking wizards talking: "He's a bastard." "I heard he didn't shed a tear, now look at him!" "Is that Draco Malfoy? I would never recognize that scum!" "Can you believe that the Golden Trio defended that moron? He deserved a life in Azkaban!"
He moved to cover his ears, and a passer laughed. Yes, they always laughed at him. He was a joke these days, but at least they weren't bothering him. Hugging the cloak to his body, he made it to the nearest floo and left the area, too drunk to trust himself to apparate.
Appearing in his flat, he fell to his knees beside the couch and stifled a sob. It wasn't that he couldn't deal with people's words- Merlin knew he had tolerated plenty of people when he had returned to school after the war- but it was the fact that they hated every little thing about him. On more then one occasion, he had heard them speaking badly of her, and that really set him off. No one had ever really even known her besides him, yet they dared to criticize her? How dare they!
He shoved his face into the cushion. It had been years since he hadn't cried, and that fact alone made him feel even more pathetic. He simply could not help it. He had no friends, no one to turn to, no parents. He was alone in the world and not a day went by that he forgot it.
Had he been a better person, a better listener, she would still be alive and he would at least have some form of joy. But no, the only person he cared a wit about was torn from his life over a year ago, and nothing would change that now.
He was going to bring her roses tomorrow, little yellow long-stemmed roses like she had loved so much, the kind he had only been able to obtain on few occasions during her life. He wished he had gotten her so many more.
Dragging himself into a sitting position, he forced the emotions back. Crying had never got him anywhere, and it only ever seemed to make the hole in his life larger. Wiping his eyes, he glanced around the loft he had bought himself just after her death, so he could live anywhere else besides that dreaded Manor. After the defeat of Voldemort, he found he had no ties to his ancestral home and had not returned to the place since the day she was killed.
"Why do we have to stay up here?"
He reached out, gently stroking her chubby cheek. "Because I don't want you around them."
"But I don't see anyone! I want friends, like Bella has."
He bit his lip; Bella had friends, but because she had a better connection with Voldemort. "You don't want friends like Bella has."
"Yes I do!"
"No, you don't."
He rubbed roughly at his forehead, willing the memories to go away if only for a moment. He couldn't constantly take them popping into his subconscious. He needed peace, simply so he did not break into another set of water-works.
Voldemort had been defeated just under a year ago. When the Order's original plans to defeat him fell through, many people were killed on both sides. From there small battles had continued on for years, until one day Potter was able to slip in under a polyjuice potion, with Weasley and some other members at his side. Draco hadn't stayed to watch much, had been too busy trying to get her out, but he had heard a few days later that Weasley died.
The Dark Lord had made a run for it at first during that final fight, weakened by the loss of the Horcux's and unwilling to fight Potter in his condition. It was then that he spotted Draco making an escape with her, and had caught ahold of the girls arm. When he had dared to throw a spell in Riddle's direction, he had retaliated by hitting her. The spell had silenced her young soul forever.
It was something he would never forget. The walls of his home were blank and bare, painted in some places where he had tried to mimic her favorite colors after he was saved from Azkaban; green like mint was painted near the door, sky blue covered part of the ceiling, powder pink was splattered across the far wall; it looked like someone had attempted to make patchwork out of his living room. And strangely enough, this was his favorite living space. Rarely did he venture to other parts of his new home.
It was like the paint captured glimpses of who she had been, who she had wanted to be. He told her about all sorts of things, like his school years and Hogwarts, and she had been enchanted.
"Are any of the house colors pink?"
He made a face. "Gryffindor is red, but you wouldn't want to be in there; you would be in my enemy house."
She just smiled. "Red is close to pink!"
He missed her so much. She had been so full of life, so energized even in that demented place and she had been his ray of sunshine since the moment she came into his life. Now she was gone, and he still wasn't ready to believe it. Shrugging off his coat, he removed the sole item hiding in the pockets; a ribbon in her favorite pink color. He had always tied her hair back with it. It was something Voldemort had snatched from her head after he killed her.
And after Potter killed him, Draco had stolen it back. He needed that lone ribbon.
The blond knew he was pathetic, holding onto a worn ribbon to keep her close. But really, it was all he could save of hers from the Manor. When Auror's went through and swept the place, they weren't too careful to leave things in a decent condition. He lost everything.
Staring down at it, he decided he needed another drink. If he drank enough, the pain wasn't as severe, and he was sure if he kept feeling this thudding pain his heart would surely explode.
Then again, his liver would probably fail him soon too. He was always drinking these days, trying to make sense of what had happened to his life.
He didn't mean to go out that day; he had been trying to avoid it. But the fact of the matter was that he needed to get food so he could eat, and that involved going to some of his least favorite places; muggle market's had been considered on days like these on more then one occasion, but he wouldn't know the first thing about how to deal with anything in a place like that, so he was just going to suffer through his shopping.
He kept his head bowed; only looking up when it was time to grab something. He could feel their glares on his skin, their hate radiating off of them. Time had not healed anything, and he was still the bad guy to every last person.
He reached up to grab something and continued walking as he brought the item down to rest with everything else in his arms. Someone stuck their foot out and tripped him, sending him to the ground with his groceries flying everywhere. The laughs erupted, and it was then that he found he didn't want to get back up. He had caught himself on his hands, his eyes glaring at the ground. Here they were, mocking him again, when they knew nothing of what he had personally been through.
"You are the strongest person ever!"
He wrapped her in a hug, lifting her up. "I'm only as strong as the world permits me to be. Everyone had a breaking point sweetie."
"Now you are just as dirty as all of us," someone called out, and he was sure it had to be a Mudblood. They were not nearly as respected yet as they wanted to be, but they weren't being shoved into the ground anymore either. It seemed now that it was the Purebloods' turn.
People around him agreed with this man, and began to go on about their own thoughts. He heard shuffling above him, and dared not look up until after he knew everyone was moving again. Sighing, he shoved his coat sleeve down first; covering the pink ribbon he had tied around his wrist today, and struggled to his feet. The hangover potion saved him from a massive headache, but at the age of twenty-five he did not move quite as well as he had at eighteen. Looking around, he realized a few people had destroyed some of the things he had picked up.
As he began to collect the items that were still in tact, a pair of legs caught his attention. This woman had not moved like the others, and he dreaded to know who was looking down at him. Picking up the last thing, he stood, meeting her eyes. He was startled at who he saw.
Granger, Hermione Granger; she looked nothing like she had a year ago when he saw her at trial, defending him when few others would. She had grown up, learned to dress like a woman, and had on some sort of expensive jacket. Her hair was pulled back into a professional, classy up do, and she carried herself with squared shoulders. Staring at her, he realized she had somehow become the replica of what he had once been.
"Granger," he spoke, startled. The moment the words were out of his mouth he realized she would probably shoot him down for bothering to speak to her; he was hated.
Her eyes widened. "Malfoy," she asked, extending a hand quickly to catch an item that was about to fall to the floor. Her fingers were clean, unpolished, but small, and as she caught it one of her rings caught ahold of his jacket, snagging it. He couldn't decide if it was a wedding band or not. But the fact that she bothered to speak back without venom, and save one of his items at the same time floored him.
She straightened, smiling. "I barely recognized you! Merlin, what happened? You look like you've aged a good twenty years. You should at least take care of yourself, seeing as you were saved from the prison."
The blond nodded, still stunned that someone was talking kindly to him. Looking just past her, he realized that people were staring. Hastily, he snatched his item back. "Thanks," he said curtly, attempting to bypass her. He didn't want to deal with people any longer, and hoped they would stop looking at him.
She spun around as he passed her. She had seen the entire scene; from one of her old classmates tripping him to everyone laughing, squashing some of his food. She had cringed, wondering why everyone continued to mock him after so long. So when the crowd cleared, she had remained.
"Malfoy," she said slowly, touching his arm just as he passed her. Shocked, he stopped moving all together. "Would you care to have a cup of tea with me?"
Now he was horrified. Why was she being kind? He deserved none of it. People were watching still, and her hand remained on his arm, studying him. He wanted to pull away, but was worried she may vanish. He hadn't heard anyone say his name without an underlying tone of hate in years.
"S-sure," he stuttered, unable to stop his eyes from widening. The last thing he wanted to do was have a public cup of tea with her! Oh the things people would say after this!
But she just gave him a soft smile, ignoring everyone around them, and took his arm, leading them both to the register so he could pay.
Uncomfortable was not a strong enough word for how Draco Malfoy was feeling. They had taken up residence in what was a small, quaint coffee shop, right at the back, but he still knew the few people there were glaring at him.
She studied him closely as they sat in silence. His knuckles were gripped around that cup tight enough that it appeared it would break his skin white. He wouldn't look up and just kept staring down at their table, as though he was ashamed.
"You look worse for wear," she commented, sipping her tea slowly. When she had seen a figure in the crowd being picked on, her first instinct was to help. They had been adults doing the taunting, not children who were far from mature. But when she recognized the bowed blond head her eyes had widened. Never, before that moment, had she ever expected to fin Draco Malfoy in such a broken position.
He only nodded in response, hardly touching his tea. The war had stemmed on just past May 1999, and although she knew little of what happened to him during the end of it, she did know he had lost someone very special to him. Merlin, all of Britain knew, since the renegade Death Eater's that were slowly captured kept saying the same thing; At least I am not Malfoy. How he lives with himself, I will never understand.
Staring at him now, she didn't think he was living with himself. Clearing her throat, she attempted to start the conversation again. "I've been in Italy the past year; it's a lovely country."
"Indeed it is," he muttered, picking up a spoon to stir at his drink that was probably cold by now. "The beaches there are phenomenal."
Good, I got him to talk. She nodded eagerly. "Yes, I needed a change of scenery for a bit after the war. I had things that needed to be attended to, but could be handled out of Britain. Tell me, what have you do with your life?"
He gripped the table tightly, and she instantly knew it was a mistake to mention that. His attitude said enough to alert her of this. Surviving. "I've been living day to day, really," he choked, unwilling to look up. If he did, he was certain she would see the shiny pain in his eyes.
She nodded slowly, taking in how rigid he had suddenly gotten. "I see," she breathed, pushing her drink aside. It wasn't that she meant to be mean, or even dig around in his thoughts, just that she wanted him to look a bit less depressed and a bit more alive. For Circe's sake, what had that war done to him.
But then, she remembered the rumors, the stories that had surfaced about him, about his failure. Why did so many people hold a candle to what happened to him when so many others had lost the same thing? As far as she could see, people were cruel to him simply because of who he had been, and might even still be beneath the layers of angst.
Hesitantly, she slid her hand across the table, resting it on his. Startled, he practically jumped out of his seat at the contact. She wasn't deterred though, and instead stared at the crown of his head, the only part she had really been speaking to since arriving.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, hoping the sincerity would show through. It appeared that not one person had shown him compassion since the incident, and she vaguely wondered how he had kept from killing himself if that were the case.
Instead of looking grateful, he snatched his hand away like she had burned him. She was almost hopeful that he would take it that way; at least she would be able to see that although ice lay inside the depths of his soul, his character wasn't completely gone. But instead, he crushed her hopes.
"Don't tell me you're sorry; you don't even understand," he breathed, and she did note the way his breath hitched as he spoke. Before she could say more, he rummaged clumsily through his pocket, searching for a few coins to give for a tip. Tossing them onto the table, he practically ran away from her. As the door to the coffee shop closed, all eyes turned to look at her.
She could only see confusion, hate, and resentment echoing in the irises of their eyes.
And because everyone was so silent for that single moment, the broken sob from the departed blond outside was lost to the ears of no one in the establishment.
He crushed the object in his hand again, willing it to bring something to his heart other than pain. He hadn't kept it so that he would always be ridden with grief, but the opposite; so he would never have an excuse for forgetting her- although, he doubted he could.
Look at him, the miserable oaf. He wallowed in grief and pity everyday of his life now, and all people were ever able to see was the bastard that fought in the highest ranks in Voldemort's army, and paid the absolute highest price. But no one cared how it hurt his heart, no one cared at all; all they saw was an unfit figure who did not do enough to protect the girl, and that was the bottom line.
But there was so much more to his story. How did he expect to carry on while the pain ate at his heart, when the world couldn't care less if he was dead? No one would bat an eye if Draco Malfoy hung himself, cursed himself into the afterlife. He was, after all, just another twisted blemish ruining this world. The war had sought to end this, yet someone as horrible as he remained outside of prison? No one could wrap their head around this; no one wanted to accept the truth.
He hadn't been outside his home in days. He didn't want to face the sunshine, the people, and the words. He wanted to sit in his patchwork home, thinking about the girl he had lost, the pride of his life, and how horrible he was for it; the same things he always thought about each night before he fell into a restless sleep.
"I don't understand."
"We are not meant to understand sweetie, just to follow. This war will be outlived by the both of us, and someday, you'll understand why this happened."
The words he had told her were not something he himself could follow. He just couldn't understand why it had to be her. Sure, it had been done solely to hurt him mentally and emotionally, but she was so innocent- and the Dark Lord had known this- that it was unfair.
He stared down at the bottle before him again. "A Drunk," they would call him, "a bloody drunk who is lower than the ground." Oh yes, when this was all over they would still taunt him, even in the afterlife, but just then he didn't care.
He put the bottle to his lips and titled his head back.
The timid knocking was barely audible through the space, even from his close location in the living room. Whoever was at his door was either afraid of him or afraid of what they were doing, and whatever the reason maybe didn't matter a bit to him. He cracked his eyes open, cranky now, and stumbled to the door, so rudely awakened from his drunken sleep.
He threw the door open, willing to take the punch if it came at him so long as the timid noise was halted. He expected another man to be there, another one that thought it would be funny to find his address and take a swing at him, reminding him that he had been so awful. But the hit never connected with his skin, and it took a moment for his hazy vision to clear so that he could see that it was a woman and not a man that stood outside his door.
On closer inspection, he noted that it was Hermione Granger. What could she possibly want now?
The moment the door opened, she took in his attire. His breath reeked, and he seemed to have been wearing the same thing for days. Now, that was terribly un-Malfoy-like. If his strange attitude and choked sob from the other day hadn't been enough of an indication that he was depressed, then this certainly was.
"Afternoon Malfoy," she said, keeping her tone pleasant. She noted that he blinked several times as she said this, as though registering for the first time that it wasn't morning.
"Yes, afternoon," he said, his words slurring. He must've just recently finished drinking if the alcohol was still having such an affect on him. "Can I help you?"
He really was acting strange. Giving him a light shrug, she looked up at his eyes. "I came to pay you a visit."
The blond looked horrified by this. "Why?"
Tilting her head to see into his apartment and make sure he had no other company, she spoke, "You seem in need of someone to talk to." Without waiting for a response, she shoved past him, walking straight into his home.
It was an odd home indeed. Discovering that he no longer lived in the Manor was surprising, and it had taken a bit of research to track down his new address; she congratulated herself on her excellent investigative nature, otherwise she may very well still be searching. Taking a seat slowly, she noted the décor.
He turned to her. "What are you doing in my house," he demanded, shutting the door. An empty bottle of something sat on a table next to the only chair in the space, although the label was turned away from her view.
Instead of replying, she reached slowly into the bag she carried on her shoulder, producing something she held out to him. Raising an eyebrow, he took the item that was held out to him; it was a roll of pink thread. His eyes snapped up to hers, and she slowly brushed her hair behind her ear.
"I saw the ribbon on your wrist the other day-"
"Get out," he said curtly, throwing her gift on the ground. She hadn't expected him to take it with open arms, but she had hoped he would be more open to the object. Having noticed the ribbon on his wrist the other day, she had come to her own conclusion about its meaning.
She slowly pursed her lips, looking down at her hands. "I went to visit Ron today," she said slowly, her voice choked, "I went to his grave. You know, I haven't been there since the day his heart stopped, but I needed to." Her eyes rose then, meeting the blonde's angry stare. She knew he couldn't give a fuck less about her pain, her story, but she wanted him to at least understand her reason for coming. "I-I passed her grave, and I noticed the roses there, the yellow ones." She indicated to the pink ribbon. "I-I thought maybe you could use that for the next set of roses you take to her, since that ribbon has to be hers-"
"I said get out," he cried again, cutting her off. He had tried to listen to her, but she was digging at a whole he didn't want to look at. Pointing his finger, he hoped she would get the message. "Out! Get out Granger!"
Standing, she slowly raised her hands. "I did not come to make war Malfoy," she said quietly, walking sideways to the door, watching him the whole way. "I only ever came with good intentions."
His lip quivered, and although he was on the brink of saying something else he forced himself to be quiet. Sure, she came with good intentions, but they were not intentions he wanted to accept.
He did not move until she was out the door, the click alerting him that it was locked again. As soon as he knew that she couldn't get back in, he sank to his knees beside the pink ribbon. Picking it up slowly, digging through his pocket, he produced the one she had tied her hair back with, the one he had gotten for her birthday.
They're practically the same color. He sat down slowly, running cool fingers over the cloth. Yes, these were just like her own. And Granger had remembered the color well enough to gather this specific thread.
He bit his lip hard to stop the quivering. How long had this girl been back in town? A month, maybe two? And yet he had seen her twice, which was more than he had ever expected. Granger was not someone he had ever seen attempting to reach out to him and help him in his time of suffering. No, she was possibly the last person in fact.
Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the chair. It was too good of a present, for this single reel of thread actually meant more to him than her help at the market. Why did she bother, when she had already done more than she needed to when she petitioned about his arrest, despite Weasley having only died a few days before his court date? Why did she bother assisting him more?
Standing slowly, he made his way to the kitchen, both ribbons in hand. He tucked hers back into his pocket, but carried the other reel right over to the table. Tossing it down, he stared at the flowers he had charmed to live forever on his table; long-stemmed yellow roses. It was peculiar how her favorite flower was not her favorite color.
Hesitantly, he picked one of the roses from the vase. Shaking away the water, he took up the pink ribbon, and tied a single bow around the stem. There, now she had someone else in the world who missed her; Granger. How ironic. He stood the flower up, marveling at it. It was something she would've loved; two of her favorite things coming together.
"It's so pretty," she cried, twirling in her new dress, the dress he had worked months to obtain. When you are hated, few people will sell to you.
"Of course," he said, smiling at the girl, "A pretty dress for a pretty girl."
She peeked over her shoulder, giving him a cheeky grin. "And it's pink! I thought you would get me a green one 'cause you like green."
"Of course not; this one is for you; made just for you."
He pressed his lips into a line. It had been a muggle dress he gave her, pink with yellow flowers. He thought it was hideous, but couldn't keep that statement in mind once she put it on; it had been adorable.
Turning, he walked back into the living room, searching for his coat. He hoped that no one would be there that day, for although they would never dare to disrupt a grave, they would be cruel enough to ruin his visit. He wanted to drop off the rose, a token to her that someone else besides him missed her in the world, even if Granger had never known her.
He smiled sadly as he walked to the floo, rose in his hand. He would apparate once he got closer, since she had always loved to floo more than to Side-Along Appaprate. He never fully Apparated to visit her.
Closing his eyes, he smiled contently, a happy memory of his daughter clearing his clouded mind. He wasn't struggling through life to be a pimple on everyone else's lives, but because he wasn't done living; he was not done living for her.
"Are you going to forget about me," she asked, pouting. She folded her arms, glaring up at him.
"Of course not; I'll be back in a few days. Aunt Pansy is going to watch you."
She stomped her foot angrily. "You're going to forget about me and be gone forever!"
He smiled softly, staring down at his little girl. In one fluent motion, he had her in his arms, squishing her in a hug. "I could never forget you."
Hermione was surprised when she received a letter the following day, without a name or indication. Opening it, she found a photograph of a gravesite, seven yellow roses lying on top of it, an eighth with a pink ribbon tied around the stem.
She smiled slightly. So he had decided to take her present after all.
It was months before Draco Malfoy ran into her again. Since that first odd visit, he had not seen eye or ear of Hermione Granger. Oh sure, there was the occasional article in the paper about her, but they did not talk. It wasn't a surprise. It was through those articles though that he learned her friend, Ginny Weasley- was killed walking through the halls of her work one day, an excess Death Eater finding her as she made her way home. The article indicated that the man had no one, and had used the muggle method of killing. But he did not see Granger, and did not know how she and Potter took the news.
It was on the same block that she had saved him month ago that they reconnected. He had picked up a few things to do that night, all of them including alcohol or paint. He nearly tripped over her still form on the ground.
"Fuck," he cursed, moments before his eyes adjusted to the darker black below him, picking out the face of Hermione in the almost nonexistent light. They were less than twenty feet from the front a a pub, the girl hidden behind piles of garbage. Immediately, he panicked.
"Granger," he hissed, kneeling beside her. For a moment, he thought she was dead. That was before she moaned and rolled away from him.
"Go away Malfoy," she muttered, and he could hear the slurr in her voice. So, he wasn't the only one out there that got seriously shit-faced when the world beat on them. However, that fact did little to comfort him.
"Are you alright? What are you doing on the ground?"
"Tripped," she muttered, sounding tired. "I was going home, but now I'll sleep here."
Well doesn't that sound like a brilliant idea? "Granger, you can't lie here on the ground. What if someone else found you? What if it were someone dangerous?"
He watched her shoulders move, the outline of her body just visible. "Does it really matter? We all die."
The blond didn't need someone to explain to him what had her so down. Sighing, he forced her to her feet. He had made the mistake before leaving someone alone when he thought they would be alright, and he could never outlive the guilt that swallowed him for it. "You can't lay here Granger," he muttered, dragging her with him as he continued on his way to the floo. He just couldn't make himself leave the girl there. Besides, she had done two kinds things for him in recent history; he could at least repay the favor by not leaving her sprawled on the ground, drunk out of her mind.
"Where are we going," she asked as they walked, and he hoped that no one would see them; a drunk Golden Trio member and Draco Malfoy? Auror's would be swarming his home in a matter of minutes.
"My flat,' he said curtly, making her stand beside him so he could floo them. "I at least need to give you a potion before sending you on your way.
If she had a protest in mind, she didn't say anything.
"You should be more careful," he said, opening his own bottle of liquor. She was sober enough now thanks to the potion that she could at least answer him decently.
"I have my reasons for getting trashed, just like you have yours."
"Ah, but I am an expert in this art. For one, I do all my drinking at home, where I am only a danger to myself and no one else."
She nodded. "Yes, and drinking alone can certainly make a person depressed." He bit his lip; she had a point.
They were silent for a long time, and he kept waiting for her to get up and take her leave. After sitting in silence long enough for a fourth of his bottle to disappear, he sat forward and stared at her. "You don't plan to stay all night do you?"
She turned her head, looking him in the eyes, and he was surprised when he saw how bleak they were, just like his. "It's here or an empty house with echoing walls Malfoy. At least here I am required to stay composed."
He wondered what that meant, but didn't ask her, and they continued on in silence.
When the bottle was mostly gone, he stood. "I'm going to bed," the blond declared, marching over to her. Her eyes widened, hoping he didn't mean that she would be coming with him, when he made a shooing motion with his hand. That was certainly unexpected. Thrown and still intoxicated, she moved off the couch, which he promptly plopped onto, grabbing the blanket at the end and throwing it over his body before he relaxed.
She blinked. "What are you doing?"
"I just told you; I'm going to bed," he replied, not opening his eyes.
"But, this is your living room."
"Yes it is."
"Not your bedroom."
"Yes."
"You do have a bedroom, right?"
"Of course I do."
"Then why are you sleeping on your couch like a guest?"
He sighed, cracking one eye open to stare at her. "Don't try and understand the methods of my madness Granger, it will do you no good. You can sleep in my bed if you desire, it's practically new. But I am going to remain here." And with that, he rolled over, leaving her to stare at his back.
She blinked several times, surprised by his actions. How peculiar.
"You shouldn't drink so carelessly in the company of others," he said, speaking of a matter that had happened over a month ago. They did not speak a lot; they rarely spoke at all, but it seemed fate had crossed their paths once again.
She found him this time, sitting in front of a grave. He had commented on flask she had removed from her bag upon leaning against the nearby tree with him. It was strange to see someone who had become so prestigious like Granger take liquor from her bag like an alcoholic and down the contents of the flask quickly. He drank often, but at least it was done in the solitude and privacy of his own home.
The girl frowned at him, replacing the top on the flask before she put it back in her bag. "Who are you to judge? You drink more than I do."
The wind blew, moving his blond fringe from his forehead to flutter in the breeze; through that hazy vision for a moment he looked on at the grave before him. "I have reason to."
And there it was, the unspoken topic between them that Hermione had been kind enough to stay silent about through all of their meetings; she could've pressed for answers back when he took her to his home, but she did not. The magical community may hate him, but she knew as well as everyone else to not speak the topic aloud. Even being gone a year had not changed her mindset on that. In fact, it may have driven the point further into the contents of her mind, since she met up with the blond man again under such horrible conditions relating to peoples reactions on the topic. Only now did she have the time to stand there and consider just what it had to be like.
Body language among the two was unheard of. They may speak on rare occasions civilly, but there was nothing between them. They were simply two unlikely souls that kept meeting up when the other was at their lowest point. But it was today that Hermione planned to break that trend. Having found him there, in the middle of a graveyard, she knew his thoughts were haunted. Throwing her usual, stiff caution to the wind, she reached over and gripped his hand for a moment, before releasing.
When he looked over at her, the expression of surprise in his eyes was priceless. "What was that for?"
She watched as the blond man searched her face, looking for any signs of explanation there. It did not take an expert to understand that Draco Malfoy had been lacking human contact for at the very least a year. The warmth from another human was a foreign subject to him now, and she saw that reflected through those startled eyes every time she touched him; it was as though he expected her to lash out at him, to make a fool of him whenever he got his hopes up that someone else out there existed that cared how he felt.
This was not the git from school; this man had been through heartbreak worse than she could understand, and despite all of her losses, she did not have any one thing she could compare to what he had lost. She had nothing that could hold a candle to his pain.
She grave him a tight lipped smile. "Strength."
They stood in silence again, the chilly breeze blowing their hair and their coats. Neither spoke, afraid to ruin the tranquil silence that had taken over their surroundings. And through that silence, her single-worded answer echoed in his head.
"She had strength," he said quietly, and the girl whipped her head around to look at him. They had been silent for a while now, and the sudden interruption of human words was a surprise; she had suspected that she would need to begin the conversation again first. "So much strength; she was the strongest person I ever knew. She always wanted to do something, always wanted to go out and defy everyone, even though we were in such a difficult situation." She politely ignored the hitch in his voice as he spoke, turning back to stare down at the grave, all those yellow roses shining in the afternoon sun.
"Of course she wanted to defy everyone; she was your daughter."
The past-tense use of his daughter seemed to set the blond off, and from beside her she heard his breath hitch again. "Yes, she was."
Hermione shifted, their shoulders touching now. His shook slightly, and she could not decide if it was because he was trying to control his emotions or because he had decided to let go. Either way, she stood beside him until his body stopped shaking next to hers.
"She loved pink."
"And green and blue," she breathed, remembering the unusual colors painted on the walls of Malfoy's flat. "And yellow?"
"Yes," he said, his eyes locking on the name on the gravestone, "She loved all of those colors. She loved pink the most though; hell, when I told her about Hogwarts, she wanted to be in Gryffindor house just so that she could be in the only house that was close to pink."
The brunette laughed, a restrained laugh that held no joy because of the miserable topic at hand. "I'm sure you would've just been so proud."
"I would've been proud," he barked, and she was surprised by how vicious his tone suddenly became. "I would've been proud of her, no matter where she ended up."
She moved away from him a bit, brushing at her hair. She didn't mean to walk on rocks the way she did with him lately, but this was a topic she had a hard time facing. The Weasley's had lost many children as well, but not in the way Malfoy had lost his daughter. That young girl's death had been announced to everyone as a warning the day he went to kill Harry. She would forever remember his chilling words;
"You think that standing against me will do you any good? Do you not understand the position all of you are putting yourselves in? When Harry Potter dies, there will be no mercy for you; I have no mercy for people who go against me." His lips had twisted up, his face a bit more detailed after a few extra years of living, "Do you know what I do to people who betray me?" It was here that some of the Death Eater's standing behind him began to smile wickedly. "Do you know how I drill a point into your head? No, of course you don't, but my people do!"
"Lucius Malfoy was killed ten weeks ago to this day for disobeying a direct order; a straight killing curse to the head. But all of you? The punishment will not be that simple, that forgiving. His son, Draco, tried to defy me. Can you believe that? Defy me? He was actually going to help all of you! But I cannot have a spy in my home! No, and do you know what I did? Do you know what I did to make him see the level of hate I harbor for people who go against me?"
No one answered, no one dared. Hermione, who stood beside Ron, who stood beside Harry, got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was apparent that whatever had happened had not been pretty, and she did not want to know what he had done. All she could think of at that moment though, was the rumors she heard about Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass having a young girl, who was about four. Astoria had been killed over a year before.
That sickening grin widened. "I killed his daughter. You hear me! I killed his daughter, his pride and joy, while he stood by and watched. Can you believe this, ladies and gentlemen? Draco Malfoy let me kill his child, and I tell you! He will never cross me again."
She remembered the straightforward way he had said this, as though he was talking about the weather. No emotion, no guilt, just the cold-hearted truth that Voldemort had been able to murder a child without even blinking an eye.
But it did not stop there, the horror. She remembered after the war, how rumors spread and words tangled, and eventually the people who heard the real confession were little to none, and those who had not been present had twisted and confused words to bring on a new meaning to the story; Draco Malfoy had not been forced to watch his child die anymore, but had instead stood by willingly and done nothing. A simple misunderstanding in the beginning that she knew had escalated into much, much more.
She understood how it felt to lose someone important, but not to the extent he did, not really. Ron had died from too many wounds and potion painkillers just days before Malfoy's trial, and she could vividly remember the whole it left behind in her chest; she was angry, and hurt that her best friend was gone. She had kissed him, dated him scarcely throughout the war, but whatever that may have become in the aftermath of everything had been viciously ripped away by the very cause they had been fighting. She remembered the loneliness, the guilt, but she had not been present at his death, and that was quite possibly the biggest difference between the two cases; Ron died being treated at St. Mungo's, and Draco's daughter had been murdered at the hands of a madman, in ways that she could not imagine.
There was always that initial pain that surfaces after the death of a loved one, and Hermione had decided to flee her troubles to the shores of Italy. But she had not found the peace she sought there, and in the last letter she received from Harry and Ginny explaining all the problems with the remaining Death Eater's, she had shoveled down her pain and gone home. But she had the option to run, whereas Malfoy, as an ex-Death Eater, was prohibited from leaving England for ten years. He did not have the luxury of escape that she had, and she could pity him for that. No one had hated her for Ron's death, no one had seen her as the one to blame, but he had been thrown into a lie and was now paying for what other people had made up. She didn't think that it was fair that he had to deal with all of this, but it didn't seem that anyone had tried to actually talk to him about any of this up until now. No wonder he drank so much.
Hermione had not touched alcohol when Ron died, finding that if she did in her state of depression she would likely commit suicide. But with Ginny it was different; she wasn't afraid of the effect the toxin would have on her, so long as it eased her pain. She had to be strong, she had to be collected, for the Weasley's and Harry were not able to be. It hurt them in ways different from how it hurt her, and she found herself trying to be strong enough for the remaining load to hold onto in their time of loss.
Maybe that was why they were alike now; they used something to help them get by from day to day, and she very well knew that it was killing them. But it was helpful, and it got her through to the next sunrise, and that was all she could say on that matter.
Looking back at the blond, she could compare him to Molly and Arthur Weasley. How many children had they lost? Three? He may have only lost one, but the fact remained that it had been his child, just like it had been their children. Perhaps they could better understand his situation than she ever would.
Reaching forward, she placed a soft hand on his shoulder. He glanced at her, his eyes betraying no emotion, and that made her heart ache a bit. After everything that had happened to him, he should have more pain than man, yet he kept everything suppressed, and it was not at all healthy. He could not keep living like this; he was falling down a bad path, no matter how slowly, and she knew those depressed emotions and isolated moments would eventually lead him to contemplate his own death. Without the interference of another human being that was where she saw him ending up.
"Of course you would be; you're not prejudice anymore Malfoy, you would've loved her no matter where she went."
He nodded tightly, clenching and unclenching his hands. "Why were you here today Granger?"
"Excuse me," she asked, her eyebrows coming together. They had never even been speaking about her.
"You heard me," he said, his voice dead of emotion again, "Why are you here?"
At first, she didn't respond, just looked up at him, and it was a while before she took a step back from his gaze. "I came to visit Ron… and Ginny."
He nodded once. "I expected as much. Do you always bring alcohol with you when you come to visit the deceased?"
She clutched her bag, remembering the flask there. Her eyes dropped, unwilling to meet his. "I bring it with me generally," she said slowly.
"It's not courteous to drink around a grave you know," he continued stepping away from her as well. "Drink in the solitude of your home; no one can judge you inside those walls."
Her gingers tightened on her purse. "Except yourself."
He titled his head, watching her through half open eyes. "Do you judge yourself for drinking Granger?"
The brunette wet her lips, not looking up. "I am… unhappy with the methods I have come to use to cope."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps then you should find another way to; if you are depressed then drinking will do nothing for you."
"I could say the same for you."
That made him pause his sentence, his jaw tightening. "Our situations are different."
It was only then that her head finally turned up again to look at him, eyes meeting his own. "Actually, our situations are remarkably similar. We faced a war Malfoy; we all lost those we loved, some of us more than others. We are all learning to move on, although neither of us seem to be doing a very good job." She didn't smile, just stood and waited to see what she had to say.
He turned away, walking a few steps before he put a hand to his head. "They are still different; you know it. You have never watched either of those people die, it was reported to you. She was killed in front of my own eyes." He blinked quickly, fighting back the memories.
"Daddy, why is he looking for us?" Her hair was tied back, that pretty pink ribbon keeping dark locks out of her face.
"Don't worry about it honey," he hissed, walking them quickly through the halls of his home. He knew that Voldemort would be unhappy with what he was trying to do, and if Pansy Parkinson had not been killed earlier that day then his daughter would already be safely away from here, running off to wait out the end of this war under the Order's protection. No one save Moody really knew yet that he was switching sides, but they would know soon enough; tonight, if things went well.
But now Voldemort was looking for him, and that wasn't good. If he was found and the Dark wizard was angry, then his daughter could be in serious danger, and that could not be allowed. If he could just get her out, he would deal with whatever was coming his way. He could not let her get hurt.
And then the unthinkable happened; a billowing form appeared at the end of the hallway. A large, leering grin spread across the bastard's face. "Ah, Draco, I've been looking for you."
It all happened in a blur of arguments and curses, until his daughter was no longer behind him. She was just like him; headstrong, and willing to protect those she loved. It was just the wrong time. And he had been distracted in that moment, allowing the Dark Lord to hex him, bind him to the floor, throwing his wand out away from him. And he had watched helplessly as his four year old daughter was killed.
He would never forget it.
"We were close," he said quietly, closing his eyes slowly. "I was trying to get her away, before anyone found out that I was going to spy. I had to get her out of harms way, but someone found out about my plan and intervened. He found us, and… she was killed."
She stood still behind him, listening quietly to his story. She didn't speak- didn't dare to, for she had no idea what she would even say. The pain that laced every letter of the very words that feel from his mouth was enough to make her turn her head when he had finished speaking. So he was right; she didn't understand the particular pain that he was dealing with, but she did understand what it was like to be lost and alone.
"You shouldn't drink," she breathed, mimicking something he had told her minutes earlier. He inclined an eyebrow but did not turn to her as the girl spoke. "She loved you, I'm sure of it. And she loved you even when she was killed. If you want to make up for your mistake, you can't drink Malfoy; it wouldn't make your daughter proud to know that you are wasting away. And I'm certain that she is someone you wish you could make proud."
He tilted his head but didn't turn. She was insightful, just as she had always been. Of course he longed to make his daughter happy, but she was no longer there! And he would never be able to make up for his mistake, not in the eyes of the people of England nor her eyes in the afterlife. He felt constricted, unable to dig himself out of the whole he was stuck in.
It wasn't until she stepped in front of him that he even registered the quiet footfalls. Looking down at her, he noted that her eyes were wet. "Go home Malfoy; go home and start fresh tomorrow. Do what you have to do to make her proud." She turned to go, but this time he caught her shoulder.
"And what are you going to do?"
She took a shaky breath. "I'm going to try to do the same; I'm going to be someone that Ron and Ginny could be proud of." Shaking his hand off, she walked away, leaving him standing in the cool weather just in front of his daughter's grave.
"Tear down all of this daddy," she said, crossing her arms. "You have so much stuff! You have more stuff than I do! Tear it all down and make room for new pretty things; all this stuff is so dark. We need pink!"
Tear down the things that hold you back. That was what his head screamed at him as he entered his flat that night. This was not the Manor, no, this was a better place than the Manor, but it was littered with the same dark, depressing items that he had been surrounded by for years.
"I'm going to be someone that Ron and Ginny could be proud of." That's what Granger had said to him just before departing; she had told him to be someone his daughter would be proud of. Her words haunted his steps as he walked home that day, all the way up until he entered his home. His mind kept chanting: Tear down the barriers, tear away your pain.
The first thing he threw was his half finished whiskey; the glass shattered and liquid spilled across the carpet, but he felt better looking at a broken bottle than a daunting item to take one more sip from. Now he couldn't finish that off, and he didn't intend to finish off anymore of his stock.
"Why can't I have some?"
"This is what adults drink; when you're an adult you can have some."
"Why can only adults drink it?"
"It's bad for kids."
"If it's bad for kids, then it can't be very good for adults either. Don't drink it daddy," she said, swatting at the bottle, "I don't want you drinking something bad."
He watched each bottle break, spilling the contents onto his floors, and for the first time in a long time he did not feel that he needed the crutch to get by for another day. And somewhere across town, Hermione stood pouring her bottles down the drain, whipping her eyes whenever they got too moist.
He didn't change the walls to his home, and she didn't tear all of her pictures of Ron and Ginny to shreds. They both sat there that night in opposite places, staring at the walls, looking around at the mess of their apartments. Hermione's lay littered beneath photographs, crafts, and personal items; Draco's, a mess of split liquor and scarce pictures.
Two very different people, both trying to get out of the rut in their life. Two people, who had different faces in the eyes of society but battled the same things everyone else did behind closed doors. They threw their crutches away, and looked at the world through a different eye.
Be someone they would be proud of.
Before Draco went to bed that night- in his room, for the first time in nearly eleven months- he pulled a photograph out from his bedside table drawer, framed and all, and set it down on the table. He kissed the frame before he lay down, breathing deeply, the inscription on the frame echoing in his mind as he let sleep take him, the pink ribbon tied around his wrist:
Isis Nyx Malfoy 1999-2003
Loving Daughter
For the first time in a year, neither felt that their dreams were haunted by the ghosts of their pasts.
~FIN~