A/N: My very first fiction. It was inspired by a prompt I came across briefly. It's not very good, but hopefully I did it some justice! (:
Saving Grace
(In Draco's POV)
The crowd had erupted in a resounding applause. Justice had been served. The Dark Lord was dead, and his minions hastily put away. The world was right again, or so it was said in the Daily Prophet days after the final verdict.
I had watched on then, breath caught in my throat. My father had been a true blue Malfoy to the very end. Poised, stoic, unrepentant. He was always a proud man and as such, would rather have Avada-ed himself than admit folly – and so clung viciously to the familiar.
Though, I am fairly certain that he too had known. He was a defeated man, and strangely that thought had given me a queer sense of freedom. At the back of my mind, I had been compelled to grieve, just as my mother had done when the Wizengamot had announced the unanimous votes. I did not though, and for the life of me could not quite comprehend the immense relief that overshadowed my loss. On hindsight, I suppose that was, perhaps, my best shot at redemption.
Another try. I later learnt that a muggle philosopher once suggested the idea of a blank slate. Tabula Rasa. The idea of coming into being without in-built notions, who we are – what we become – are shaped from experience and perception. Only, I guess this was my do-over, my penance. And for years I would try, but people are ever so rarely forgiving to those that bear the mark.
Three months after, my father was given the kiss. My mother was ailing at the manor, mourning after her wayward husband, who regardless, she had loved dearly. It was not a sentiment that I could honestly say I had shared. The Prophet was vicious, as was the public, and by the third year, I had ceased trying. I was resigned. It was clear that no amount of galleons or hours of volunteer work was enough to atone for my family choices. I embodied evil. I was my father's son, and no one was forgetting that anytime soon.
The third year marked the first time I had left the wizarding world. I was curious, and desperate, nitpicking the faults in my father's ideology, what had also previously been mine. I dived into all things muggle – the science and art of it all. It had become an easy obsession, and I found that I particularly had a soft spot for muggle literature.
How could I have been so wrong?
It was with much regret and bafflement, that I had asked myself. It was a quarter into the year. I was damned if I knew the answer. I was completely mortified. What of redemption, what of second chances? I didn't think I was deserving of such mercy.
But there was a saving grace. She came in 5 ft 7, chestnut brown disaster of a hair, a tentative smile, and a warm outstretched hand. She could have easily been my salvation. And she was.
I was in the middle of blasted Pride and Prejudice – a novel I will adamantly deny to have read if asked – when she tapped me from behind. To say I was wholly shaken would be a complete understatement. It is not everyday that a witch, or anyone for that matter, appears in muggle London attempting to make conversation with one Draco Malfoy. Merlin, hell must have frozen over.
'Hi', she had said, smiling almost nervously. I could only nod, looking cautiously over her shoulder just to check if she had company, and by company I mostly mean the two bumbling idiots she called friends. She quirked her lips, a hint of comprehension evident in her eyes, and then she saw the bloody book, and let out a mirthful laugh. Her eyes were like crescent moons, tears threatening to fall from the corners. It was utterly refreshing, and she was beautiful. She told me it was one of her favourite books, and I let out an uncharacteristic snort. I am too bloody manly for Austen, I told her. She laughed, stretched out her hand and placed her palm on my arm. It had felt so natural, too natural even, and I fought to ignore the zing her supple skin had created, as it rested on my forearm. She spoke more words, and I watched her tongue dart out to wet her plump lower lip. She made it a fucking crime. We later walked to a café on the corner of the street, and I didn't know then, but it would later house our weekly meetings, and months down the road, I would be enamoured by her wit, and charm, and that goddamn sinful mouth of hers, and she would later teach me the art of redemption – a forgiveness of past sins, and I would love her, like an all-consuming force.
"What are you thinking about?" I hear her whisper, as she traces her fingertips down the line of my chest. She brushes my bangs aside, and I shudder, skin ablaze. Three years has passed since and suffice to say, I am still amazed at the effect she has on me.
"The beginning." I say, nuzzling the crook of her neck. I hear her sharp intake of breath, and let out a breath I had not realized I was holding. It still feels assuring to know that she too is not immune to me.
"What about?" She asks. It is night, and we are laying together, her frame curled against mine. We are a work of art, rightly unnatural, but strangely breath-taking. We have fought to be here, together, united. I have – quite literally – bled and bruised just to keep her with me, and she too has fought fervently for me.
We are a pair.
"How you saved me." I tell her. She presses her lips to my bare shoulder.
"You let me save you."
We don't say anything for awhile, and I tilt her head to capture her lips with mine, loving her in the best way I know how. It is easy to say those three words aloud, over and over again, but I find I don't have to. She knows it better than anyone else. Though, I want to tell her anyway.
"Hermione…" I start, but she is quick to hush me.
"And I, You, Draco." She whispers. I feel the corners of her lips rise.
She lets out a soft contented sigh, and I wait to hear her breath evening.