Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with the Harry Potter series. All rights belong to J.K. Rowling.

Warning: This story contains references to non-graphic rape.

A/N After Silence is dedicated to all of the rape and sexual abuse survivors out there. Also, for all those affiliated with Dancing in the Darkness, an amazing resource for rape and sexual abuse survivors. Thank you.

After Silence

We are a painting.

In the forefront, beautiful swaths of colour illuminate the skyline. Cerulean and mauve become lovers, highlighted by sprigs of jade green and the occasional happenstance of a tangerine breeze. Eye-catching. I want to melt into them, to be one with such beauty.

Glancing at this painting, in an art gallery, perhaps, one would be mesmerized by the hues and tones, gradients and hatching. Maybe they would halt on the edge of the electrified wire protecting the priceless piece of work in order to gaze more closely at the individual brushstrokes and the texurization of the thick canvas. They would smile, and then they would move on to the next frame, a Monet, perhaps. As they walk around the room, they might glance back a few times at that painting, the one that spellbound them so.

But even that person, the one who peered so closely, they would not see past the smoke and mirrors, the colours and glitter. If only they could look just a bit longer, if only they wondered what might be hidden beneath all that brightness and light, they might find something else. Charcoal, khaki, taupe, cinereous grey. Their wide eyes might trace the sparsely jagged lines of washed out colours and tired, bleeding hues in the background. They might take a step back and look back over the canvas, all the time wondering what they had just seen. What other things did this world hide that they simply passed over in their daily lives? It would bother them that night, as they lay in their beds, because sadness is never supposed to live so ensconced within happiness. Isn't it? But no matter how many times their mind ran and ran over that rectangular canvas, they would never, ever know.

They wouldn't know that they had just seen me.

~()~

They say that although it's possible for people to love more than once in a lifetime, each love will be different than the last, for better or for worse. In the end, each person can supposedly have only one true love, one forever love.

I don't believe in any of that. In fact, I don't believe in love at all. At least, that's what I have thought for my entire life. Every single day, up until this one. I have been firm and staid in my beliefs for twenty-four years, so why is it that all it takes for the entire foundation of who I am to break is nothing but a few black letters on a piece of weighted parchment?

Please join us

Just a wedding invitation. Lilac scented and heavy in my hands, his name and hers intertwine, making love in front of my eyes. I wonder, did he agonize over whether to invite me or not? Did he argue with her about it? Or worse, maybe he had nothing to do with this at all. Maybe he really and truly didn't care. In attendance or not, I would still be nothing but another woman with dark hair and pale skin stuffed in a too small dress, chugging his expensive champagne.

It is at times like these that I desperately want to cry. There is nothing I wouldn't give to release that sharp, jagged pressure behind my eyes, to allow it to spill over and never stop.

I used to cry all the time. As a small child, I would crawl into my closet, comforted by the silk and lace. I pressed my face in to the ballooning satins, thinking that maybe, just maybe, if I prayed hard enough, my mother's screams would cease. One day they did. I never heard my mother scream again, yet I still sat huddled in that cramped little hutch, liquid grief dripping steadily on to the carpet.

I wore a starched black dress with a lace pinafore, and dainty black gloves that matched my satin covered shoes and low-brimmed hat at her funeral. Eight years old, and I was the picture of grief. My last tears were shed on that day.

I vividly remember the black orchids and red roses that surrounded her as she lay on those silken virginal sheets. The contrast between the colours shocked me, blinded me. They should have used white lilies instead. I remember wishing for those delicate flowers, for their dainty waxen petals to protect me from the scratching claws that dug deep beneath the surface of my skin. Ripping me into tiny, unrecognizable pieces from the inside out. I remember wishing for anything but this.

Silence surrounded me as pain dripped heavily off my cheeks.

For the Holy Matrimony

"Wait," His voice is strained.

He grabs my arm and yanks me around to face him. I think about struggling, but I, of all people, am well acquainted with futility. He is holding me close, and it takes all of my strength not to give in to the temptation to just fold in to his chest. At this moment, I think I have never wanted anything more in my life. Instead, I turn my head as far away from him as I can manage. I cannot look at him. Those quicksilver eyes will x-ray me; they will be able to see my soul. I cannot allow that to happen. There are things hidden within me that he should not see, things that no one should see.

"Jesus, Draco, this again? I told you, there is nothing more to say," I try to be strong, to make myself hard.

I fail utterly and completely, because really, there is so much more to say. His breathing becomes more intense; great heaves rather than a steady whoosh. I feel his long pianists fingers dig into the fleshy part of my upper arm. He is prying and twisting, reaching for something that we both know is not there.

I know he wants to say something. I can feel it in the way his muscles bunch and release, the way his breath on my cheek becomes more heated and feverish by the second. I am sure that any time now he will make his move. Whether that is breaking my arm, letting me go, or saying what he so desperately wants to. Either way, I am more scared than I have ever been since that day seven years ago. Maybe it's excitement? I don't care, because I am actually feeling something. I have been numb for far too long.

Firm but gentle fingers slowly release their iron grip on my arm. Reluctantly, almost. I step back, looking up at him. His eyes are as poisonous as they used to be, and somehow that comforts me. He rubs his face tiredly, and I cannot help but think that maybe this is just too much for him. Too much for anybody.

"Please, Pansy. Just hear me out," He voice is heavy and pleading.

Draco Malfoy is pleading, and it is for me. I cannot help myself. Caution is thrown to the winds, and I nod my head slowly as my eyes trace his face. I have denied myself too long. Now I am gorging, glutting myself on him.

"I can safely say that the day they took us was the worst of my life. Do you remember how it was, how it felt? I know that I will never forget," His tone is reminiscent.

He studies me with cinereous eyes, and a small smile graces his flawless lips. Something fills me, something that feels like anger. Anger that has lain buried for too long.

"You know nothing, nothing of how I felt!" I spit the words at him with more venom than I imagined I was capable of.

He opens his mouth to voice what I know will be a stupid attempt to placate me. I do not allow him to get that far.

"If that day was the worst of your life, just imagine how it was for me! Me. The young girl whom you sacrificed to save yourself. To save her. Say what you like, Draco, but I don't care how rational your decision was. All I know is that because of the choice you made, I am ruined," I have so much more to say, but fatigue fills me.

This is hard. I have not spoken of this for years, so why now? As usual, he is the catalyst. For better or for worse. I watch as his face hardens, all vestiges of gentleness leaving as quickly as they came. This is the Draco I am familiar with. This is the Draco I can fight.

A dark, sarcastic laugh echoes around me. "Self-centred to the very end, isn't that the Pansy we all know and love. You know that I didn't have much of a choice on that day. They told me that all of us would die if I didn't give up either you or Astoria. Would you rather I have made no decision at all? It wasn't easy, but it had to be done. Even someone as selfish as you should be able to understand that," His tone is sharp and impatient.

It is with horror that I feel those long awaited tears carve paths down my cheeks. I cannot appear weak, not in front of him, but no matter what I do, those crystalline drops will not cease. The most I can do is to stand straight and tall, meeting him head-on.

I want my voice to be just as cutting as his, but my viciousness gets stuck somewhere amongst the tears that clog my throat. What comes out of my mouth is soft and tremulous.

"I understand that, Draco, really, I do. I have some empathy; no matter what it is you choose to believe. I know that your decision wasn't an easy one; it wouldn't have been simple for anybody. But the fact still remains that you picked her," I stop to wipe my wet cheeks with my sleeve. "Why? Why did you condemn me?" I sound like a pleading, whining child, but I do not care. I must know.

I do not want to look at his face, for I dread what it is that I will find. Instead, I focus on the intricate stitching of his dragon hide boots, pretending for just a moment that kind Draco is the one standing in front of me, not this little boy in the shoes of a man.

A sigh. Then, words. "I'm not going to lie to you, Pansy. I chose Astoria because I love her. She is mine. How could I allow her to be away from me, to set those animals loose upon her?" His voice is surprisingly soft, but I don't care. Tone cannot mask the hurt his words heap upon me.

Sharp as knives, they push under my skin, burrowing in to the softness that I carry within me, protected by the chain mail that I never dare remove. A heaving sob escapes my throat, and I do not even think about stifling it. He should hear it. He should know what he has done to me. I turn away, running blindly until I trip over a loose stone that propels me to the ground. It's snowy. Cold. I don't care. I press my wet face in to the bitter ground, my shoulders shaking. I am crying seven years worth of tears.

I feel strong arms grasp me around the waist, lifting me. Draco holds me against him, pressing his lips to my hair. Something he has never done before. Not for me. I want to fight. I should. He is the reason I am like this! One part of me is screaming; tearing, and clawing, fighting to be away from him. Another part of me that is smaller but infinitely more powerful burrows deep in to his warmth, welcoming this seldom given comfort. I press my face in to his chest, wrapping my arms around his neck. I shake and sob, more so than I have in my entire life.

A voice soft as the tiny wisps of a pallid cloud caresses my ear. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I was young and scared, rational thinking wasn't even an option. You've always been stronger than Astoria, Pansy. You have an air about you; something that tells everyone you can take care of yourself. Astoria isn't like that, she's delicate. She wouldn't have been able to handle things the way you did," He tone is meant to placate me, yet I am anything but. Even when he is trying to calm me, his words hurt.

I wrench myself away from him, scrambling backwards to regain my balance. My arms flail and my hair flies around me. I'm positive I look a mess; red-rimmed eyes and tear-tracked cheeks. For once, I don't care.

"Do you have any idea what I went through? Of course you don't! You could never begin to imagine what it's like to be forced to have sex with four Death Eaters at the same time, to be dragged around by your hair like some sort of animal! I was a slave, Draco. A slave of the worst kind!" My voice is loud as I shriek at him with all the poison of a wild animal trapped in a corner.

"Oh God, Pansy. I never imagined that they-, I'm sorry," He rubs his eyes, and I can see that this is affecting him. It should.

It is not enough, though, it never is. No pain he can experience will ever measure up. He will never understand.

"It's called rape, Draco. It doesn't matter how robust I am, how much strength I possess. Because of you, I have been violated in the worst way possible. I hope you understand that. You say that I'm strong, but it honestly doesn't matter what I am. You don't walk away from rape. You crawl," I surprise myself by the calmness with which I speak.

My anger has simmered down; only to be replaced by something I can't explain. I want him to know that it was his decision that broke me. Now that he does, a surprisingly heavy weight is lifted from my shoulders.

I am gratified to see tears well up in his overcast eyes. Draco Malfoy is not one to cry; in fact I have never in my life seen him do so. The fact that this matters to him so much that he would shed a tear is enough for me. He doesn't allow the tears to spill over on to his cheeks, of course, but nonetheless, this is physical proof that I have broken his impenetrable walls.

Compassion fills me with alarming suddenness, buoying me like a large helium balloon. I walk forward a few steps until I am close enough to Draco that I could lean my head on his chest. I place my hand on his cheek, feeling the fine, white-blonde five o'clock shadow that rests lightly on his thin face prickle my fingertips. He looks at me suddenly, his eyes snapping to mine as his lips part.

"I want you to know that if I was ever forced to make a decision like that again, I would sooner kill myself than condemn someone to a fate such as yours," He speaks feverishly, with a heat belying the coolness of his skin.

A small smile graces my lips as olive-branch words leave my mouth.

"That is all I ask for," Though weak, I can hear the conviction in my voice.

Slowly, my hand slides down his cheek, my fingertips the last to reluctantly relinquish their hold on that cold, beautiful face.

Of Draco Abraxas Malfoy and Astoria Priscilla Greengrass.

A month after mine and Draco's encounter, a wedding invitation arrived in the post. It continues to amaze me just how many tears can be shed over a simple piece of parchment. I will not lie and say that I calmly placed it on my kitchen table with a face as hard as stone, or that I was strong and brave and ripped it in half without care. No. As soon as I read that invitation, I felt something inside of me fracture. Some fundamental part of my soul broke in to a million pieces and scattered all around me on that day.

My legs became empty tubes, and I crashed to the floor. It was strange, but I didn't mind at all. The cold porcelain was comforting. I remember the plink of my salty tears as they hit the floor, running in fine rivulets through the tile grout. I wanted to shake and sob, to scream and shout; yet no sound escaped my lips. I tried to force myself, but it seemed that the only way my pain could be purged was through my tear ducts, my suffering pouring out from behind my eyes.

I became cold as the chill from the floor radiated through my body. I remember thinking that this must be what it felt like to die. To see your entire life flash before your eyes in one great sweep. The good and the bad.

The rational part of my mind screams at me on nights like this, when I am lying prone in my bed. It tells me that I am being stupid, unrealistic. I ignore it as best I can, because the larger, darker part of me is the one that seems to be governing my thoughts and actions more and more everyday. It is the one that voices its opinions in my head, loud and stinking, they permeate my mind; corrupting every thought and saturating each breath.

What happened that day seven years ago changed who I am. Contrary to popular belief, my dark hair and round nose are not what define me. I was always safe inside my mind, nestled amongst the cobwebs and rotting cardboard boxes that I imagine inhabited the deepest corners of my psyche.

Each touch of a rough, hard hand was like a knife jabbing those very boxes until their aged contents spilled out, completely ruined.

Every scornful laugh and crude word was akin to a wide-bristled broom sweeping away each cobweb, destroying all the spiders that called them their homes.

The violation of my body was the ultimate destruction of my mind. Bruises disappear. Cuts heal. Even scars fade with time. But nothing will ever be able to replace what I lost on that night. Sometimes I wonder how different my life would be if I had not been thrown to a pack of vicious, sadistic wolves by the little boy I thought I loved.

Maybe he would have ended up loving me back.

And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be Astoria Greengrass' name making love with my Draco's on that lilac-scented wedding invitation.

It would be mine.

~()~

That painting of us might hang for years. Decades. The colours might fade; the paint may even chip in places. But when I imagine it in my mind, I know that it will always be there.

Him and her shine as bright as the stars; points of light above my head that I can never hope to reach. I am bound to this planet, hopelessly restricted by the sins that tethered me where I fell. Chained in this place, greyness surrounds me.

A loving hand traces the fine contours of the paint-covered canvas. I can almost feel its heat through the constant chill that permeates the air around me. Isabelline, malachite, iris; bright and blinding colours swirl in the sky above me, beckoning and rejecting me simultaneously.

Ensconced in this pain, there is not a vestige of mercy. As I look around me at the bleakness that is my life, only one thought permeates the haze in my mind. It surrounds me day and night. Will you ever leave me alone? You refused to love me, and now you refuse to relinquish your vicious hold on me. The very image of you, that which makes me love you so fiercely, it is what stalks me. Now, and forever.

You have haunted me for seven years.

Ash. Lead. Dusk. Smoke. Iron. Heather. Dove. Silver.

Your eyes.

Your grey, grey eyes.

FIN

A/N This story was written for shiftingful's 'Beginnings and Endings Challenge. Lyric prompt was "The end will justify the pain it took to get us there," From the song 'Let It All Out' by Relient K.