Chapter One
A/N: This is my first dramione fic and I'm really nervous/excited about posting it so please let me know what you think:)
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or his world; those rights belong to the talented JKR
He sighed deeply as he lifted the glass of amber liquid to his lips, taking it in one large gulp. As it travelled down his throat, it burned; it was never a feeling that he really got used to. Draco didn't mind it though, because it only lasted a few seconds in comparison to the time he spent numb to his pain due to its effects. It was a small price to pay to forget, or not care, even for a few hours.
He wiped the stream of alcohol that was dribbling down his chin with the back of his hand before running it through his untamed blond hair. He smacked his lips together, making sure not to waste another drop. His right hand, which was gripping the now-empty glass, slammed down onto the table in front of him, making a small clatter. He released his firm grip on the glass and moved his shaking hand to clutch at the half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey. He sloppily refilled his glass almost to the brim, before starting the process all over again, hoping that this time it might help him. It seemed to work less and less each time, not quite giving him the effect he craved any longer.
He stared lazily in front of him at nothing in particular, biting down hard on his bottom lip. He ached to forget it all; the war, the darkness, the pain, everything. The war has been going on now for one-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days and it didn't look like it was going to stop anytime soon; it raged on, destroying everything and everyone in its path, with Voldemort at its head. He was winning, despite exhaustive forces rebelling against him.He had taken most of England and Scotland now, ravaging the majority of the cities beyond repair and murdering millions in the process.
The world was just as entrenched in it as it was when he defected all those years ago at the Battle of Hogwarts. At the time, it took all the courage he had to leave the Death Eaters, leave his parents, by extent the Malfoy name, and join the Order; the courage of a scared seventeen year old boy who'd seen more horrible things than most people did in a full lifetime. They'd lost that battle along with hundreds of irreplaceable lives, most of them innocent children. He'd been with them ever since, fighting alongside the people who he'd once thought of as the enemy, fighting with all he possibly could so that one day, the world would be safe again.
Upon joining the Order, he was treated with hostility and definitely wasn't welcomed with open arms. Draco couldn't blame them for not trusting him, not believing him, especially after spending almost a year plotting the demise of Albus Dumbledore, the founder of the Order of the Phoenix, not to mention the Mark that plagued his skin, the very thing that made bile rise in his throat every time he looked at it. He'd done horrible things in the past and they were often spat back in his face when he'd first changed sides. He tried not to care, tried not to interact with people if he didn't have to. It didn't matter what they thought of him; it's not like they were friends.
This was a place where you couldn't afford to have friends, a place where it wasn't worth the attachment. Once you left the wards, there was no telling who would walk back through the front door and who wouldn't. People came and went rather quickly in this world. So, he did what he was told, fighting in many battles over the past four and a half years, one-hundred and fifty-seven to be exact, surviving and defending when necessary, but never getting attached. After the first few battles, people began to trust him, realizing that he was there just as they were; to put an end to the war; to win it.
When he'd first joined, he'd allowed some of the higher up members, including Potter (reluctantly) to use legilimency on his mind and prove that he had no mal intentions. He was scared, terrified actually, of what they'd think when they saw the things that he'd done, that he'd let happen. Draco knew that they couldn't possibly think less of him than he did himself, but it still terrified him to the core. Those select few people who had seen inside of his head, to his surprise, respected him and he couldn't quite understand why. He was a coward; he stood by as innocent people were murdered, tortured in his own home. He couldn't understand how they'd forgiven him, as he didn't do anything to deserve their forgiveness. He was still trying to figure out how to forgive himself, but he doubted that he ever would.
That brought him here, to kitchen table of an Order safehouse in the middle of nowhere, Scotland, alongside a few others that were being put up there as well. He'd been living there for quite a while, a few years at least, but many of the faces that resided have come and gone. The commander of the house, for a long while now, was Aberforth Dumbledore, the younger brother of the man that Draco was ordered to kill all that time ago in his sixth year at Hogwarts. He was tense around him when he'd first met him, almost mistaking him for the ghost of Albus quite a few times, as they resembled each other greatly. After Aberforth moved in, the night on the Astronomy Tower became the subject of many of his sweat-soaking, tear-jerking nightmares for some months and he was reminded of it every time he looked into the old man's solemn eyes. He meant well and never treated Draco with anything less than respect, knowing that he was able warrior, but it was still difficult at times to look at him.
Besides Draco and Aberforth, the only other long term resident of the safehouse was Hermione Granger, the same Hermione Granger who he'd spent years tormenting. The same girl who he'd watched writhe in pain on his drawing room floor as Bellatrix Lestrange tortured her, carving into her skin with a cursed dagger almost six years ago. The memory made him shudder as he threw back another sip of Firewhiskey. She was the only person who has been there longer than he, although he wasn't sure how much longer.
When he'd first arrived at the safehouse, Granger was extremely careful around him, her brown eyes watching his every move, as if he were going to do something horrible if she looked away. She hadn't wanted to let go of the image of who he once was: a schoolyard bully who hated her because of who she was born to. She'd eased up after a few months of light stalking, glares and the occasional argument, leaving him be most of the time, which he was quite content about; Draco did like his privacy. But in the times that she did still bother him, she generally irritated him with her presence and prying questions, making his teeth grind together. He didn't hate her any longer, although he wasn't sure that he ever hated her to begin with, but he carried a dislike for the way she carried herself. She simply bothered him, there was no other way to put it. He still teased her every once in a while when he felt up to it, but never tormented her as he used to, never calling her a mudblood, only bothering her enough to see her get flustered. Her presence, however, was still slightly uncomfortable, trudging up many of the things he was trying to forget, but then again, everything did. That was why he was drinking.
Besides the three of them, the other residents of the house at the current second were Dean Thomas, Hannah Abbott, Luna Lovegood, Oliver Wood and Padma Patil. Tonight, they'd lost a resident for the first time in three months. She hadn't even been here that long, maybe eight months. Penelope Clearwater had died only hours ago, her lingering presence still in the air throughout the house, her dirty mug still in the sink, her book still on the coffee table, unfinished. He could feel the loss as he walked through the halls, haunting him. She was murdered by Alecto Carrow mercilessly after she put up a strong fight; he had seen it happen, but was locked too far into a duel with Antonin Dolohov to do anything to stop it or help her.
He generally didn't see much of the others, as he stayed in his room other than mealtime and training, but it still hit hard when one of them was lost. He didn't know Penelope particularly well or cared much about her at all, but she was still present in his life, another someone he saw on a day to day basis who would no longer be there. He never got used to the heavy feeling that weighed on his chest that came along with death. It lingered for days, putting him in a constant haze, keeping him up at night, not that he got all that much sleep to begin with.
He couldn't take any more loss. If he got close, he wouldn't be able to handle it, so he kept everyone at an arm's length. He'd already made that mistake three years ago by befriending Theo Nott, another defected Death Eater and Slytherin who was sent to the safehouse years ago. Draco became close with Theo, finding that he understood some of the things that he'd gone through. He was one of the few people that he could stomach a conversation with, maybe even share a laugh. Theo had a sick sense of humor and often used it as a coping mechanism, to help to take away some of the pain he was feeling. Draco found comfort in him, familiarity, which was something that was hard to come by these days.
On November the Seventeenth, 2000, Theo died trying to save him in battle, jumping in front of a killing curse that had been meant for Draco himself. It was his own uncle, Rodolphus Lestrange who'd cast it. It was Draco's own fault, or so he believed. He felt he was too careless, that if he'd been paying more careful attention to his surroundings, then Theo would still be alive. He'd chased after his uncle, firing every curse imaginable at his uncle until he lie lifeless on the ground a few feet away. He didn't even care that he'd just lost his temper, or even that he'd committed murder for one of the first times. Seeing Theo's eyes grow empty had made him lose his mind, made him lose control. He had died for Draco, sacrificed himself so that he could go on. The war took the one damned person he cared about and destroyed him along with everything else. From that moment on, he swore never to let another penetrate his walls, worm their way into his life.
He shut his eyes tightly at the thought, pushing the heels of his hands into them, releasing a groan. Now, when he drank, the first glass was always for Theo, a cheers to him. The Firewhiskey wasn't helping anymore though, he felt the same as he did earlier, just slightly warmer. He heard the door creak open behind him and he turned slowly, but his head still spun, an obvious effect to the amount of alcohol he'd consumed in the short amount of time he'd been there. It was three o'clock in the morning and he thought everyone had gone to bed by now, but of course, no one was sleeping, not tonight, but he still didn't expect to be bothered as he never had been in the past.
When the dizziness faded he came to see the figure of Granger standing in the doorway, looking frazzled, her eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, her pale cheeks blotchy. "Oh," She said, her tone lacking the effort of sounding surprised, even though she clearly was. "I didn't know anyone was in here." She said, blinking a few times before taking a confused step forward into the kitchen. She was wearing a simple white singlet and flannel pyjama pants, her slim midriff exposed in the gap between them. Prior to living at the safehouse, he had no idea how attractive her body was, though he would deny it if he were ever asked. When they were back at school, her robes were so baggy on her that she looked shapeless, not that he was even looking, but the outfit she was in now left little to the imagination. He was almost taken aback by her lack of bra. Her bushy hair in disarray, as if she'd been tossing and turning for hours now. Her eyes shifted from Draco to the bottle and then back to him. "S'okay." He slurred, returning to the bottle to pour himself yet another glass.
She was frozen in place for a second before moving towards the counter, where she pulled out a pot out of the cabinet above, making a loud ruckus by knocking things over. Draco flinched, not expecting the disturbance. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep the noise to a minimum. You're going to give me a headache." He said rudely as he pressed the rim of the glass against his lips once more, taking a sip of the burning liquid. " That is going to give you a headache." She said pointedly, her eyebrows raised as she gestured towards the bottle of Firewhiskey that was almost empty now. He rolled his eyes at her, clenching his jaw to keep from grinding his teeth. " That is none of your business." He sneered back at her. She didn't reply, but she continued to make clatter, lighting the stove and taking out various items. "What on earth could you possibly be cooking so loudly at three in the morning?" He questioned, although he wasn't sure he actually cared; he just wanted it to stop and her to go away. She sighed and without looking at him, replied, "I couldn't sleep, so I decided to make warm sugar milk; my mum used to make it for me when–" He cut her off, making hand gestures. "All right, too much information, Granger. It was just a simple question." He was being crass, but he didn't really care; she'd interrupted his quiet night. "You don't have to be so crude about it." She said, stirring the milk in the pot with a spoon. He almost asked why she was making it the muggle way when he remembered that he'd probably cut her off from telling that story and that he didn't actually care to hear it.
Dishes clattered in the sink as she worked her way through the kitchen, doing some sort of cleaning up, although it sounded more like she was breaking dishes. "Merlin, Granger. Must you make so much noise?" He grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing his eyes shut. She was quiet for a second before responding. "Yes, I must. Once again, I'm sorry I seemed to have interrupted your very busy night of drinking yourself to death." She said nonchalantly as she slid into the chair opposite him, mug in hand. Well, there goes any thought that he'd be able to finish his drink in solitude and silence. He looked up from the table to see her, noting that her cheeks were flushed a light pink. She gnawed on her bottom lip so furiously that when she released it, there was in indent in it. She lifted the mug to her mouth, drinking the milk with a slurp that echoed in the deserted room. "Merlin, you even drink loudly." He breathed out. Although he was speaking low, she seemed to have caught what he said and gave him a hard glare. "Why are you so angry at me, Malfoy? I haven't done anything to provoke you. I simply can't sleep, so I'm here. I'm sorry I interrupted your self-pity party; I'll be out of your hair soon enough." She said, her eyes flickering with ire. He could feel himself getting angrier, but he didn't feel the need to have a full-blown fight tonight for absolutely no good reason, so he took a deep breath, forcing himself to count to ten before responding.
"I'm not angry. I'm just not in the mood tonight, Granger. Let's just drop it." He said with a sigh, taking another sip of Firewhiskey. She raised her eyebrows at him, her brown eyes wide. She looked as if she were going to say something more, but settled on a simple, "Fine." She returned her eyes to her mug, looking deeply at what was inside. The scent of her drink filled his nostrils, an almost sickeningly sweet concoction that made his nose crinkle. Draco tried to ignore her presence, emptying the contents of his glass down his throat. She was silent for a few minutes, keeping to herself, which he wasn't going to complain about. There was a sadness in her eyes; he assumed that it had to do with losing Penelope tonight, but it looked deeper than that.
She'd changed over the past year, her demeanor was less optimistic, less… Granger. It wasn't saying much, he guessed, everyone's changed, circumstance made it so; him of all people knew that. But she kept to herself more often than she once had, locking herself away in the library for hours, sometimes days at a time. Well, he guessed that did still sound a bit like Granger. After all, she always was an incessant know-it-all. That didn't seem to change the fact that she seemed off lately. It wasn't anything too big that it stood out to everyone, but he noticed. It wasn't too hard to see if someone were to really look. Whenever she entered a room, it altered itself around her, the air morphing, becoming more... melancholy, but who was he to talk, he was sulking around most of the time as well. He wasn't sure if she was sulking so much as losing hope or grieving, but came off a lot like it was.
"Why are you drinking, Malfoy?" She asked, still looking down, making sure not to make eye contact with him. She seemed almost scared to ask, but did anyway. He supposed it was her annoyingly persistent Gryffindor attitude peeking out once more. Her question took him by surprise and he'd frozen in place when the words left her lips. He looked up at her, supposing that he could lie and say he'd just fancied a drink tonight, but he doubted that she'd believe it, especially considering what had happened earlier and the fact that he's nearly drank the entire bottle. He decided to tell her the truth, thinking that it might get her to go away and leave him alone to finish his drink in peace.
He simply shrugged, placing the glass he'd just drained back down onto the table. "To numb the pain; to feel something other than constant agony. I don't want to feel it anymore; I've had enough of it for a lifetime or two even. I'm so sick of it all. l need to feel something, anything, before I explode. This place, this war, it's killing me; it's killing all of us. Sometimes, I just need to forget it all, clear my mind of all of those things, just for a few minutes, a few hours. It helps to take the pressure off." He whispered seriously, stopping himself from telling her more. The alcohol had loosened his lips quite a bit, revealing things to her that he otherwise wouldn't have told her. He'd almost hoped to scare her a bit, making her uncomfortable enough that she'd leave, but she didn't budge. Draco's storm grey eyes didn't blink as he spoke and carried a desperate undertone within them, making them glow silver.
She tried hard not to look taken aback by his honest response and did a pretty good job of not looking shaken. He was sure that she expected him to lie or dismiss the question as a whole without actually responding. She took a moment to collect her thoughts, seemingly thinking of something rational to say. She nodded, taking a sip from the steaming mug of sweet milk before placing it back down on the table. "I guess we all have to cope somehow. We all just do it in different ways." She said simply with a shrug, as if it weren't a fucked up topic of conversation. He gave her a hard look, studying her red-rimmed eyes, which had the appearance of someone who'd spent hours crying into their pillow. "How do you cope, Granger?" He asked, his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. He suppressed a smirk, but he didn't do a very good job of it, as he could feel the corner of his mouth turn up.
At first, he'd thought she didn't hear him, as she didn't even look up, but then she licked her lips and prepared to speak. "I try to keep myself busy, try to distract myself from everything that's going on. My books, my planning, it all just sort of keeps me busy, keeps my mind off things, I guess. It stops me from thinking about it; when I'm locked away in the library, I can sit there for hours or days and just pretend that everything outside is alright, that we aren't in hiding, that there isn't a war going on, killing everything and everyone I know without hesitation." She said, her face turning a shade of red with embarrassment, as if she just realized who she was talking to. He didn't reply, not to be rude, but because there was nothing else to say. He did nod though, silently empathizing with her statement, although he'd never outright admit it. He would give anything and everything to forget about it all. He wasn't sure why she was actually telling him this, maybe it was a gesture of honesty since he'd been with her, but his honesty was most definitely due to the alcohol content in his body at the moment.
"Does it work?" She paused, gesturing towards the bottle, frowning. "The alcohol?" She finished, her eyebrows furrowed together. He licked his lips, lifting his silver eyes up to meet her chocolate orbs, which were peering curiously at him. He shrugged, his gaze shifting towards deadpanned, not really knowing why he was telling her this. "Not anymore." He ran his fingers through his hair and then rolled his neck until it cracked. He groaned as the muscles released the tension in it momentarily. Draco straightened his expression to look at her; her hands were shaking a bit as they cupped her mug for warmth.
He pursed his lips and took this moment as an opportunity to ask something, even if he didn't particularly care for her. He was just curious and after all, she'd asked him a personal question first. She was back to chewing on her bottom lip, which was already chewed raw. Draco crossed his arms over his chest, observing her. "Why is it that you're here?" He asks, narrowing his eyes. It wasn't a pressing question, he could have asked the one question that's been bugging him since he arrived, but he thought better of it, knowing it would probably cause an argument. "I already told you, I couldn't sleep and—" He cut her off mid-sentence, shaking his head furiously, a smirk playing at his lips. "But why couldn't you sleep? What haunts your dreams, Granger, keeps you up at night? What is it that you, the Brightest Witch of Our Age, fears above all else?" He couldn't help himself from asking, his eyebrows raised, hoping to get some sort of a rise out of her. He had felt the urge to know something, to talk to someone. Being shut up in his own head clearly wasn't working, so maybe if he spent some time in someone else's, his own wouldn't seem so horrible.
She looks astonished that he would even ask her such a question, but suppressed any expression by drawing her mouth into a thin line and relaxing her brow bone. She was silent, releasing a sigh after about two minutes, lifting her chin up to look at him. Granger's brown eyes had gained a glassy quality about them, his pathetic image reflecting in them as if they were mirrors. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear nervously, but it just tumbled back out, caressing her cheek lightly. He almost liked that he'd silenced her, but at the same time, he had an uneasy feeling in his stomach, although it could just be the Firewhiskey catching up with him. She finally mustered some words to say, stumbling on them as she spoke, "I… Well, I, um, couldn't sleep after what happened with Penelope. It just felt… impossible… wrong almost. It always does. She is–was," She corrected, flinching at her words, "The eighteenth resident of this place to die since I've arrived here. There's not one person who's been here as long as I have and it makes me sick, Malfoy; it really does." She pauses, clenching her eyes shut tightly for a second before reopening them to look at him intently.
Draco poured more Firewhiskey into his glass, taking another sip, feeling it burn his throat as she hesitated on her next words. "You wanted to know what haunts my dreams, keeps me awake, causes me to never want to shut my eyes again? Well, it's their faces; each and every one of them. Innocent lives, most of them under the age of twenty-five, robbed of their futures because of all of this. And somehow, I'm still here, forced to deal with the aftermath." She shakes her head, sinking it into her chest so that she's looking down into her mug. She lets out a breath, His expression softened more than he'd care to admit as he swallowed hard, keeping his lips pressed into a thin line. He understood; he truly did, but it's not like he could tell her that, so he sat quietly, staring into his empty glass at the refraction within it.
"Why are we still here, Malfoy? What did we do to deserve to still live? What didn't they do?" She says, shaking her head, her eyes looking down at her fingers, avoiding eye contact with Draco. He released a breath, taking a sip of Firewhiskey, trying to get the sour taste in his mouth. "It's not about deserve." He spat. "If it was, I would have been gone years ago; I certainly don't deserve to live more than anyone else. I wish I knew why I, why we are still here. To me, it just seems like dumb luck. We're survivors, that's all Granger, nothing more, nothing less. We just adapt better than everyone else. I wish I knew why, but that's why we're still alive." She seemed to accept this answer, but didn't reply, just giving him a solemn nod of recognition. The glint of tears in her eyes, however, was unmistakable. He almost rolled his eyes at it; bloody Gryffindors were always so damn emotional.
After a moment or two of complete silence other than Granger's incessant slurping, she pushed out her chair and stood up, her singlet coming up a bit for a second so that he could see more of the creamy skin underneath. She pulled it down without hesitating as she saw Draco's eyes wander to the exposed flesh. "I'm going to bed now." She stated as if he cared, looking bewildered in her expression, groggy maybe. She put her mug in the sink with a crash and approached the doorway rather quickly, stopping there, her hands on either side of the frame. She spun around to face the blond, who was pouring the last of the Firewhiskey into his glass. "This goes nowhere, Malfoy." She said, her orbs filled with an almost businesslike seriousness. He nodded, but it seemed unnecessary that she would have to say that. "Who would I even tell? It's not exactly like I have any friends." He said, rolling his eyes at her and waving her off. "Goodnight Granger. Sleep tight." He said dismissively. "Well, in that case, enjoy your impending hangover." She replied wittily and in a flash, she was gone, leaving him in the kitchen alone to finish his last drink.
Draco stared into the amber liquid and hesitated for a moment before drinking. He sighed, preparing himself to do as he does every time they lost someone. After Theo, it'd become habit for him, becoming a part of his routine for those nights when the house was just a little bit quieter. He lifted the glass up in the air carefully, holding it out as if he were toasting it, whispering as quietly as he could, "Penelope Clearwater; may she find the peace we're all seeking." He then brought the glass to his lips slowly, taking the last of the alcohol down in one breath. He buried his head in his hands and sat there for a long while, alone, feeling the tingling sensation on his lips and the pounding in his head that wouldn't go away no matter how hard he tried.
