To Love and Be Loved
The room was dark and smelled rather like dirty socks and wet dog. It was the only way I could describe it. The people around me were silent and unmoving as I approached the altar. The rather scary-looking man standing behind it gave a dark laugh as I held out my untainted arm. I could feel my father's eyes watching me and I could hear my mother's light sobs. There was no way I could appease them both.
The idea of becoming a Death Eater had never been appealing. I had never wanted it. Truthfully, all I had ever wanted was security and safety. Unforturnately for me, the only way to have that was to appease my father. That's why I had watched those with pure souls—Potter, Weasley, Granger—and had felt anger. I had been angry because they had the only thing I had ever wanted. But that which I so desired was finally within my grasp—and I would have nothing to do with the supposed Lord Voldemort.
So, with the only courage I had left in me, I pulled out my wand and disapparated—never to see my parents ever again.
I awoke in the yard of a seemingly abandoned house. There were no lights on and the only signs that anyone lived there or possibly visited was the body next to mine—the body of the woman I had knocked over. I turned to apologize, but stopped myself when I recognized the curly, chestnut curls of the girl I had tormented for seven years—the girl that had shared the Head Suite with myself. I found myself gaping at her, and, to my happiness, she didn't seem to notice. Her eyes were too swelled to really see anything—Hermione Granger had been crying.
Pity is not my strong suit, I admit that, but the swell of guilt that washed over me also awoke what little pitying capability I possessed. I stood, near silent, and extended my hand to my stressed ex-classmate. Of course, she didn't see my hand—she was too busy trying to wipe her eyes. Thus, I tried a different approach. "Granger?" I said, prodding her lightly with my foot. She didn't respond. "Hermione?"
She lifted her head. "What do you want?"
I cleared my suddenly dry throat. "What's wrong with you, Hermione?" I stooped down to her level once again.
"He's dead." She said, plainly.
"Who? Ron? Harry?"
She stiffened. "I recognize your accent. Where do I know you from?" She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "You're not in the Order..."
"No." I replied, sitting on the ground, my knees beneath me. "We knew each other at school."
Her hands flew to her face and she groaned. "Malfoy."
I smirked, but she didn't notice. "Don't need to sound so enthusiastic, Hermione."
She crossed her arms. "Since when do you call me 'Hermione'?"
"Since I've come to realize that prejudice only gets you into trouble. The people I should have been creating connection with hate me, and so do the ones that supposedly were my friends. It would have been easier if Harry and I would have been friends from the start." I touched her face, examining the unique swelling. "You've been crying."
"Very perceptive of you."
"Who died?"
She sobbed again and I had to hold out a hand to steady her as she swayed unsteadily on the ground, nearly toppling into the mud-puddle behind her. She mumbled a thank you. "Harry died, Malfoy. But it's not like you care." I swore rather loudly and plopped down on the ground next to her. My dark pants were immediately soaked.
"Shit. Bloody hell and shit!" I spat, running my filthy hands through my pale hair. "When?"
"This morning." She managed to spit out between sobs. I stood then, lifting her into my arms. She squealed. "What in the seven bloody hells are you doing?"
"Taking you inside."
"No!" She screamed. "We can't go in there. They'll attack me, whispering their apologies and pitying words. I can't stand it!" She hit my shoulder. "You can't make me go back in there."
"What if I promise they won't say a word to you?"
She stiffened. "You can't promise that."
"Yes, I can. They're going to pull you from me and tie me up. And then they'll question me, I'll tell them where the Dark Lord is and then they'll gallavant after him, forgetting all about you."
"But only Harry can kill the Dark Lord."
I laughed. "No, Hermione. Anyone can kill the Dark Lord. The prophecy only said that 'only one can live while the other survives'. Harry's dead, so the prophecy is fulfilled. It's anyone's game now."
And then, until we were safe inside the house, Hermione was silent.
I never thought I'd be unhapy that Granger was silent. I vaguely realized while I was walking that I missed her prattling and quick come-backs. They made me feel like it was still the years of Hogwarts—that it wasn't the years of War. I also realized that I could feel her pulse through the thumb that was resting against my throat. It was the strangest feeling.
When I opened the door to the Order Headquarters I was immediately attacked and Hermione was ripped from my arms—just like I had predicted.
My blonde hair was a dead giveaway of who I was. Sometimes I hated it with a passion—but I couldn't see myself without it. It made me who I was, in a way. Not to mention the fact that if I became some hero, everyone would know that at least one Malfoy was a decent human being. That had to count for something in this world.
I recognized the face of Remus Lupin as I was thrust into a hard-backed wooden chair. His lips were pursed in concentration as he passed him wand over me—apparently searching for any tracking charms or devices. I didn't blame him—I wasn't normally a very trustworthy person. But War had opened my eyes—removed all prejudices—and had created a new man—a new Draco Malfoy. I closed my silver eyes as Lupin stared at me. I couldn't stand his scrutiny any longer.
"I haven't got anything on me. Give me veritaserum. Anything. I don't bloody care," I grumbled, struggling in my painful bonds. Lupin's eyes softened.
"What happened to you, Draco Malfoy?" He queried, untying the ropes that bound me, to my utter surprise. I flexed my forearm muscles and his eyes alighted with paternal fear. I nearly groaned. I still didn't like the werewolf; and I certainly didn't want his pity or strange paternal affection. I liked being the nomad that I was. It made life so much easier—and death. If no one cared I was alive, then no one would care if I died.
"I ran away," I said, simply, relaxing in the chair. "I never really wanted what they were offering—the death and destruction. I just wanted security—for both my mother and myself. In the end, I couldn't even accomplish that, so I settled for revenge and the relief of knowing I finally chose the right side," I finished, looking up into his eyes. I vaguely realized that tears were spilling from my own.
Lupin nodded and extended a hand, helping me out of the chair. The other Order members stared in horror as Lupin nodded, calling for Hermione. I recognized my cousin standing a ways behind Lupin. "Nymphadora," I murmured, surprised at seeing her.
Her eyes widened considerably and I noticed that they were the brightest blue—her natural color—and her hair was its original mousy brown. She hadn't changed her appearance today. I was slightly astonished. "Cousin?" She breathed, stepping forward. "How did you get out?"
I smiled a little then and opened up my arms to hug her. I hadn't seen her in ages. She was the only half-blood I had ever truly liked from the start. I even liked her dad—who was muggle. She enfolded me in her arms and her unique honeydew perfume enveloped me—she smelled just like I remembered.
"Apparently they don't disapparate-proof the Grand Hall—the place where he gives out the Mark. They think that once you're there, you're there to stay," I said, as I pulled out of her grasp. I laughed, darkly. "Not bloody likely—at least for me."
She nodded and backed up, noticing that Hermione had entered the room. She approached Lupin and they spoke to one another in hushed tones. All I could catch were the words: "Watch over him," and "Bath. Both of you." I nearly laughed at the last part but caught myself, knowing that I had laughed enough for the day.
Minutes later, Hermione approached me and handed me my wand—which Lupin had taken immediately when I came in. Then she spoke to me, her eyes alight with forgiveness. "I'm not going to linger on what you've done to me in the past, Draco, as long as you continue to act like a man." I nodded and placed my wand on the inside pocket of my leather coat.
She spoke again. "Lupin's partnered you with me. I used to be partners with Luna but she's with Ron now—in Romania. They're going to find Ron's brother Charlie so they can gather some suitable dragons for the Order to use."
My eyes widened. "Dragons?"
She nodded. "Charlie's one of the best Dragon keepers anywhere—his seeker reflexes help a lot." She cleared her throat and my eyes were drawn to her face—the swelling had gone down; apparently by a charm. I waited for her to continue.
"As my partner, you'll have to help with the work I have to do. I generally do research and keep the house in order. I'm also in charge of tending to any and all wounded that make it back to headquarters." Anticipating my groan, she added: "We'll also be called to battle on occasion, especially with Ron and Luna in Romania." She handed me a stack of clothes. "These were Harry's. I want you to have them. Follow me and I'll show you to your room and the washroom so you can take a nice, long soak."
The question that had been itching to burst forth, finally succeeded. "Why are you being so nice to me? And why are you giving me Harry's things? You're supposed to hate me."
She looked into my eyes and I was transfixed. "I've never hated you, Draco Malfoy. I knew who you really were before you did." Then she turned away and began walking up the stairs. I quickly followed her, not speaking another word.
My room was small and modest and composed of a long, narrow and confortable bed with black sheets and a gold and black comforter, a simple oak dresser and nightstand and a small washbasin, complete with soap and cloths. The dresser was filled with a different assortment of clothes and it was then I realized I was standing in Harry Potter's room. I whirled around and faced the now teary-eyed Hermione. "Why?"
She smiled. "He's not here anymore. He would want it to be used to help someone else—just like all of his things." She sat down on the bed and pulled the pillow into her arms. "Everything happens for a reason, Draco. Harry died and, just like, well...magic...you arrived to take his place. It's strange really. Before he did—last night—we were having a conversation about you. He said that you had potential, Draco. I didn't agree at first because I was still sore about how you treated me—and I don't mean the barbs and insults either—but he was adamant. He decided that he was going to try and save you—along with anyone else that was willing."
I felt a tear slip down my face. "He died trying to infiltrate Voldemort's castle, didn't he? Trying to save the ones that didn't want to be there...? The ones who didn't want to kill...?"
She nodded. "But I don't blame you. This was supposed to happen." Then she disappeared out into the hallway, leaving behind a wrinkled pillow coated in her lavender-vanilla scent.
Her scent helped me sleep that night—even with the nightmares that always plagued me, her scent kept me peaceful. There wasn't anything special about it—it was just the scent of her unique shampoo. But somehow it was peaceful and it calmed the violent images that attacked my dreams. I awoke feeling rejuvenated for the first time in almost a year.
Tonks came into my room at nine—a half an hour after I had awoken—and said that Hermione was going to start breakfast soon. She also said that I didn't help, since it was my first day, but I would have none of that. Hermione had done so much for me in one day that I couldn't help my urge to help her any way that I could.
So I threw on some grey flannel pants from the dresser—feeling a twinge of sorrow for their previous owner—over my green boxers and ran a comb through my mussed hair. I was still wearing the black muscle tank I had worn underneath my black dress shirt yesterday so I was ready in a matter of minutes—after brushing my teeth.
When I walked into the hall, Hermione was just exiting the washroom, wearing a deep emerald green—almost Slytherin—sundress and white flip-flops. Her hair was a wet mass of curls cascading down her back and her chocolate eyes were hazy with the leftovers of sleep. She smiled when she saw me—a gleaming picture of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth, that put my own to shame. "Good morning," she said, pleasantly, walking past me.
I only nodded in response, following her down the stairs. We made our way to the kitchen and I watched as she pulled out a loaf of bread, a carton of egss, two frying pans, a package of bacon, a package of sausange and a package of kippers. I was amazed at how much food she was expected to make every morning. I grabbed a frying pan and began cracking eggs as she popped toast into the six slot toaster and slid a pan of bacon, sausage and kippers into the oven—she was going to fry the little fish.
It took almost an hour to get everything onto the table and, by that time, every member of the Order was already at their appointed places at the table.I noticed the three empty seats—Harry's, Ron's and Luna's—and felt another twinge of sorrow lap at my heart.
Hermione and I gathered all of the foodstuffs and placed in on the table in a very precise order—no doubt a result of Hermione's blatant OCD and then I was escorted to Harry's chair which was surrounded by Hermione on one side and empty space on the other. Hermione bowed her head next to me, which was odd at first, before I realized that they were paying their respects to their fallen brethren. I lowered my head as well and, as we spoke all of their names aloud, I could almost feel the ghost of Harry pass through me, as if telling me that I needed to protect his "golden girl"—a job I was going to do gladly.
After the first day, I got considerably more used to the idea of being one of the good guys. They accepted me happily and Hermione and I became almost like best friends—I say the almost because I'd never actually had a best friend.
Three weeks into my stay, we received news from Romania—and it wasn't the good kind of news; especially not for Hermione. Ron had been killed while trying to protect an injured Charlie in a battle with some Romanian Death Eaters. Luna and Chralie were both injured, but they were well enough to return to England—the dragons with them.
Hermione was inconsolable for a while after that. I held her for hours at a time during the day and never tired of it—but I did tire of watching helplessly as the only person I cared about in the entire world died inside. Her eyes lost their lovable luster and her motions became emotionless and jerky. She never cried anywhere but in my arms and she never talked to anyone—not even me. She went through life on auto-pilot.
When Luna and Charlie returned, another two weeks later, so did some good news. The entire Death Eater force in Romania had been eliminated. How, they didn't know, but it was still a decidedly good thing. On top of this, the Order was receiving three new members: Ginny Weasley and Victoria Frobisher—both Gryffindors—and Niki Democulus—a Slytherin that was two years younger than I. The three girls had been spying as interns in Hogwarts for the Order—keeping tabs on which students planned on becoming Death Eaters. Ginny was devastated when she found about Ron, but Charlie kept her sane and she was soon over it and happy that her brother had went down fighting. Hermione was still mute and emotionless.
Then, miraculously, Hermione's shell finally cracked. She started speaking more and began to devote herself to her friends again. I had my Hermione back; but I still didn't know what had caused this change in attitude so, like the Slytherin I was, I started snooping around in her room. What I found was nothing short of amazing. There, on her nightstand, was a letter from one Ron Weasley—written while he had been in Romania and addressed Hermione Granger.
Curiousity filled me and impelled me to open one of the letters. It was simple and neatly written, but the emotions were there.
Herms,
I'm sorry about not being able to write to you sooner. We're still in Romania and I have to say that it's beautiful here. Luna and I want to come back—for our honeymoon. But that's if we even have one. You know, you'd think that I'd be terrified of dying—but I'm not. Even with Harry dead, I still don't fear death. It's a poweful thing, yes, but I don't fear it.
Let me just say this: if I don't come back to you and my sister, I want you to be happy—no matter who it is that makes you happy, I want you to be happy. I don't want you to go into one of your moods over my death, either. Do you understand me? Love and be loved—you need that. Don't waste precious time grieving. I said the same thing to Luna and Charlie just yesterday. They thought I was a nutter, but you'll understand.
We go into battle tomorrow against some Romanian Death Eaters. It should be any easy battle but I wanted you to know because I'll fight to the death for my Luna or my brother. You would do it too if it was Harry or your silver-prince in danger. I know you.
And yes, Hermione, I know about him—I know how much you care about him. And I know that he crushed your heart in school, yet you still cared. My advice? Find the poofy bastard and snog him so hard he sees bloody stars.
Remember, Herms, love and be loved.
Love always,
Ron
It felt wrong to read this letter, but it gave me what I needed—insight. The letter had just recently arrived—explaining her sudden exuberance. But the only thing that plagued me was the name Weasley had mentioned. "Silver-prince," I said aloud, but I knew immediately that had been a stupid thing to do. For there, in the doorway, was Hermione herself.
"You read my letter," she ground out, placing her hand on her hips. "Why would you do that?"
I looked at her and felt the familiar sting of tears. "I had to know that it wasn't just pretend—your happiness. I wanted to know that you were actually healing." I sobbed once, pathetically, and collapsed onto the floor, the letter fluttering out of my hand. "I was so scared, Hermione. You're—" I froze up, gazing into her eyes, my own silver orbs leaking emotional weakness. "You're the only person I've ever loved," I finally got out, looking away. "I couldn't bear to lose you."
She got down on her knees next to me and wrapped her arms around me. "What do you mean, Draco? Lots of people love me, but not the love I crave. What love do you feel?" She asked, innocently, her eyes pools of wet chocolate. I swallowed the lump in my throat.
"Sometimes when you look back on a situation, you realize it wasn't all you thought it was. A beautiful girl walked into your life. You fell in love. Or did you? Maybe it was only a childish infatuation, or maybe just a brief moment of vanity. But I know that what I feel for you is love. There's no question in my love for you—no vanity. It's not an infatutation and its far from childish. You are my everything. And even if you turn from me, laughing, I will still love you until I die—and even farther. Love is everything it's cracked up to be. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for." And then I wept, unable to look into her eyes and see rejection or, even worse, the kind of love the comes from friendship. I wanted so much more.
It surprised me when I felt her tears wet my shirt. "Oh, my Silver Prince..." She murmured into my neck, her tears cascading even more rapidly. "Love and be loved..."
I pulled her from my neck and looked deep into her eyes. Instead of seeing what I believed I would, I saw pure love—a love that had been there for 10 years. We were 21 years old—three years after graduation age. She had loved me for just over ten years. I kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, her forehead—everywhere I could, and then spoke, in a voice barely a whisper: "to love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides."
I refuse to bore you with tales of the War and how the Light defeated the Dark—and we did too. But I feel it's necessary to tell you another story about Harry Potter. I owe everything I am to that man—and I say man with the utmost amount of respect. He died honorably and, through his death, I was allowed to be with the only the one in the world that would ever know the real me. And I also owe much of my life to one Ronald Weasley who, in his dying hour, knew exactly what would win the War.
"To Love and be Loved..." I murumured, once again, into my young daughter's golden curls. "That is the greatest lesson I was ever taught, Elsbeth." She nodded, sleepily and I felt Hermione kiss my cheek before stealing my daughter away and leaving me to sleep. And when I slept, I dreamt of wet pools of chocolate and sun on both sides.