Aliger Memoria
Written by Elluxion
This one is for all who read my ficlets and comment on them. Without you I wouldn't be where I am today. Without you I wouldn't be able to learn to take critiscm and flaming in my stride. Thank you!
Also specially for what ff.net has brought me: two splenderific friends in the form of Yazmyn and Nicole. I love you guys! =D
Title: Aliger Memoria
Written by: Elluxion
Date: 2nd June 2003
Genre: Romance
Shippings: Draco/Hermione
Summary: A fiery slap, tearful accusations, ice-cream and kisses shared, a dreamy ramble down Diagon Alley... it didn't go where either Draco or Hermione expected -- but doing the forbidden had always appealed to the both of them...
Notes: This is a songfic set to Evanescence's -- which is a fantastic band -- My Immortal, the first song that could move me to tears every time I listen to it. I do not own My Immortal nor JK Rowling's wonderful characters Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger and whatnot. Also to those who read Dance For Me and liked it, this is set pretty much in the same vein. =) Would love reviews!
This is also un-beta-ed because my heavenly beta-reader is in the midst of the torture you might also dub as exams. Any mistakes or grammatical boo-boos here are made by me alone. Do alert me about them so I can correct 'em. *gets out her first-aid kit and heaps thanks upon you... along with truckloads of chocolate and marshmellows*
Long one this time... anyway, onwards! Onegai, review!
It was raining.
Clouds massed darkly over the sky, a boiling accumulation of anger that sheltered the sunlight. Raindrops fell - or were driven - pelting rhythmically, gliding down eaves, forming despondent puddles of water on the cobble-stoned street.
She'd always liked rain.
Hermione stepped through the rapidly diminishing arch from the Leaky Cauldron's little backyard, lifting her face to welcome the refreshing tang of rainwater. The water seeped into her locks, loosening the locks of chocolate, guiding forth tendrils of hair to gently frame her face, drifting down in minute rivulets all the way below her waist, softening every tress.
A small frown hovered on her brow, and a world-weary, wise expression resided in her cinnamon eyes, so unusually odd in a carefree young girl. Her nose was scrunched up in thought, and her lips were pursed in worry.
She drew her cloak, a soft, robin's-egg blue, closer to her, gaining some warmth from the instinctive gesture. As the rain settled gently over her in a sad piping tune, her eyes softened slightly and some color restored itself into her pale cheeks.
Hermione was alone on the streets.
She blinked at Diagon Alley, once bustling with life, filled with friendly shouts and welcoming invitations, now forlorn and lost, a sea of gray: dreary shop houses, darkened with grime upon streets of paved stone, all set against the sky and its ominous thundering. All the metal barriers were slammed shut and locked fast; all the doors stood steadfast against any intruders. Signs were either rusting with disuse or taken down entirely.
The only sign of life was a hawk, soaring against the sky that stretched out like a dome, which swiftly circled once, then disappeared into the rain.
It had been marked, a long time ago, that Diagon Alley was the most dangerous place to be around if you wanted to avoid a skirmish in an already war-wrought world. The residents and owners of shops were gripped in a feverish frenzy as they declared shops shut and moved away, retreating to the sanctuary of relatives' or friends' homes.
The Dark Lord and his Followers - not only the Death Eaters, but also a handful of trolls, a spattering of Dementors, and a lone giant - had in the middle of all the Diagon Alley residents' anguished preparations to leave descended like a plague. In a single attack, blood was smeared across the streets - at least half were slaughtered brutally by the wands of the servants of the Dark Arts. The battle, mourned deeply by the wizarding world, had only served to fuel the frequenters of Diagon Alley. In a month's time, the place was a ghost town. It was still considered unsafe, with good reason, as well.
Hermione Granger did not care for safety, just at the moment. Albus Dumbledore had sent her on a mission to retrieve a magical artifact from the throes of London from Gringotts Bank (nothing short of the ending of the world would budge those goblins, apparently) and retrieve it she would. Her face was rimmed in steel. Hermione was not an Auror, and neither was she an official Ministry witch. No, Hermione's profession was a journalist for the Daily Prophet.
You might lament the waste of her talents, but Hermione knew that her duties went much, much further. She was entrusted with many tasks, most of absolute importance and gravity. She was often involved in the council Dumbledore usually took, and her young face stood out in all the other lined ones. Why everyone trusted her so implicitly, using her as one of the frontline battlers in fights against Death Eater raids, entrusting her with messages of great importance to deliver, instructing her to uncover spies, appointing her to guard all the magical artifacts they were using against the Dark Lord, was probably due to her determination to get at the truth in every matter, of her thirst to strip all matters down to the bare facts. Her job as a journalist was often the password to doors that would have otherwise remained shut to her.
But now Hermione rarely smiled and she hadn't laughed in ages. No; she could handle the workload and the stress. What was eating at her was a certain smoky-eyed man she thought she once knew.
Suppressed by all my childish fears
"Shut up, Malfoy."
"But you know I'm correct, Granger."
"Shut up."
"Look, it's there in black and white. Ashwinder eggs have to be frozen in two hours' time - not the four you'd predicted it to be." He was wearing that aggravating smirk, the one that sent his eyes sparkling in malevolent glee.
"All right," she said grumpily, slamming the book shut. "You're right and I'm wrong. There. Satisfied?" With a huff, she flounced from her seat and made as if to exit the Prefects' Lounge.
She could feel the icy touch of his hand on her arm before he drew her closer to him and captured her in a fiery kiss-one of those that transformed her into a gibbering, helpless, weak-kneed mess. Draco arched an eyebrow as they broke apart for air, her eyes shining and her face flushed shyly.
"Not quite, Miss Granger. Not quite."
I wish that you would just leave
Because your presence still lingers here
And it won't leave me alone
Hermione lifted her head to stare at the cheerful sign depicting an ice-cream sundae, her eyes glazed with memory. This tiny, cramped, out-of-the-way little ice-cream parlor had drawn both she and Draco Malfoy at first glance with its queer quaintness and charm. With a sigh, Hermione allowed her gaze to roam across the creaking door and soft earthy colors.
She could see him, the ghost of him, seated so elegantly on one of those ridiculous plastic chairs under the umbrella that shaded neither sun nor rain. She could recall multiple heated debates taking place here, over slowly melting ice-cream that they always left in puddles because they were too busy talking. She could see him now, faintly outlined against the rain, peering out with those fascinating depthless gray eyes, collected and never unruffled. She could catch a flash of that alabaster skin, so curiously white, never in the slightest tanned or freckled by the sun. She glimpsed the high cheekbones, accompanied by the girlish lips she loved teasing him about. It was yesterday once more, with her standing in the rain and gazing at the old ice-cream parlor.
When Hermione shook her head, blinking against the ebb and flow of rainwater down her face, everything had disappeared. Only the dingy, tacky plastic Muggle chairs, with their bright yellow umbrellas, standing outside an absurdly miniature shop, were left.
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase
Draco Malfoy was wandering the streets that day.
The Dark Lord frowned upon wandering. As a Death Eater, Draco should have laid low, keeping a quiet profile. But he found it restless to be cooped up at their headquarters with absolutely nothing to do. The Dark Lord hadn't sent him on any of those silly, weak raids: the heir of Lucius Malfoy clearly was slated for greater things.
What kind of greater things?
Draco didn't want to know.
To hell with Voldemort. To hell with what he didn't like and what he did. Draco tired of being a puppeteer for Voldemort to take out and maneuver whenever he needed something done. Draco idly drew a hand along the dirt-covered shop windows, his face set in a dissatisfied frown.
A caged phoenix.
He'd heard someone said the term, a long, long time ago, it seemed. His memories were shrouded in cobwebs, but he delved into his store and blew the dust off the pages. And when he surfaced with the identity of the person who had coined the phrase, his face softened slightly, just slightly, so that he didn't bear the cold expression he unconsciously wore.
It was so like Hermione Granger to come up with the phrase that fitted his current situation so perfectly. He could recall sharply her intellect; the intellect he loved to probe and challenge with his own wit. And of course her beauty - the warmth of her beauty. The vibrance of harvest, of cinder and apples, of family and cold noses and fireplaces. He had loved brushing her hair, getting the tangles out, eliminating the frizz with a few skilful strokes, arranging those sweet little locks so that they laced her face. He remembered that she liked to rest her head in his lap as they talked. They could chatter on about anything, it seemed - anything from Muggleborn prejudice to the quality of the food they served at Hogwarts. Her Gryffindor viewpoint made everything so enthralling.
With a rueful smile tugging at his lips, Draco turned his attention from his recollections and those light days they had shared, as weightless and carefree as the whipped cream that would crown her favorite peppermint ice-cream sundae.
It surprised him that it still hurt.
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
And I've held your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me
The hawk couldn't see much - the sky and Diagon Alley below were curtained and scarfed in a never-ending tirade of rain. Pitter-pat-pitter-pat. He was old now, that hawk, aged considerably too fast, too soon. His wings couldn't take much of the strain any more, especially not with the wind ravaging him as it was. Pitter-pat-pitter-pat. But he still had a few good battles left in him.
Pitter-pat-pitter-pat. He wouldn't have survived to live for so many winters if he hadn't been a good fighter: those amber eyes set in the fierce head had seen much more than most humans cared to look for. Pitter-pat-pitter-pat. He angled his body, molded his wings flat against his sinuous feathers, and dove.
He hadn't seen anything to swoop down upon, to clash with and seize with his talons, but he tired of the oceans of bleak icy screams of tempest; there wasn't much of a change of scenery, it was still gray after gray after gray - pitter-pat-pitter-pat - but the tiled roofs and brick walls barricaded the sleeting gales from wrenching another few months from what life he still had. Pitter-pat-pitter-pat.
As he turned his control to the swirl and stream of the storm, letting the wind slip under his wings and harnessing its power to serve him, the hawk caught sight of a human girl wandering Diagon Alley. Pitter-pat-pitter-pat. She was considered pretty by human standards, a sort of autumn fairness of face and skin. He approved. The human girl seemed connected, linked to the long-forgotten earth and magic. Pitter-pat-pitter-pat.
The hawk shook his head dryly; those humans had long failed to remember the origins that had shaped what they were today. Pitter-pat-pitter-pat. Tales were still told, flitting in and out of his memory, among the animals and creatures of fire and dew. But to the humans - the greatest gainers from the magic - these stories were merely childhood musings told at a nurse's lap. Pitter-pat-pitter-pat. Such foolishness.
He inched nearer, easing gracefully a few feet closer to the girl. Her eyes were cast upon the ground - no, they were closed now, eyelashes resting on flushed cheeks.
The tears on her cheeks mingled with the rainwater. Pitter-pat-pitter-pat.
By your resonating light
Now I'm bound by the life you left behind
Your face: it haunts my once-pleasant dreams
Your voice: it chased away all the sanity in me
She raised her hand and slapped him full across the face, a full-armed slap with all her weight and fury behind it like the one she'd dealt him in their third year. He hadn't reacted then, yet this slap hurt so much more.
Draco stood calm, unflappable, composed, one cool hand pressed to his cheek to soothe the searing sting. Hermione had hit him so hard his skin had split on the bone and it was bleeding. But pain was something he was accustomed to.
"After all these years of hiding, of sneaking, of deceiving everyone! Then when people began to accept it, began to accept you and me - you, on some twisted, disgusting whim - decide to turn into a Death Eater! Are you screwing up your own life on purpose, Draco Malfoy? Are you trying to screw up my life as well? Just what is your problem?" Hermione stood glittery-eyed before him, unaware of the hot tears trickling down her cheeks, her face flaming, her voice accusing and coursing with agony.
"What do you want from me, Malfoy?" To have his name spat out again with such rancor and distaste, to have those eyes light upon him in undisguised hate, to have that hand he'd held just earlier on flashing past his eyes too fast to be much more than a blur and snapping his face to the right… Her voice rose from a venomous hiss to a livid shout, then to a heartbroken, uncontrollable shriek. "Just what do you want from me? God, what am I to you, Malfoy? Do I not measure up to your pureblooded standards? I sold you my soul, my body, my love! Am I a doll you take out and play with when it suits you? Am I merely a mind you toy with? Am I just another heart you want to shatter?"
A little part within him flickered and died. Draco knew he had to do it, had to break her so she could move on. And she would. Hermione was a goddess, a prize. He'd had her for so long. He should be happy to have had her for so long. And yet those few brief years meant nothing now, those days of perfect serenity and happiness.
He couldn't risk being linked to anyone he knew and loved. He had to sever those links, and his sword would be the Dark Mark glistening on his forearm. His sister was being tortured in Voldemort's chambers with every second that glided past. His father was doing the torturing. They'd killed his mother, one of the three women he loved most, they were tormenting his sister, the second, and he would not allow the same to befall Hermione. He held the key to Hermione's survival in the war to come. And his traitorous lips opened to return Hermione her freedom and life.
"Yes."
With that one word, Hermione's face splintered, and she began to cry, sobbing into her arms, desolate cries of anguish and horror. Draco swept past her imperiously, uncaringly, and disappeared into the shadowy hallway beyond.
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase
Hermione shuffled on, her hands deep within the pockets of her robes, no longer bothering to pay attention to her route. She knew Diagon Alley too well to get confused by its nooks and crannies, though many adults certainly had problem navigating the once-busy, lively place. Draco had loved Diagon Alley too much for that. Every where she turned she could see ghostly wraiths of their past selves, ducking in and out of this shop, laughing and smiling in another, arguing and making up in this corner, stealing sweet kisses in the next.
She loved him. She loved his beauty, his intelligence, his wit. She loved the self he'd revealed only to her: his patience, his concern, his determination. She missed the way he could playfully pout at her to get what he wanted. She missed that meaningful glance, that hand on her arm that would tell her that everything would turn out fine - and things usually did when he was around. They used to be two pieces of a puzzle that fitted together, in sync and without problem.
A sudden footfall kindled her attention and Hermione jerked her chin up sharply, her fingers already closing on her wand.
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
I hold your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me
There was a rain-soaked figure before her, and guessing from its stature, Hermione hazarded that it was a male. But there was something off from the way he moved, something unsettling from his walk. A sort of coiled, lazy grace she found hauntingly familiar.
Draco saw Hermione the same time she saw him.
They were perfect opposites, and perfect fools. In the singeing rain and wind, their eyes met and they recognized the other. Why he'd done what he'd done. Why she'd never tried to get him back. Hermione was still moving, walking towards him with that strange dreamy ramble she'd walked with through Diagon Alley, and Draco hadn't paused in his stride either. Of all time and places… of all weathers and winds…
Draco's lips curved in a tentative smile, a boyish, uncertain one she'd once seen a long time ago; a faraway expression was affixed on Hermione's face-how many times had he seen the same time drifting through her eyes? She arrived to where he stood, drew level, and Draco reached out to pull the hood off her face.
A feathery brush on his lips. A quick caress of her hair. A soft trailing down his cheek. An inhalation of her scent.
A forbidden kiss.
He drew the hood up for her, and she walked past him to disappear into the dust beyond.
But though you're still with me
I've been alone all along
It was raining.
And she'd always liked the rain.