Title: The Ghost.
Author: suprockstar
Pairing: Dhr.
Rating: PG-13 to T, I guess. Very angsty.
Disclaimer: JK owns all.
Summary: He watched her scream and cry in agony, begging for it to all stop. He did not move, he did not protest. He could not run away, or cover his ears, for those simple actions, would ultimately reveal him. And now her ghost is haunting him. [AU Deathly Hallows]
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Phew, I haven't posted in a while. I've written, but it seems that I'm getting lazy posting here, haha. I hope you guys like this, because I seriously had a lot of fun writing this, haha the angst is like therapy. :] Remember to review!
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The Ghost
He is lying in his bed, his sheets pooled around his slightly quivering body, shaken off in a sweat of pure and inescapable fear and rage. He hears her voice. He knows he does. He is not going insane, he swears to himself, because what kind of Malfoy would he be then?
He whispers into the dark, quietly and desperately, begging for the sound of her words to disappear from his ears, from his mind. But they are torturing him, yes they are. I didn't kill her. He tells himself this over and over, but his voice is lost in the sound of raw sobs, echoing about his room, and he is too shaken to realize that that harsh sound is coming from him. Because no one is in the room with him, he is all by himself. But he does not feel alone in the slightest.
And yet, her voice does not vanish, but instead gets louder, stronger, and he begs for this to be all a dream. All dreams eventually dissolve, all dreams were eventually forgotten. He suddenly does not wish for that, for he never wants to forget her, and it is killing him inside. He was a traitor of the cruelest kind, traitor to his family, traitor to her. He never wanted any of this to happen, never wanted the Cruciatus curse to be used on anybody, never wanted it to be used on her. And that was how he betrayed his name, for Malfoys were forbidden to feel any ounce of sympathy for those that deserved such a malicious punishment, especially for Mudbloods. But he let it happen didn't he?
Sick coward!
He watched her scream and cry in agony, begging for it to all stop, as her cries dug deep into his skin, and tore through his bones with much more anguish than he had ever expected. And he stood there, like the little boy he had tried so hard to separate himself from for oh so long, and let it happen, because he was not the man he wished to be. He had closed his eyes, and tried so hard to block his ears without physically doing so, for that act would reveal him, and he just couldn't have that. Her cries were a curse in itself, and he could still feel how much it had tortured him, and yet he could not beg it to stop. And he could not beg it to stop now.
He squeezes his eyes shut, for the pain of her all her agony was so loud, and it was getting too much, and he thinks that it was only an amount of time before he goes utterly insane.
She was here. He could feel it, a static in the air, a heavy presence in the room, a voice that he is not sure he hears at all. He could feel it! He momentarily ponders if he has already gone insane, and immediately denies any possible chance of that. He was a Malfoy after all. What kind of Malfoy would he be then?
So he resorts back to his first theory, for the feeling is just too strong! That silly little Mudblood was here! He abruptly shoots up from his failed slumber, and his eyes are forced open much too fast. If he catches the Mudblood off guard, surely he will see her there, lurking in his room.
But he sees nothing but darkness staring back at him, and it is more haunting than he could ever imagine. She was here! She had to be! He begs, this time, for her to be there with him, silly little Mudblood couldn't fool him!
But in the harsh truth of his reality, he realizes that it all doesn't matter.
Hermione was dead, and he wishes yet again, as he did every night, that she would come back, at least once, and Draco could apologize. Maybe that would stop the frenzy of constant anxiety and circling nervousness from capturing him in its agonizing grasps. Maybe if he apologizes, it would fix everything.
But it is his false hope for everything to get better, for he knows that nothing will change. He has already ridden himself mad, stepped into the sea of insanity, and could feel the waves slowly, but surely drown him.
His breathing refuses to slow, but he disregards that, is used to it. He slumps back onto this mattress and pulls his covers over the dampness of his body, tugging on it to cover every inch of him but his face. He does not close his eyes.
It is only a matter of time.
But until then, he waits for the welcoming light of another day. Then readies himself to succumb, ever so deeply into the darkness waiting before him in the night. And Draco will see the ghost again.
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