Title Love Kills
Author: savvyshka
Prompt: #4. Lovesickness. A tale of love over a great distance and how it (psychologically) affects the two parties involved.
Prompt submitted by: ally_147
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Word Count:~ 6200
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: AU, explicit sexual situations, angst, profanity.
Summary: Part not with your loved ones.
Author's notes: Enormous thanks to my wonderful beta, to mods for organising this fest and to ally_147 for the excellent prompt.
Love Kills*
(A Year and A Day)
Chapter One
The clock tower struck the hour, interrupting his methodical punching. He swung his fist one last time and drew a calming breath. The stench of blood and sweat hit his nostrils, and he grimaced in distaste. Fear stank.
Standing up, Draco straightened his grey suit and procured a white handkerchief. Fastidiously wiping his knuckles, he contemplated the battered, unmoving body on the floor.
"Sorry, uncle," he offered unapologetically as his cold eyes lingered on the bloodied face of his infamous relative for a few moments more. Perhaps he had overdone it just a notch. He glanced around and chuckled darkly, taking in the baroque interior. Of course, even in hiding, Rabastan Lestrange had succeeded in surrounding himself with luxury. Noticing that he had managed to ruin the vintage tapestry on the wall – one of the spells had probably grazed the delicate material – Draco stepped around the unconscious man on the floor. Coming closer, he traced the old needlework with a fingertip and shook his head. It would be impossible to restore – the tapestry was simply too old to withstand the reconstructive spell.
"Pity," Draco muttered with a sigh. "Such a waste."
He regretted nothing, though – the bastard on the floor deserved every spell and every punch. It had taken Draco a year to find and gain access to him. The whole fucking year had been spent in deep undercover, pretending to be at ease among a bunch of misguided mongrels who called themselves "Dark Lord's Heirs". The yearlong balancing act had made him feel like a bloody equilibrist at times. He'd hated it, and not only because it reminded him of the darkest moments of his youth. Frankly, he was all right with that part, even though it was unpleasant. He was an Auror, and some level of dreadfulness was to be expected.
There was a greater reason for his acute animosity. It so happened that right before that assignment, he had convinced Granger to move in with him, and they just had settled into a routine. It hadn't been easy to bring their relationship to that point – they had had a rough start – and he hated leaving her alone for so long.
Loathed. It.
For once he had done something right, and he finally, finally felt content. All he wanted was to be with her. Love her. For Merlin's sake, he could have married her by the end of this year! If he had been around, that is. Instead, he had been forced to spend three hundred and sixty-five agonizingly long days without her. He had to live, breathe, go to sleep, and wake up every morning without her. It had been torture. He had mourned every hour, every minute, every second that had been stolen from them by that demented, delusional fuck.
Disgust engulfed him as he looked again at his uncle. The sly bastard had not only managed to disappear after the war, he had also built himself a group of fanatical followers. No one knew where he had found the idiots, but they had been a pain in the arse of the Ministry for quite a while. Once it had become apparent that the bastards planned to assassinate the Minister, Draco, as the only Auror who sported the Dark Mark, had been planted inside one of their operational cells. From there, he slowly worked his way up.
This morning, his hard work had come to fruition, and he had finally got an opportunity to meet the mastermind behind that pack of mongrels. It had been easy enough to fool and neutralize the guards, and when Draco had dropped his Glamour Charm, the look on his uncle's face had been priceless. The surprise had worked to Draco's advantage, and the operation was over in minutes. It was no wonder that Auror Malfoy felt quite proud of himself.
Having wiped his hands, he threw the handkerchief in Lestrange's face, drew his wand, and sent his smoky silver fox Patronus to notify the local Magical Law Enforcements. His job here was done. Belgrade's Special Unit knew what to do.
Needing to regroup and leave behind the fanatic's mask he had worn for a year, Draco walked to a window. Belgrade was slowly waking up to a sunny Saturday morning. As he watched the Muggles who were already running errands, he noticed a young woman walking down the street. The way her chestnut curls bounced with every step, reminded him of different curls … of a different woman, and his heart skipped a beat. He reached for the necklace that coiled hidden around his neck. A silver locket with an engraved lioness on it bounced against his chest, tinkling softly as if welcoming its owner. Lovingly caressing the locket, he closed his eyes, muttered, "Time to go home," and popped it open with a soft metallic click.
A moment later, he was swirling towards home, towards her. The wild spinning and twirling of the Portkey made his stomach churn and muddled all his thoughts. Except one.
Never again. I will never leave her again.
He landed in their cosy, sunlit foyer and, spurred by anticipation, rushed to the living room, not watching where he was going. Of course, in his rush, he managed to trip over the hearth and tumble on a rug with a loud thud.
"Shite," he cursed. So much for quietly sneaking in, he thought, and scrambled to his feet. For months, he had had this childish fantasy of creeping quietly behind her and announcing his return by covering her eyes and making her guess who. Certain that his noisy entrance had spoiled the surprise and expecting her to come running any minute, he huffed and moved towards their bedroom. A second later, however, he froze mid-step and narrowed his eyes. Something was off. A distinct ripple in the air indicated that he had breached some kind of wards, and they certainly weren't Hermione's. He knew her magical signature as well as his own.
His wand at the ready, Draco squinted around and listened. The silence that surrounded him made his skin crawl. "Granger," he called softly, even though he had a feeling that she wasn't there. Scanning the room, he noticed the dead plants on the windowsills. Unable to keep calm any longer, he darted to their bedroom. It was empty. The bed was made, but not the way Hermione usually made it, and he cringed at the thought of someone else touching their bed. The usual sweet aroma of jasmine still lingered in the air, though it was much fainter than he remembered. Hungrily, he inhaled the familiar scent, and that was when it hit him – something had happened. Something terrible had happened to her while he was away.
His chest began to ache as panic set in. Trying and failing to draw a proper breath, he whispered, "Hermione," and sunk down onto their bed. It took him a moment to recuperate and gather his scattered thoughts. A few heartbeats later, he sprang to his feet and hastened toward the Floo. He needed to find Potter. Now.
There still wasn't any love lost between him and the Head Auror. That being said, they had learned to keep their interactions balanced. Plus, they now had Granger in common, and that was bigger than any old grudge.
As Draco stepped into the living room, the Floo suddenly lit up, and a dishevelled Potter was spat into the centre of the room. So those were Potter's wards, he thought, eyeing the Head Auror with suspicion. "Potter," he called, and leaned against the doorframe. The worried expression on Potter's face warned him that he would probably need support.
Potter turned to the sound of his voice, fixed his glasses, and focused his eyes on him. "Welcome back. I heard about Belgrade. Well done," he said and gave him a tight smile, which didn't reach his eyes. That small, forced smile looked unnatural on his haggard face, making Draco uneasy.
"Cut it, Potter," Draco snapped warningly. He wasn't in the mood for fake niceties. "What's with the wards?"
Shifting from one foot to another, Potter drew a heavy breath and slowly ran a hand through his hair. Then … he pinched his nose and exhaled. Losing his patience, Draco took two long strides and, towering over the dark-haired wizard, hissed, "Talk."
"It's …" Potter faltered and pinched the bridge of his nose again. "It's Hermione."
Feeling the earth slowly moving from under his feet, Draco stumbled back and collapsed on a chair. "What? Where is she?"
"St. Mungo's."
"What happened?" he rasped, his voice hoarse from a sudden lack of air.
Potter moved his lips, unable to force the words out, and Draco was almost ready to strangle him when at last, Potter cleared his throat and said, "They can't wake her up."
"What do you mean, can't wake her up? What kind of malady is that? A spell?"
"They don't know exactly. I found her unconscious in bed when she hadn't shown up for dinner at Grimmauld," Potter explained. "Anthony – her Healer – said that something is keeping her from waking up. He ran every diagnostic spell possible and didn't find a cause. He said it could be anything." He paused and chewed on his bottom lip. "I told him that she could have been stressed with your being away for so long. He thinks that it may be a magical melancholy, something akin to a Muggle depression."
"Melancholy?" Draco repeated quietly and frowned.
"Yes, it's a tough thing to treat, apparently. I thought she was a little depressed lately. I just didn't think-"
Suddenly seeing red, Draco sprang to his feet and swooped in on the wizard. Once again towering over him with clenched fists, he roared, "MELANCHOLY! You prick! You were supposed to look after her. You swore – you gave your word to me. She's your best friend, for Merlin's sake!"
"I know that!" Potter spat back at him, his nostrils flaring and eyes ablaze. "I tried. She didn't say a word. She refused to talk about it, and you know Hermione – she can be stubborn. I checked on her every single day. We talked, and she seemed all right. At least, she looked all right. And then, one day … it happened." He began to pace. "It was you she wanted. It was you she needed. I had no clue that something like that could happen. I couldn't …" He shook his head in defeat. "… I couldn't help her. I tried."
For a while, Draco silently watched him pace as he tried to grasp Potter's words. "Perhaps you should have tried harder," he muttered. His gaze fell on a half-dead ficus tree, and he felt a tendril of suspicion uncurling deep in his stomach. He turned back to Potter and asked, "How long has she been in St. Mungo's?"
Potter halted and admitted, "Three weeks."
The wariness in his green eyes indicated that he knew what was coming, and frankly, Draco did contemplate hexing or smothering him. It took all his self-control not to lunge at him. "Why. Wasn't. I. Informed?" He pushed through gritted teeth, staring the dark-haired wizard down. Merlin, he was ready to kill him.
"I wanted to," Potter said quietly. "I couldn't do anything."
"Bollocks! You're the Head Auror, for fuck's sake. And you expect me to believe you? You just wanted the job done. So please, stop pretending that you give a damn."
"I do! I tried. You and Hermione are not married. There weren't any grounds for me to terminate the operation." Potter leaned against the granite mantel and added wearily, "I don't need to prove anything to anybody, let alone you. You know I care. You know that if it hadn't been for the safety of the Minister, I would have ended the operation in a heartbeat. In this particular case, I couldn't. It wasn't my decision. My hands were tied, do you understand?"
"Perfectly," Draco replied, his tone icy. Glaring at Potter's pale face, he couldn't find any compassion in his heart. There was too much rage in him. "You will receive my letter of resignation on Monday morning," he continued after a pause. "Oh, and give my regards to Shacklebolt. He can govern safely… at least for now." With that, he shoved Potter out of the way and stepped into the Floo.
"St. Mungo's," he shouted, and let the flames engulf him.
