He wasn't dense. He could be pretty dog-headed (pun not intended, as people liked to say) when it came to Harry Potter, but he wasn't stupid, that was for sure. He'd always been able to feel things, the palpitating resonance of every mood fluctuation. He'd known, since he hadn't quite been able to talk, that his first word would not have been 'mama', because he knew it would've pricked the mascara-ed tears from Narcissa's eyelashes. There had been something about the malleable stiffness when she carried him, the honeyed cooing, that told him he wasn't wanted. He found out later that her marriage to Lucius blossomed from a forcibly initiated erotic escapade and a taciturn agreement between respected families.
In very much the same way, he knew his father didn't think much of him. Though his features were moulded in a similar way, his son had proved to be just a well-packaged ersatz. Draco Malfoy was a late bloomer, he had only started talking at five, and his development proved to be along the same line. Contrary to his own deft ability at wand magic, Draco had proved to be only at the average level, and the only aptitude he possessed was for potions, long considered a lower class of magic. Introverted and cowardly, his son was hardly what he considered the next in line for Malfoy Manor. Draco had seen all this, and desperately in awe of his father and his proud, reassured manner, he had tried. Trying to imitate his father's fluent duelling, he conversely remained just below the top, trying to copy his father's confidence and wit, he developed an effusively brash and disdainful manner that only further disappointed his father.
He had known, no, he knew someone who reminded him of his father. The very first time he met him, he had seen through the shy demeanour and old-fashioned glasses to the erect carriage of the boy, and the ease he felt in his quiet, unobtrusive movements. He had known Harry Potter was special even if Potter refused to acknowledged that himself. That had made him hate him all the more, because he longed to be like Potter, he would give anything to have the status of Potter, yet Potter shied away from it all, and in his awed envy the hatred burned red the lonely black of his heart.
And so he had felt the indecisive emotions of Hermione's heart, torn between Draco and her loyalties. He knew the feeling of guilt and treachery which wafted around her like an unrelenting miasma, her heart convulsed with betrayal whenever she thought of each side. He could sense the pain that wretched its way through her body, escaping in every laugh, sneaking through grins and recently, tainting the griefhoney from her eyes. Which explained why he was wandering the school at night, those fear-frosted, midnight-hewn corridors, the walls seeming disproportionately undulating, suddenly looming and receding in the coarse gloom of night, and heading towards the Astronomy Tower.
He was scared. The Hogwarts corridors reminded him unnervingly of the Manor's foreboding, threatening hallways, and the nights he had spent in them under the merciless, cannibalistic eyes of his ancestor's portraits when he had angered his father. It was scary, and his heart was thumping louder than the controlled clack of his leather shoes on the carpeted floor, but there were things worse than this.
He knew that she had pitied him. He had felt it in her polite ignorance of his existence, betrayed by the lingering looks during prefect meetings. He wouldn't lie to himself that he wasn't devastated when his father was put in Azkaban, his smart, capable, invincible father, but he did lie to everyone else. He could never pull of the same manner of condescending aristocracy as his father, but he knew how to maintain his air of scornful contempt, he couldn't embarrass his father further by having a son who broke down in his absence. And so he did.
Yet, for all his aplomb, Hermione had pitied him. It drew him inexplicably to her, and he fell in love with her. For a long time he had merely observed her, synergising his heart with hers, knowing her exasperation with Harry and Ron's lack of understanding, feeling her joy at her next perfect score, warming pride when she answered questions correctly in class, and even a faint stirring of unselfish love when he watched the way she cared for others with her whole being. But most of all, he had seen behind the abundant love in her chocolate eyes, a dimmed veil of aloof isolation, and he felt for the first time in all his intuitive perceptions of the human heart, instead of knowing, he understood.
Then one day, he had seen her alone in the restricted section of the library, flipping some book. It wouldn't have mattered which book, because he had felt the peace that cocooned her, a guileless love for everything around her. He had felt jealous. He was jealous because he wanted her to love him like that, not some ridiculous book. He was jealous because she thought the world was good when it wasn't, it made sad, embittered, scared people like him. He wanted to taint her, hurt her, make her his. He had gone up to her, and then he had touched her hand.
"I know you pity me."
She had stared at him when he said that, he could see in her eyes the surprise and some fright, but mostly a new bubbling geyser of sympathy. It didn't make him angry. It couldn't. All his life he'd ached with the back of his mind for an emotion that wasn't indifference or hate, and everywhere he'd seen walled eyes that mirrored his own. It didn't matter if it was his enemy who offered it. He was tired and scared and he just wanted someone to care. He felt like he had just returned home. So he kissed her. It wasn't really a kiss. He bent his mouth to skim hers, and touched the tip of his tongue to her lips, running them back and forth in playful temptation. He stepped back, staring at her. She didn't say anything. So he kissed her again, this time for real. Gently, lovingly, like he'd imagined it to be.
"Thank you."
He'd said that when they parted. His hands were still tangled in her hair.
"You're welcome."
That was how it had started. Sometimes he wondered why she had let him start it all, it would have been easier for her to just to turn her head. For him it was alright, he had nothing to lose, and much to gain, and that made him love her all the more, because had been willing. Sometimes Hermione wondered too. She thought it must be because of look in his eyes, the hunted loneliness and tender vulnerability. She recognised it because it was the same doleful eyes that stared back at her out of the mirror in the dormitory.
Hermione was lonely. Harry and Ron were great friends, but they were boys, relatively immature ones at that, they had more in common with each other than her, and they didn't bother to find out more. It didn't help that they seemed to be revered and awed by her academic prowess. So, feeling unloved, she had loved everyone, because it made her feel less lonely.
She had seen Draco many times after Lucius had been put in Azkaban, how he still maintained his haughty deprecation. But it cut less, and everyone knew it, because he was now the child of a disgraced criminal father. Hermione had pitied him, against all her reasoning and with all her compassion. She also pitied him because of a hidden empathy that she hadn't realised until he had looked into her eyes that night in the library.
She knew that he wanted love and she knew that she could give it, that she was willing to. He understood her, and in the craved need of the abandoned, she had let him kiss her, and kissed him back. In an unspoken mutual agreement sealed by a sensitive kiss, she cared for him while he understood her, and both of them would no longer be alone. She knew now, though, she had been cheated. She knew Draco would have known, because he could sense the raw thoughts of her subconscious better than her, but she had not. She had thought her love for him was that of a motherly kindred spirit, but her stubbornness could deceive her no longer.
She loved Draco. She loved the gentle touch of his caresses during their clandestine midnights, the warm touch of his lips as they breathed intoxicating love into her mouth. She loved his gangly boniness, the awkward movements that melted into smooth fluidity when he cuddled her in his thin arms. She loved the light flaxen hair that flopped over silver-grey eyes hooded with spidery lashes, and his ebony sculpted face, all unrelenting sharp angles. Most of all, she loved the way he understood her whole being just by looking at her.
It was confusing. He was still the same Draco. He was still cowardly and bitter,
and he still insulted Harry and Ron inexorably, triumphing in her sad resignation.
He was still vindictive, upping her every time he could, scared to lose, scared
to lose her. He still believed in his father's almightiness, and thus in Voldemort
too. They had kept their relationship apart from the realities of the world,
but the fairytale was coming to an end and the urgencies of reality were slipping
into their impossible dream, warning her of consorting with an unredeemed enemy,
whispering of her traitorous behaviour to her friends.
Draco saw all this, and he hated himself for being weak, for kissing her that
night in the library instead of watching mutely as always. He had never really
wanted to hurt her, all the callous words from his mouth were spoken to defend
himself from the idea of her rejection. He had always wanted, he always wanted
to protect her, to save her from his sin, to redeem himself for pulling her
innocence into his evil. But he had never been able to, because that would mean
losing her, and he didn't want to, he was selfish.
It was alright though, now. He would this one unselfish thing for her, in the most selfish way possible. He knew it would hurt, but he was too spineless to be nobler about it. But he would do it, definitely, because he loved her only, selfishly maybe, but he did. She had been the only person to love him, and Draco would set aside all his cowardliness for just this night alone, to thank her for it. Draco knew what to do. He would return all the love she gave him back to her, end the shadow that trailed her, the shadow in his form, he would return her back to where she belonged. He stepped out onto the stone-hewn balcony at the Astronomy Tower, looking at the carpeted sky of dancing pixies.
How beautiful, he thought. The Astronomy Tower was the one place he had never brought Hermione to, because he had thought the place a schmaltzy cliché. Yet, there were reasons why it had earned its renown, reasons he had never bothered to think of, because he didn't want to. He looked out over the lake, a rippling opal glacier dotted with stars fallen from the sky, and thought that he should have taken Hermione here, but now he wouldn't get a chance, not anymore. He placed his hands on the smooth icy railing, savouring the chilly relief on his sweaty palms.
Today was Valentine's Day, and Draco was going to give the best gift he could offer. He would kill himself.
Author's Notes: Hope you enjoyed the fic. It was meant to be for Valentine's Day, butit turned out a bit late. At least it's still Valentine's Day in some time zones! Anyway, how was the fic? A bit predictable, wasn't it? Slightly rushed at the end too. Please do comment! Also, if you liked my writing, please do read and review my other D/Hr fic, thanks!
&SnoOza