Title:Those Which Are Precious
Pairings:Draco/Pansy
Rating: K
Period: Post Hogwarts/Epilogue Compliant
Summary: Those things which are precious are saved only by sacrifice. - David Kenyon Webster.
Disclaimer:Don't own it. I make no money from it.
AN: This is unbetaed. Written for the Romantic Moments Competition on HPFC. Not exactly a perfect romantic moment, but it's what came to me.
AN2: 6/2012 SPaG edit. Those Which Are Precious took second place in the Romantic Moments Competition on HPFC 9/5/2011. YAY!
Life was hell after the war, a hell that was never ending without any hope and remained a constant wear on the soul. Perhaps it would have been the same if we had won. I hardly think of it anymore. Except for days like this, when the rain falls in sheets and lightening illuminates the clouds. It sounds like the world might end tonight and I smile. I pull my little girl closer to my chest and hum a song beneath my breath.
For a moment I can smell the dust and musk of the manor shut up for the winter. I can feel his hand in mine. The way he talked as though he had just finished a sentence, something witty and sarcastic. I can smell his cologne. And then it's gone.
When the rain falls I let myself indulge, if only for a moment.
We were seventeen, freshly wounded, him more than I. His eyes were clouded with frustration; his mind still reeling. It had been months and we couldn't walk down the street without the world trying to kill us.
He'd been hexed so many times in the back a scar ran down the length of his torso, not a war wound, but a post-war wound. There were more, but he hid them, like he hid the mark. I in turn hid the hurt of being threatened in public, in being humiliated at every turn. I hid the burn mark on my arm, a token of appreciation from some drunken victors. The world was cruel.
We were cruel in pretending as though we could survive this. Our parents gathered in parlors with their friends, trying to regain their former civility and prestige. Together Draco and I lived on the outskirts of their society looking in from behind our walls of fear and hatred.
"Come with me," he whispered.
He leaned close to me, his lips on my ear, his hair tickling my neck and bare shoulder. I took his hand and he led me away. We climbed the stairs going further and further up into the highest tower of the manor. The rain falling outside came so fast I worried that the grounds might flood. The thunder banged in the background.
He sat on the windowsill and beckoned me toward him. I stood between his legs and he rested his head on my stomach. We were there in the middle of the hall, neither going up nor down, simply standing in the stairway. I watched the lightening cast its fleeting light upon the grounds every few moments. I stroked his hair.
The sky lit up again and so is he. His hair is the softest shade of blonde. His skin ever so pale and me, so scared that even in that moment the only reason I'm not trembling, safe in his arms, is that I am, safe in his arms. The soft noises of the group downstairs cannot find us in the stairwell. The hate of the world cannot either. Nothing can permeate this safety, this bubble, or this moment. I can breathe.
"Do you speak French?" Draco murmurs softly.
I smirk and laugh. What a silly question. What a horrific question.
"Answer me."
His hands are on my hips. He pulls away from me. He looks at me. He's disconnected. The only thing still holding us together are his hands on my body.
"Draco?"
"Do you speak French?"
"Yes. Why are you asking such a silly question?"
He presses a ticket into my hand, a train ticket.
"You're taking me to France?"
I'm giddy in my own stupidity. It pains him. I can see it in his face. There's only one ticket.
"You're going to France."
His hand is on my stomach. It's still flat, but the nausea comes in waves now.
"Why?"
He shook his head.
"I love you, Pansy."
In courtship and in life no one has ever sacrificed for me the way we did for each other. I've never felt as loved as the moments I spent in his arms, in his life and in his heart. The memories of him kept me strong long after we parted.
The world is harsh. War is hell and my life is not the way I planned it. I look down at her little face, pale and soft. She's a beautiful toddler, afraid of a storm. Perhaps someday she'll see the beauty in the way the lightening paints the sky in jagged marks, the thunder beats the celestial drum and the raindrops as a gift from the heavens. Each drop is a gift of life.
I smile and know that I am at peace. England is still in turmoil. I read it in the news. The political climate is changing, their world is changing. Mine has grown ever smaller.
"Mum?" my little boy stands in the doorway to the kitchen. His blonde hair is a shock of color in the dark.
"Hmm…"
"When will dad be home?"
My husband works no matter what the weather, but the question turns my attention back to the newspaper. Draco will be married this week. I smile at the thought.
"Soon."
"When will the rain stop?"
"Soon."
"Mum," he growls in childish petulance.
"Après la pluie, le beau temps."
It does not placate him, but he does not argue. Instead he takes a seat at my feet looking out the window. He is so much like his father, but he need not know that. We all make our sacrifices.
Those things which are precious are saved only by sacrifice.
- David Kenyon Webster.
AN:Translation "After troubles, calm comes back." Or the literal translation of: After the rain, the good weather.