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Many people didn't understand them. Ron had looked at her with disgust, called her delusional, because she found comfort in another man's embrace. Harry had tried not to judge, but those green eyes narrowed at her behind those infamous glasses, each time she came back every morning, with a slumped posture, and those dead lifeless eyes, emphasized by the purple bags that were always there, so striking against her pale skin. They all had an anchor, weighing them down, and drawing them back in when they went too far in their sorrows. Harry had Ginny; Ron had Pansy. So why couldn't she? Why couldn't; she have the same?
Yet, they held each other close every night. It wasn't love. They knew that for sure. But she still continue to return to his bed, needing, craving the feeling of security offered by the warmth between the sheets, and their limbs tangled together, with the sounds of muted breaths, with sighs of pleasure, and the slow thudding of hearts bringing life to the dead silence of the house. Hands grasped and clutched one another tightly, refusing them to part. The war had left them all emotionally scarred and wounded. Regardless of which side they were on, both were left to deal with the anguish, guilt and pain that haunted them every single day, since the war had finally declared to be over. She thought it was twisted, how his low, soothing murmurs at night restored some of that sanity that was drained out of her throughout every sodding day of the war. Like most addicts, she craved his very presence; his lips would drag over hers, and they glided across, mapping and claiming each and every part of her body as his, causing her to roll her eyes back in bliss. Yes, she was, without a doubt, addicted to him.
One particular night though, after venomous words spewed out like acid, burning and hurting the pair, and a painful slap was delivered across his face, forming a blooming red handprint that splayed across his proud, aristocratic face. Neither had refused to back down, as was in their stubborn nature. So, she stomped out of his bed and home, furious, and intending to stop the sick, sadistic pattern that was forming. Yet, she always became antsy when the night grew darker, and the shadows more sinister with every tick-tock of the clock. The lights that lit up brightly in her home could only do so much, before she rushed clumsily to the Floo, whimpering his name all the time like an injured faun, stopping only until he enfolded her in the safety of his arms.
It wasn't only her. He too, had his own scars, and wounds that needed to be nursed. The damage ran way back. She would often find him trashing different rooms of the house. His anger surged through him like fire, poisoning his veins. He had crashed through his father's study, and his mother's vanity was not spared either. The urge to smash and wreck everything was out of control, breaking the items his father found precious so long ago. Vases, his mother's valuable antiques from China, wands from various successful Malfoys were all snapped, broken and blasted into dust. When he could find no others to destroy, he sank to the floor, in the midst of the debris and carnage he had caused, his harsh sobs tore through the empty room, while he drew himself in, rocking his body back and forth. Hermione always knew when to find him, and she healed his bloody knuckles, and scrapes with a gentle swish of her wand, while she held him close and breathed out words of comfort, fingers toying with the fine blond strands on his nape.
"They told me lies!" he bursted out, repeating it over and over again like a broken tape recorder.
"Shh, hush now Draco... I promise that you'll be okay." Hermione whispered gently while holding his head firmly between both hands, with her forehead and nose pressed up against his.
They'd eventually leave the mess behind for the tranquility of his bed. Lying there, staring into each other's eyes, with the lights all flickering on, and embraced each other as lovers do, it made it just that little bit easier to forget.
Of course, it all had to change. One stupid muggle contraption, that was all it took. She glanced at him, with red-rimmed eyes, and her dark lashes damp with tears. He abruptly stood up from the bathroom floor, staring down at her curled up frame beside the toilet bowl, and disapparated with a loud crack, leaving her to shed even more tears. He drowned himself with cheap alcohol, drinking in an attempt to forget everything. To abandon all thoughts of her and it.
It took a raging hangover pounding his head, and waking up in an unknown bed, all alone, for him to realize that he needed her, loved her, so with that thought, he apparated back into his room, where Hermione lay curled up in a fetal position on his sheets, hugging her knees tightly, as if it would alleviate the pain from his absence.
"Granger," he croaked out, as he walked further in the room and watched her sit up warily, "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have left you." his hoarse voice came.
She lowered her eyes to the floor; "it's oka-" she began before Draco cut her off.
"No it's not okay!" He spoke with a slight wobble to his tone, "I know that this was unexpected, and neither of us are even ready for this. I couldn't handle the thought of me raising a child. A child who'd have to bear insult after insult because of me, that Death-Eater scum?" His voice kept increasing in volume, and he paced agitatedly around his room, her eyes following him all the while.
He took a deep breath and tried again, kneeling down in front of her, "I guess what I'm trying to say is I know we didn't start out loving each other, and it was only to satisfy ourselves, and to save us from these demons that haunt us every night." Her lower lip jutted out and began to tremble, and tears filled her eyes. Draco raised his fingers to her chin to lift it up, to stare in to her warm, loving, brown eyes, and spoke, "I don't think we need to know what your favourite colour is, or all those nonsensical things, but I do know that you have to sleep with the lights on, and you and I will argue our arse's off like there's no tomorrow, and that I should never get on your bad side, lest I get slapped by you again, but one I thing I know for certain is that I love you." She was sobbing openly now, and Draco moved off the floor to lay with her on his bed.
"I'd rather go through this with you, instead of imagining a thousand what-ifs, and cursing the lucky sod who gets to have you." He spoke in a gentle tone, and she gave a watery laugh and nodded to him, while he brought his hand to her face, thumbing away all her tear tracks. Then he moved downwards, remembering what his mother had once told him, that babies could hear everything they're told, and whispered, "I'll love you forever" pressing gentle butterfly kisses on her stomach while looking up at Hermione with his stormy grey eyes.
She had finally found her own anchor.