Author's Note: Italics are Draco's Point of View Scenes. Normal Font are Hermione's.
After all this Time
(Always)
.o0o.
His eyes dart this way, making certain that the Hospital Wing is deserted and that Pomfrey isn't making her nightly rounds. Once he's satisfied that he's alone, he slips into the room, as silently as he can, and makes his way to her bedside.
She's stiff as a board, eyes widened in an expression of utmost terror, and he reaches out to run a finger over her wrist. It's cool as marble, and twice as hard, making him wish that he hadn't left for the Quidditch Pitch.
He should have been with her, so that perhaps he would be the one petrified in her place, or maybe they could have both escaped. It's doubtful though – despite the many claims that the monster only went after those with dirty blood, he doubts that it would hesitate to attack him, or any other Pureblood. The monster is, after all, just an animal, driven by instinct.
There's the sound of hushed voices coming down the corridor, and he bites his lip. He can't be caught here – it would wreak havoc with his reputation, him being found amidst the filth – but at the same time, he wants to help them.
He yanks a single page, torn from a book, out of his pocket, and he scrunches it up. Quick as lightning, he stuffs it into her hand before darting to a nearby bed, and, with a flick of his wand, he closes the curtains around him.
The monster is a Basilisk, something he knows courtesy of his lengthy research periods with Granger, both of them concealed from prying eyes by the books and high shelves.
Their friendship is a strange one . . . but it's the only true one he knows.
(*)
She's furious.
Her bushy, brunette curls crackle with static, and her eyes narrow into slits as she storms forward, shoving Harry and Ron out of the way in her zeal.
How could he take such delight in the murder of an innocent creature?
She punches him as hard as she can, forcing all of her strength into the blow, screaming out the most deplorable insult she can call to mind as she feels the bone break beneath her trembling knuckles. Blood spurts across her fingers as he stumbles, grey-eyes wide, hands clamped across his nose, and she feels oddly guilty as she turns away. It's as though he's taken the short-cut, as though he's simply trying to win his father's pride, and she's sick of it.
He's so much better than the rest of them, and she hates that she's the only one who can see beneath his facade.
(*)
His mouth goes dry, throat constricting, jaw going slack as he catches sight of her.
She's gorgeous.
A periwinkle dress flutters around her delicate silhouette, clinging to her skin in some places and falling like waves in others. She's done something with her hair. He isn't sure what, but it's sleek and missing her trademark curls, each silky wave cascading to the small of her back.
She reaches out an arm, and for a minute he thinks that she's asking him to dance. Instead, just as he's about to step forward and lead her onto the dance floor, a brutally muscled arm is extended towards her, stubby fingers closing around her dainty ones.
He stops, glaring at her as she sways in the arms of another, his eyes hard as chips of flint. It's like a grotesque depiction of Beauty and the Beast, a physical manifestation of that Muggle tale she's told him about.
Perhaps the metaphor is apt though, because a beast seems to have been freed within his chest, shredding his insides, and burning his heart with a white-hot, raging fire that he cannot quench.
His thoughts are proved to be lies, though, because all too soon the flames are freezing, and he's being stabbed with shards of ice, because she's kissing someone.
And that someone is not him.
(*)
She's late, and the Inquisitorial Squad is on her heels, yet she dares not stop lest she be captured. So far, she doubts they've realized who she is as she darts ahead of them, her hood pulled low over her eyes, obscuring the mane of brunette curls that would give her away in a single breath.
If only she can reach the Room, the door will shut behind her, and she'll be fine. Umbridge can't get into the Room of Requirement, and neither can her ghouls.
She flicks her wand behind her as she runs, deflecting a stunning spell that would have hit her in the back, and it strikes the wall. A cloud of dust obscures her, and she's sure that she's going to get away.
Then she's stifling a shriek as a hand grabs her arm, and yanks her into an alcove, a cool palm pressing itself over her lips. Without thinking, she bites down as hard as she can, and he yelps and pulls away.
She turns, wincing as she realizes that it isn't a foe that she's a bitten. He looks about to yell, nursing his bleeding hand as though it's about to fall off, before he grabs her by the tie. She's yanked forward, and his lips come crashing down to hers, and for a split second it's all forgotten.
Then he's gone, and she can hear his voice tearing through the corridors, leading the Inquisitorial Squad in the wrong direction, away from her, and her destination.
(*)
A single tear trickles down his cheek, and his glare flickers across the surface of the Black Lake, his chin nestled between his knees, his arms wrapped around the legs. It's late, and the grounds are silent, the first hues of twilight beginning to make their mark upon the sky.
The war is taking its toll on his family, and now his father's in prison, leaving his mother and himself as prisoners within their own home. He hates it, so much, and he just wants to shout, to scream, to let everything go in one glorious blast of blissful anarchy.
He can't, though. There's no way he can outright rebel, and still live, not now that his family's fallen from grace.
The tears are still falling, brought forth by the demons that he's clung to for all of these years, and, for the first time in his life, he realizes that there are no angels left to save him.
Then, her arms wrap around him, and he's not sure how's she's gotten here, how she's found him, or why she's risking it all just to comfort him. If the Dark Lord caught wind that he, the last Pureblood heir of both the Black and Malfoy lines, had fallen for a Muggleborn witch . . . the cost would be grievous to pay.
She's his angel though, and so he doesn't question her, he just lets himself relax in the relative safety of her arms, tears falling like rain till at last the dawn cuts a red-gold swath across the horizon.
(*)
He's pulling away from her, she can tell, and she's scared.
No, she's terrified, not for herself, but for him. It's obvious that he's crumbling under the weight of his Mark and that he's planning something – a trick that ends in death. She wishes he would just talk to her, that he'll realize that it isn't just him against the world, and that she can help him if he lets her.
Not that he would, as he's so succinctly told her at the beginning of term. It's bad enough, according to him, that Voldemort has his mother as a bargaining chip, and he refuses to let even an inkling of how much he values her find its way to the Dark Lord's ear.
She's flattered that he cares so much, and she understands his concern, but she can't help but feel her heart shatter every single time she sees him, slowly breaking, like Atlas holding up the sky and buckling beneath it.
(*)
He turns away, like the coward that he knows himself to be, and he wishes that he's brave enough to shield her, to take her pain into himself, so that he may spare her the torture.
His mad aunt cackles, training her wand upon the writing figure on the floor, the words of the Cruciatus flowing from her lips like water. Without hesitation, he finds himself whispering under his breath, and as soon as the charm leaves his tongue, he clenches his teeth to keep from screaming.
Is this bravery, he wonders as the cresting waves of pain slam into his gut, and she catches his eye, her gaze conveying her gratitude as he superciliously absorbs her agony.
Or is this foolishness?
Perhaps it is neither, he muses, and it's merely something that all wannabe kings do for their queens.
(*)
She tears through the Great Hall, and almost every eye is upon her. Blood drips from her, and dust congeals across her wounds, but she pushes herself through the survivors, hurtling towards him with all the speed she can muster.
He's standing in the doorway of the Great Hall, and he looks terrible, his platinum-blond locks plastered to his face, his cheeks covered in stubble, his skin wearing a motley collection of black and blue.
Yet his grin is as brilliant as her own, and she throws herself into his arms, nearly bowling him over. They fit together like two pieces of a jigsaw, and before anyone can react, her lips have met his. The fiery titan within her heart sighs, sated at long last, and she clings to him with all the desire of a person who's about to have the world torn away from their grasping fingers.
(*)
He swallows as she surveys him with one eyebrow raised, her lips twisted into a look of utmost confusion, and he wonders if he can borrow a time-turner and go back to a time when Lord Voldemort was in power.
He's sure that it would be less stressful to have to relive his Sixth-Year than to wait for her reply.
Sadly, there are no time-turners lying around, and he's forced to maintain his precarious balance, the tiny box in his hand propped open for his inspection as beads of sweat begin forming across his brow.
When finally she draws him to his feet and whispers that one word that sets his soul on fire, he lifts her into his arms and spins her around the room, too jubilant to so much as put the ring onto her finger.
The ring is just a formality anyway, and they both know it. They've lived through war, after all.
Not that this stops him from looking sheepish when finally he trips, sending them both stumbling into the nearby pond, the ring sinking to the watery depths.
(*)
She's standing at the altar, the air tinged with the scent of roses and the light of the stars. He's holding her hands, their fingers linked with slender chains of light, and the minister is droning on, and on, and on.
Instead of paying attention to his arbitrary words, she opts to glance around the gardens, and she sighs at the sight. Their mothers are dabbing at watery-eyes, and every one of the minister's words is being punctuated by an incredibly emotional Hagrid.
Soon enough, she's being pulled back to the ceremony itself, and she realizes that the short man has finally finished speaking. She lets out a murmur of embarrassment – because truly, how many brides can boast about daydreaming during the part of their wedding in which they're pronounced man and wife.
She sees him looking at her with a raised eyebrow, and humour glinting in his eyes, but before he can comment she silences him with a kiss, realizing that whilst the world looks at her and sees a princess, he alone can call her his queen.
(*)
There's a proud smile on his face as he enters the ward, his wife at his side with a bright smile on her face. Their son and daughter-in-law both look up as they walk in, and he cannot help but chuckle at the look on Scorpius' face.
It's a terrifying feeling to be a new father, and he can empathise with his son, even though he knows that Scorpius and Lily are more than capable.
There's a powder-blue bundle in Lily's arms, and he can vaguely make out a chubby pink face with a shock of platinum-blond hair upon it.
He hears his wife gasp, and he knows she's crying, and he's a little misty-eyed himself as he reaches out to scoop up the infant. A strange feeling wells within him as he holds the baby, his first grandchild. He feels an arm loop around him, and his smile widens as his wife reaches out her free hand to draw little circles on the infant's clenched fist.
Somehow, he's grown old, and so has Hermione, but that's fine with him, because she's the person he's grown old with.
(*)
His papery lips ghost across her temple, and she leans so that his body is supporting hers, her gnarled fingers reaching up to link with his. Even after all these years, he's stronger than he lets on, and he barely shifts under her added weight.
They're standing on a bridge, staring out across the rippling water. The lilies are in full bloom, vibrant reds and yellows swaying under the twilit sky. The exotic blossoms are nurtured by magic to keep them alive in this cold clime, just as this garden is enchanted to endure even the most biting of winters.
It's their place, a part of their estate that their children and grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren, don't dare visit. She isn't sure why - it isn't as though either of them has outright forbidden the younger generations from coming here - but she's glad that this is somewhere that only they know.
Hopefully, it will always just be a place for the two of them, a small, isolated garden for them to inhabit on these silent, starry nights.
He dips his head so that his brow brushes hers, and she reaches out to cup his cheek, her steel-grey hair framing her crow's-feet. She knows that all the beauty she once possessed has long since faded, and yet he still looks at her in that special manner that never fails to take her breath away.
Without realizing it, she's grown old, and so has Draco, but that's OK . . . because, really, there isn't anyone else in the world that she would have rather become old with.
A/N: Thoughts on this One-Shot?
Written for Round Four of the Third Season of the Quidditch League: Write about an emotion without disclosing that emotion in the body of your story. Are you ready for my emotion?
-Drum rolls-
It was Love
Prompts: Demons by Imagine Dragons; No Dialogue; Dawn