Flickering
Pairing: Dramione
Chapters: 1 (one-shot)
Rating: K+ for some drinking
She stands outside the building of their flat, looking up at their window. The lights are on; he's there, he's still up. Her legs carry her back toward the building, back toward the place she had to drag herself out of. But now it had been a few hours, now she was drunk, and she didn't care. She carries the photo in her hand as she makes her way back up the steps. She wants to give in now. The game is no longer fun, the losing side now acceptable. As she makes her way to the lift she wonders if he's thinking the same thing.
She stands outside their door, staring at it. The light above her that is illuminating the dark corridor begins to flicker on and off. She hears the sound of a chair moving back, and knows he still hasn't put up the wards yet. She could easily slip back inside. But she can't. An evil ideal he instilled in her when she was twelve years old stops her – pride.
She sits down alone with her back against the wall. She opens her hand to look at the photo. It's the two of them sitting on a bench, posing. A bag of honeycomb toffee sits between them. It isn't long before the photo starts to move - he makes to grab the bag and she slaps his hand. The picture perfect moment disappears. The two of them are ignoring the camera, playfully arguing, playfully at each other's throats to steal the bag back. It was the only confection the two of them ever agreed was worth purchasing.
In the photo they look happy. She begins crinkling the edges of it with the force she's exerting on it. The light above her flickers, barely keeping lit. The photo seemingly flashes, it's there and she's happy, and then it's not and she's gone.
She hears the sound of glass shattering. And then he swears. Hermione can hear it through the walls. Tears slide down her cheek as she remembers what happened. She remembers them yelling at each other. It feels to her like they are always yelling at each other. She's forgotten what it was they were even arguing about, just that they were arguing, and she needed to win, simply because she always won. Screams escalated, fists were thrown at walls, pillows; feet were stomped on floors, things were thrown and shattered.
It's always the memories you want to forget the most quickly that stay with you the longest. She hears the sound of glass clinking on wood, he's drinking. He's not the only one. The musky smell of alcohol is cloaked over her as well.
The yelling and the fighting isn't what caused her to be sitting outside her co-owned flat tonight. It was what she had said before she had left. She said those words tonight. The words she had never once said to him before, she had said tonight with finality in her tone.
Her suitcase, shrunken to the size of a deck of cards is sitting in her left front pocket. The images aren't disappearing fast enough, she still remembers packing; she still remembers leaving. He didn't stop her, he didn't even try to slow her down; he fueled her fire, told her she'd be back, which only made her pride flare up all the more. She'd yelled in his face she wouldn't return, told him she'd never want him back. But three drinks later, and here she was at their door.
Seven.
Seven shots of whisky so far. It wasn't enough. He could still feel. She was gone. She wasn't returning. She had never said those words before, never said those final words that meant there was no going back. But this time she had. He pours himself another shot before finishing it off, never letting his eyes leave the door. She'll come back, he knows it, wants it, hopes for it because he doesn't know what he'll do if she doesn't.
He feels guilty for the whole thing. He had pushed her over the edge. He shouldn't have. He didn't know why he had started the argument in the first place. Why he had been so cross with her to begin with, why he had to even expand on her comment. It was a simple comment, one that was insignificant had he chosen to ignore it. But he hadn't, and then they were yelling at each other at the top of their lungs like they always did. He regretted it now, regretted it while it was happening in front of him, but at that time he hadn't stopped arguing. At that time, he hadn't wanted to give in. Eight shots later he sits staring at the door.
He doesn't know what he can do to bring her back. He doesn't know if he had gone too far with his insults. It had never been a problem before, the two of them never took offense to anything; it was something they had learned not to do when they started their relationship.
A rustling sound jolts him. Draco haphazardly stands. Getting up too quickly his head spins as he wonders if she's there, if she's outside the door. He's ready to let her back in, ready to admit defeat, to apologize on his knees. He heads toward the door, stumbling to get to it. When he gets there he places his forehead against it, with his hand on the doorknob. He listens for signs of her presence. It's silent. He knows that she couldn't be there - it's been too long now. But still, in this state, after hearing the sound of what can only be his own desperate longing, he can't find a reason to move away. He wants to hold on to that hope that she's still thinking of him, that she's still here.
Tears are running down her cheeks, as she wonders what she should do. Her mind can't think properly, her head is spinning, her memory disappearing. She doesn't remember why she can't go back in, just that she can't. But she wants to. She stands, placing her hand on the doorknob. She knows she's not supposed to go in, but a deeper part of her mind knew better, a deeper part of her mind knew that even if she wasn't supposed to walk in through that door, she needed to.
He stands there, trying to clear his mind. All he can see is her, memories of her, her hair, her voice, her laugh. And he doesn't remember why she's not here. He can't remember why he's standing at the door. He just knows that opening it would hurt him in some way. But despite the possible pain, he wants to open the door, because he knows deep inside, he needs to.
The light has started to make buzzing sounds, consistent with her heart beat. She can feel it, a pounding in her chest, of anticipation, of hope, but all that matters to her is that it is a feeling. Something that had disappeared as the stench that now cloaks her had grown stronger.
His head is getting foggier, he vaguely remembers yelling, vaguely remembers why the door he stands at now is important. But the alcohol is starting to take effect; it's starting to do its job.
She backs away from the door, flinching from it, remembering in the distant confines of her mind an argument, one that had been different from the others. She decides that she shouldn't open the door. She turns back toward the lift at the end of the corridor.
He stands there longer, trying to piece things together. He turns the door knob, no longer caring if it will hurt him somehow. He wrenches it open with greater force than necessary.
Hearing a sound, she pauses for a second, wondering. It wouldn't be the first time tonight, but she still wonders, could it be that this time, his voice was real?
He's met with emptiness. There isn't anyone outside the door, not a stranger, nor Hermione. He comes out into the corridor, clinging to the dream.
She turns around to see a flickering light along an empty corridor. She realizes she's hopelessly wishing for the impossible because she knows the truth - he doesn't care, he never did. She turns around continuing down the corridor, away from him.
He looks left and right down the corridor, hoping. He wants to believe this is some nightmare. One he can easily awaken from if he had her by his side.
She turns around one more time to the see the doors of the lift close. Her eyes never leaving the spot underneath the flickering light. He hadn't come out for her. He hadn't opened the door for her, or looked for her after all this time.
Running, he feels his heart beat again, his head whirls in pain, but he doesn't care. He passes the lifts and runs toward the steps in an effort to feel.
The chime of the lift gathers her attention as the doors slide open. She's met with an empty main lobby.
He runs haphazardly through the lobby, searching for a soul, searching for a piece of himself that he needs to be whole.
She continues walking, a part of her hoping he'd come up behind her. A part of her still desperately hoping this isn't real.
His body collides with someone else's. He tenses, afraid to back away from the unknown form, afraid to look at their face.
At last she breaks, she turns, turns one more time to look for him, for anyone, to have an excuse to give him more time.
It's not her. His heart falls at the sight of one of his many neighbors. He side steps the man and continues to search for her.
The lobby is empty. She stands at the threshold of the building, not hearing a sound or movement behind her, even after it all she hesitates to leave.
He runs until he reaches the main entrance. He completes a full turn, glances outside the doors, pleading with any force that will listen to have her still be here. And then he sees it. Her hair is unmistakable.
And then, with one step, she's removed herself from the building, she steps out into the cold night. Someone touches her shoulder.
He grabs her just outside the building. She tenses but he's not letting her leave, he turns her around locking her in an airtight embrace.
Her heart is racing, she turns expectantly, hoping. But when she does, her heart falls. No one is there.
His dream shatters. His eyes open, his forehead is pressed to the door, his hand on the doorknob.
Tears slide down her cheek, as it hits her that he's really not coming after her. A part of her wants to go back, to ask him to take her back. But she doesn't give in, she keeps moving.
Stepping back, he pulls the door open. It's empty. The only greeting he receives if the flickering of a bulb. It was only a fantasy. He tries to move into the corridor to repeat it anyway.
As she walks on, the words she said to him earlier resurface to replay in her mind, the same ones that despite everything she still wishes she had never spoken.
His movements are inept; he can't coordinate his limbs, his shoulder jams into a wall as the world continues to spin.
She turns back around to look at his flat one final time. This time with the knowledge that she wouldn't be coming back.
He falls to the floor, unable to prop himself up any longer as he's met with the cruel slap of reality –he can't move. He's too drunk.
Because if it was one thing she knew, it was that she wasn't going to return to a relationship he wasn't willing to fight for.
He sits alone on the floor of the corridor, hearing the sound of muffled sobs. It takes him a while to realize that the only person within hearing distance is himself.
She stands alone on a desolate street corner, looking at their only photo. She creates a physical separation between the two people in it before losing both pieces to the wind.
Sitting there alone he's hit with a bout of darkness, as the flickering light dies away forever.
-End-
A/N: Inspired by: Lady Antebellum's - Need You Now.
Disclaimer: I do not profit from this story. All creative rights to characters belong to their original creators. I am not JK Rowling, nor am I affiliated with Lady Antebellum.