Summary: Hate tore them apart. Love brought them together. Amidst a war, hope starts to flourish. In which lines are crossed and prejudices are confronted and maybe— just maybe— time can change everything.
Standard disclaimer applies here
Happenstance
By: MikazukiDreams
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/hæpən,stæns/ n. chance
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He hears her screams before he sees her— a piercing, high screech; pleading, desperate, and so raw is tears at his heart. His feet seem to move on their on accord, unconsciously; his mind is blank, he can't think, he's lost in the foreign darkness of the secluded mansion.
He's lived in this estate since he was a nothing but a young, clueless child, spending his days flying through the Manor grounds on a new broomstick his father had bought him, or learning new magic spells in the lush rose garden his mother loved so much. Back then, this place had felt like his castle, somewhere he escaped to during the summer holidays.
But now? It feels strange, like he's wandering through an endless maze with their deceptive twists and turns, confusing him, clouding his mind—
"D-Draco," a voice sputters, and his heart seems to stop beating for a minute. His body instantly freezes before he turns around, the fear wrapping around his soul like a cold vice. His grey eyes fall to the individual lying helplessly on the ground, sprawled in a pool of red. Something strong and metallic fills his nostrils, filling him with disgust. Death, his mind screams. This is death.
It's not tragically beautiful like in the Muggle paintings, where the character dies heroically and their body is positioned in attempt of satire. It's not pleasing to the eye like the Dark Lord always says, with an evil glint apparent in his cold face.
It's sickening and it hurts Draco's stomach and it feels as if all his insides are rumbling around and his heart is in his throat where his Adam's apple should be and it's death, right there in front of him, claiming one of the only people he's ever really loved in his lifetime. It's death right before his very eyes, taking, taking, taking, and Draco can't do anything to stop him.
"Mother," he whispers, despair falling onto his chest like a hundred-ton weigh, pushing him down. "Mother!" He yells louder, dropping to his knees, grabbing the quickly cooling hand that lies weakly by the side of her. "Mother, who did this to you?"
A thin line of blood— their pure blood, spilling onto the filthy floor— trails down the corner of Narcissa's pale lips when she smiles up at her son; a sad smile, a smile that wanted forever but there wasn't enough time for forever. "My son," she murmurs hoarsely. "My boy." Her cold hand reaches up, shaking, and pats Draco's cheek. "My Draco."
"Tell me who did this to you!" Draco nearly screams in panic, grasping his mother's hand, so desperate to warm it up. She's bleeding, bleeding all over, and the sight makes his stomach churn.
"My boy," Narcissa whispers, "my boy, you must remember that you are not your father. I do not know what you wish to do, but I want you to make the right choice."
"Mother," Draco says in a quivering voice, "Mother, what are you talking about?"
"This war isn't going to end anytime soon, my Draco," his mother replies, voice so soft he could barely hear it. "And I do not wish for my only son to die. I will always support whatever you choose, my son, because I know you are a clever boy and you will make the right choice."
Her ice blue eyes start to flutter ever-so-slightly and Draco is immediately seized in panic. "Mother," he says desperately, his hands tearing away, grabbing something—anything— to stop the pain and blood. "Mother, no. Mother, you can't leave me. What are you talking about? Mother? Mother!"
"I…I know I may not have always shown it, but I want you to know that I love you, my Draco. Never forget that."
Her ice blue eyes slowly start fading away, any glimmer of life dying down. A pained smile flickers across her porcelain face, fleeting. She will not make it. She cannot stay.
And with that, Narcissa Malfoy's eyes close for the last time and her life drains from the shelter of her body as Death claims her for one of his own.
She'd always loved summer nights. As a child, her parents would take her out camping at her grandparents' lake house, and during the night they'd set up a telescope by the water so she could observe all the pretty stars decorating the midnight sky. She'd known all the names of the constellations— Leo, Gemini, Orion…she'd stay up into the early morning hours, a blanket wrapped around her body, just simply observing the sky. Life was peaceful back then. Simple, even. It was nothing like now.
Now, her mind is filled with hexing spells and killing curses, meeting plans and attack techniques. Her mind is filled with paranoia and she can never sleep like she used to— every little shudder feels like a curse, every creak like the footsteps of a Death Eater. Now, she likes to spend her summer nights wondering not what could've been, but why.
It's just past midnight when she wanders by the large windows to the backyard. Everyone inside the house is sleeping, but she can't. It's hard to sleep when danger lurks in every corner.
She recognizes the white wisp of smoke that curls in the hot summer air almost immediately, because her uncle had died from it. She walks out into the secure back yard of their safe house, and is greeted by Ron Weasley.
He's sitting casually on a chair; his legs propped up, a white cigarette in between his teeth. There are dark bags under his eyes and his complexion is sickly pale, but he manages to still look quite boyishly charming.
"Hey, 'Mione," he says lightly, pushing a chair out with his legs and gesturing her to sit down. "Can't sleep?"
"Yeah," she answers, but her eyes remain on the cigarette in Ron's mouth. It'd been barely three months into the war when she found out that Ron had taken up a horrendous Muggle addiction of smoking, but there was no way of talking him out of it.
"Those things can kill you, you know," she says softly. "It's a terrible habit."
Ron merely shrugs and says, "We're in a war, Hermione. We might not live to see tomorrow or next week or next month. I'm enjoying what I have now before it goes to waste." Maybe it's the way he says it— so nonchalant and utterly empty— but Hermione can't find it in herself to argue. So she simply nods, a sad smile playing her chapped lips.
"Of course."
They sit in a semi-uncomfortable silence, the quietness deafening. Finally Ron speaks up.
"Do you think," he starts, clearing his throat slightly, "Do you think that if we weren't in this situation, if we weren't…here, fighting in this thing bigger than all of us…would you and I— I mean, do you think you and I could have been something more?" His pale face flames bright red as he says this, and Hermione smiles softly.
Her romantic feelings towards Ron had died down over the years, until it faded away to just simply friendship. Ron used to be everything she'd ever wanted as a young child— he was sweet and protective and most importantly, he was one of her closest friends. But as she gets older, she wants more. She knows it's selfish of her, but she wants somebody who will understand her inside and out. She wants somebody she can have smart, witty arguments with. She wants somebody who will put up with her crazy little quirks, like how she organizes her bookshelves by publication date, and she knows Ron and her are like mismatched puzzle pieces that don't quite fit together.
But instead of saying those things, she takes one glance at his hopeful face and murmurs, "Maybe. I don't have much space in my brain to think of all the 'what ifs' anymore, Ron."
He nods at her answer, accepting it. "…Yeah," he says, puffing out a cloud of smoke. Hermione watches as the wispy white smoke twists in the air before disappearing into the sky and wonders if she could escape like that. She'd always wanted to fly.
They're quiet once again before Ron pipes up, breaking the silence again, "Sometimes I miss her, you know."
She looks at him with startled eyes. Who would he miss? His mother is lying in bed in the bedroom upstairs and Ginny is safely with Harry in his room; Fleur is with Bill and Luna is also sleeping in the empty bedroom beside Neville's.
"Lavender," he says, clarifying. He inhales some smoke before speaking again. "Her chatter was annoying as hell, but she always knew what to say to avoid awkward silences. That was Lavender," he adds, chuckling and shaking his head, "constantly talking. Never shutting up. I suppose that's what made me fancy her in the first place."
Hermione cranes her neck up at exhales. "She was one of a kind," she agrees. "Pavarti was devastated." Lavender had been walking to the sweets shop when she'd been ambushed by Death Eaters, and her body wasn't found until Neville stumbled upon it a few days later. He'd come back with wild eyes and nonsense tumbling from his blue lips, but one thing was clear: Lavender was dead. Pavarti had cried for days, refusing to eat or drink, living in the delusion that her best friend was still alive. She'd had her life taken away just a couple weeks after Lavender's death, and Hermione liked to believe that it was for the best— Pavarti passed with a smile on her face, free of worry. She'd escaped the war that was—is— brewing dangerously, relentlessly, reminding them that peace was an image of the past.
Ron inhales the last of his cigarette and stands up from the hard metal chair. He tosses the cigarette on the ground and grinds out the small light with his shoe, rubbing his hands over his tired face. "Are you coming in?" he asks.
She's still sitting in the cold, hard metal chair. "No," she answers. She smiles at him. "I think I'll stay out here for a little while. Have a good night, Ron."
"Night, Hermione," he says, offering her one last look before walking inside and shutting the door.
She's left all alone with nothing but her chaotic thoughts. She tucks her knees up and puts her head down.
Never in a hundred years would she believe that she would be in a war. A bloody war, could you believe it? She'd had forever pictured her future life after Hogwarts— how she'd graduate from Gryffindor as Head Girl, surrounded by her very best friends. How she'd find a job in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement or Foreign Affairs. How she'd spend her Fridays nights hanging out at some famous wizard clubs with Ginny and Luna and her Saturday nights curled up reading a wonderful book and her Sunday mornings at the Burrow, surrounded by laughing Weasleys.
She'd dreamed about finding The One (always capitalized because that's how significant this one person would be) and falling in love and introducing them to her parents and fretting over marriage plans and not war. She'd dreamed about starting something— a family— something that is so far-fetched from this fucking war she's encaged in. She's ended lives and she's watched her friends end lives and while it hurts, tearing her up inside, she knows that's the only way she'll be free.
There is no place for something as blinding as love in war, for the heart is locked shut and emotions are tucked away. In war they are like soldiers. Ready to fight. Ready to fall. Ready to take a risk for peace.
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tbc...
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note: hahaha had this idea for a while. I was going to squish it all into a oneshot, but then i felt like it would lack any feeling so i made it multi-chapter. tell me if you like it, yeah? i'm just kinda playing around with this idea a bit. :)
Love you's.
-A