Written for the dmhgficexchange(at)lj. Warning: Sensitive subject material mentioned briefly. Minor Character Death (nameless House-elves)
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that obviously belongs to JKR, Florence and/or her Machines. I don't even own Planet Claire( B-52s.)
I took the stars from our eyes and then I made a map/ And knew I'd find my way back/ Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too/ So I stayed in the darkness with you/
The refrigerator has begun to make a strange sound in the repose of the flat. When all around is settled and still. It is eerie yet somehow beautiful, in a way that the song of a humpback whale pulls bitter-sweetly at the soul.
In a whisper born out of some innate habit rather than necessity, Hermione Granger says it is the magic against the electricity. Rubbing together and trying to bind harmoniously. She reaches for a balmy hand under the warmth of the blankets because although her body is molded against another's like a puzzle piece, she still likes that confirmation of companionship. "Like oil swirling on water," she says in secret, her pretty smile stretching sweetly across her face. "Like us."
Draco Malfoy strains his ears, listening intently as he contemplates her words. Then, with great affection, he squeezes her fingers within his, conveying that he is grateful that despite his sins, he is still allowed to have her. He turns his head and brushes his lips across her forehead before turning his back to her. In natural synergy, she follows his movements. Tucking her arm under his and pressing her palm to his chest; her knee molding itself into the crook of his own.
He never can decide if they cuddle because they have an overwhelming desire to touch or because the mattress had long ago given up its efforts to remain firm in the center and they are forced against each other by gravity.
He only cares because he finds himself fearing the verity of the latter.
They call her his better half and remind him that he is lucky to have found her. Draco inwardly disagrees, although he nods and his lips thin in something akin to a smile.
There is not a better or worse about it because she simply balances him like no other has ever. She's the calm to his temper. The fire to his ice. The logic to his irrationality.
He doesn't believe luck had anything to do with finding her because she had never been lost. She had always been there. Underfoot and aggravating. Pliant and warm. Responsive. She is an extension of him.
Like, is that your arm? Your hand; your heart?
Yes, yes. That's my heart.
Often, when alone at his desk, he attempts to sort it out and make sense of it; he finds that it is all an interesting contradiction. After all, he didn't know he had a heart until he gave it to her. So maybe she had found him, and for that, maybe he is lucky.
These are the thoughts that consume his head when she appears next to the stack of folders on his desk, gracefully ducking the paper memo airplanes that crowd the air. A constant among the chaos of everyday in the Magical Law Enforcement Headquarters.
Her hair is wild and her face is pretty, although her expression is grim; she has another case to investigate and she needs a Hit Wizard to escort her to the crime scene.
A long time ago, she used to have to petition the Head of the Magical Law Enforcement for one and, not surprisingly, he would be the only one to volunteer. She is hard to work with; bossy and domineering. Obstinate. Now, she skips all the bureaucracy and just comes to collect him herself.
As he gathers his cloak and his badge, he thinks to tell her of his thoughts; thinks to ask her if she found him, and if that was his luck. He wants to know why she chose him above all others. What is the worth she sees in him when others don't see anything at all? When he can't even see it himself.
He doesn't ask her all those things, though. Not because it isn't the right time or because he should ask about the case—which he does instead—but because he thinks he already knows the answer and it frightens him. It's better to pretend he doesn't know, that he doesn't care and he's all right with where they are.
But he isn't.
They are dancing in limbo. The ground is uneven, and Draco Malfoy doesn't like not knowing where he stands in the world. Unsurity was never in his grace.
i.
Draco doesn't like the way that Theodore Nott looks at her, so he presses his torso against her back, his fingertips settling on her hip. It's a gesture of possession, intimacy, but he pretends it is an effort to reinforce her authority. Truthfully, he knows better. Hermione has more backbone than will fit her tiny frame.
Simultaneously, she stiffens and jerks her head to look up at him and he realizes that it has been an eon since he had last touched her in such an intimate way. He feels shame and contrition. It makes him step away.
There was a time when they didn't care how they touched each other. In subtle ways, in obvious ways. In goose-bump-inducing-soft-skimming-of-fingertips ways and clothes-clutched-in-fists-and-mouths-passionately-fused ways. In ways that were born from an urge to remind themselves and the other of their ravaging emotions towards one another. Now a fear of rejection stills his hand whenever he reaches for her. He doesn't know from what this phobia was born or how to overcome it.
Hermione glances at Draco one more time before she clears her throat and tips her chin up, and with dulcet but authoritative tones, she interrogates Nott with a slew of questions—the answers to which she writes in her notebook. Then finally she asks to see the body.
In the years that Draco has been escorting her to crime scenes and incidents involving the welfare of magical creatures, he has never seen Hermione lose her composure at the site. Later, between closed doors, she would break down and mourn the creatures as only her humanitarian heart could. Big tears of compassion would slip down her pink cheeks as her body shook with quiet, despairing sobs. The first time she allowed him to witness this, he hadn't known what to do but lay her down and make love to her. She hides from him now, in the loo, door locked, silencing charm adhered.
Yet the body of this house-elf is broken and battered, its bluish skin mashed as though with a meat clever. Its brains and innards exposed. It is so disturbing, so gruesome, that she gasps in horror and turns into Draco's chest, her graceful hands clutching at his robes. Even Draco has to look away as his arms wrap around her and he pulls her closer into himself.
It feels empty and generic because when he holds her, he feels the space between them. It is a chasm that gradually widens to reveal an abyss. A nothing.
He doesn't know how to fix it, and often he imagines a large needle suturing the gap. Nice and neat, but without antiseptic. It gives him a sense of reassurance. A wild knowledge that they will overcome this, that there is always a fix for the broken.
He just doesn't know how. He looks at his hands and sees uselessness. His fingers are long and thin, his nails are neat and trim, the only roughness on his palms is from leisure on a broom. They only know idleness, the lackadaisical luxury of a wealthy youth. They don't know the strain of hard labor or the reward of menial tasks. They don't know how to mend a broken heart or strengthen weakened trust. They've long forgotten how to comfort a lover.
He hates his hands. They reveal too much of himself. More so than any mirror.
He glares at Nott and whispers in her ear that he will take care of it. He tells her to send for Colin Creevey to process the scene and for Albert Macavoy to take the body away. He orders her to go wait for him at the Ministry. He's only trying to be sensitive to her plight and he behaves as he thinks a lover should. However, he realizes his mistake only immediately.
She refuses with patented indignity, and she's so righteous in her admonishment that he loses his cool and before he can bite his cheek, his scathing tone attempts to override hers.
He's annoyed, angry, and in an attempt to keep himself from quaking from the stress of it all, he begins to arrest Nott. He's rougher than protocol allows but he wants the bonds to be too tight and he doesn't give a flying fuck that he'll probably be formally reprimanded by Harry Sodding Potter. He shouts all of this at Hermione; ignoring the macabre glint in Nott's eyes as he proclaims his innocence.
Draco shuts down and becomes blind to the tears in her eyes and numb to her relentless provocations.
He doesn't care that he has left her alone with the maliciously mangled body of the very creatures she dedicates her life to protect.
He stays late at his desk, wasting time because he doesn't want to return to the flat quite yet. It is her flat, technically; everything in it belongs to her except for the clothes he wears and a few toiletries. Maybe a coffee mug or two. But eventually, he has absolutely no reason to stay and when he finally finds himself beyond the wards, standing in the foyer that has been swallowed in darkness, he hears nothing but Hermione's sorrowful tones rushing together in muffled whispers and the crackle of the fire.
Then there is the unmistakable brogue of Victor Krum coming across in a Fire-Call. He's telling her that she deserves better than a Malfoy. That Draco is too selfish—too immature to build a life and love of which Hermione is so obviously worth.
All Hermione can say is I know. I know. I know.
Draco is overcome with a cracking pain in his chest, and he feels ill in the pit of his stomach. Disbelief, anger, and a crushing sadness yank on the lump at his throat. He turns and Disapparates because it is the only coherent thing he thinks to do. Escape. Run away. Drink until numb. Like a coward.
He has always known that she still corresponds with Krum. He doesn't like it at all. Mostly because he knows that it is a battle he can't win, but also because he doesn't trust the wizard's intentions. So he pretends he doesn't know and she pretends that she has never met anyone by the name of Viktor Krum.
The idea of losing her seems so impossible and yet so likely. With every drink he takes, he attempts to lay it all out before him. He wants to make it all better. To go back to the start. But he can only think that she'll choose Krum over him and he'll lose her to Krum's darkness.
He's not sure if it is the blinding jealously or the firewhiskey that burns, burns, burns up his insides.
Soon they are telling him that he doesn't have to go home, but he can no longer stay there and he reluctantly removes himself from the barstool. Robotically, he knots his scarf at his neck and tucks his fists into his pockets and suddenly he has no real destination. He doesn't know where to go or what to do with himself.
His mind wishes to walk the planet on some sordid quest for all the answers to everything he cannot figure out. Yet his body is heavy upon his bones and calls loudly, achingly for the warm, soft comfort of a bed. Her bed. He knows that is not an option but he gives in to the weariness and his feet take him to the one person who knows him better than himself. To his best friend.
Pansy Parkinson doesn't mention the late hour as she tucks her dressing gown tighter around her body, but Draco apologizes anyway. Nor does she ask why he is on her doorstep instead of at home, reeking of Firewhiskey and gillyweed smoke. She merely sends her house-elf to fetch some tea and a sobering potion while she leads Draco to her guest bedroom.
It is a single bed, colorless really, and as Pansy turns down the blankets, she tells him he may stay as long as he'd like, that he is no imposition. He can only express his gratefulness with a cumbersome nod. He feels he ought to explain himself, tell her all his reasons for his current condition and express his worries. It is instinctive to desire nothing more than to lay his woes at her feet, but he chokes on the words and the room becomes static with his awkwardness.
Pansy's mouth tightens with understanding and she lays a gentle hand on his shoulder.
It is such a profound gesture that Draco's heart swells within his ribcage until he is fit to burst. He is overwhelmed with endearment for her and realizes that perhaps he isn't on his own. There is someone who can say everything he needs to hear without ever muttering a word. Who understands that it takes more than words to comfort a heart that is breaking. It seems so easy, then, and all his woes well up in his throat. He opens his mouth to let it out, but before he could mutter a single word, Pansy's house-elf reappears, a twinkling silver platter holding a pot of tea, a cup and saucer, and a vial of potion offered from her small hands.
Pansy smiles and pats the elf's head endearingly as she graciously accepts the tray. In a profound rush, Draco is overcome with envy. He can't quite remember what it feels like to be unconditionally affectionate and has forgotten how it feels to express his affection to someone else. He laments the freedom of being able to express his gratitude any way he sees fit.
When the lamp has been extinguished, and the only sound to be heard is that of the rhythmic tick-tock of the old grandfather clock in the foyer, the streetlight cast a solemn glow on the band that encircles his finger.
He is exhausted but sleep proves to be elusive because her absence is too obvious, too blatant. As he tosses and turns to try to find a comfortable position, he realizes he won't be able to drift off without the weight of her body beside him, the cadence of her breathing, the cooling touch on her toes. Without intention, he searches for her organic scent because he thinks he can't rest without knowing she's real and safe. Keeping him alive with purpose.
There is nothing he wants more in this world than to go to her flat, climb in naked and wrap himself around her until their two hearts synchronize into one beat. Where only a string of words spills from his mouth, expressing his desperation. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.
Instead, Draco finds somnolence in memories of early morning decisions found in tangled sheets. Of a day-trip to Gretna Green in the hastiness of love, of promises exchanged and a pretty witch singing a silly song about a girl from a faraway planet. Where the air is pink, the trees are red and people have no heads. Where no-one ever dies.*
ii.
Astoria Greengrass is hysterical and her robes are streaked with the bluish blood of a house-elf. The moment she spies Draco, she accosts him with urgent trepidation. Her hands desperately grab at him until her fingers find purchase on his robes. Her face is tear-streaked, blotchy and shiny; her voice is harried and screeching while she begs for his understanding. For his protection.
He grasps her elbows gingerly as he tries to set her apart from him. He means to hush her, to make some sense of her, but his eyes fall to Hermione. He sees her chagrin—the stark annoyance that is punctuated by the impatient tap of her fingers on her clipboard. Yet, there is more written across the curve of her face. Jealousy, disgust, but mostly fear. There is heartache glistening in her brown eyes. He knows she is biting back more than abrasive words. There are questions fueled by raw emotions. There is confusion and curiosity. He can almost hear it in his soul.
Do you care for her? What does she mean to you; to us?
Anywhere else in the world, she would explode like a supernova. All her haughtiness, emotion, passion—life—would burst out of her in a messy diatribe until it singed his heart.
However, Hermione Granger is too professional. Instead, she affords Astoria a menacing glare, and when she speaks to her, her tones are clipped and short. Yet Astoria ignores her. She only begs Draco to believe that she'd never harm another creature, and although he finds her clinginess bothersome, the irritation from Hermione is so palpable that he feels justified. Perhaps finally, Hermione might feel one iota of the pain and heartache that he felt on the night he heard her conversation with Krum.
It is probably the wrong place and time, but he has never doled out revenge with punctuality and tact. A satisfied smirk settles upon his face and he doesn't care how inappropriate it is; how Hermione may misinterpret it.
She scowls at him and pivots quickly, never asking to be shown the body, but he knows that is exactly where she is headed. Panic instinctively rises in his chest because suddenly he doesn't want her to see the scene alone. He wants to be there for her and her alone. He grabs Astoria's wrist and begins to drag her quickly through the labyrinth of shrubbery, but Hermione's steps are swift and she arrives at the scene without him by her side.
A pitchfork is stuck within the earth; the body of the house-elf is run through and it hangs like a grotesque scarecrow. Its belly had been sliced vertically and its entrails spilled outward, littering the green grass. A spade is shoved in its throat and a pair of gardening gloves covers its ears in a lurid touch of misplaced comedy.
Hermione turns her head and draws in a haggard breath through pursed lips. She releases it slowly, in effort to calm herself, to regain her composure.
Astoria wails and drops to her knees, and Draco takes a step toward Hermione, his hand outstretched. His fingers barely ghost hers when she shrugs him off.
He steps back, gulps, and looks closely at the body of the elf. The way it is positioned and the brutality of the murder. Suddenly he is suspicious. He knows better than to think that a witch of Astoria's class and position, a girl of her character, is capable of such twisted torture and viciousness. He can't think of a single reason iwhy/i she would jeopardize her future and freedom because of a house-elf.
He knows she wouldn't. She couldn't. Yet all the obvious signs regrettably hold Astoria liable. Draco can do nothing but whisper I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry into Astoria's hair as he binds her hands behind her back.
Her terrified wails pierce more than ears, but before Draco can Disapparate her away, the heartache on Hermione's face rips his soul.
Draco wishes for a time-turner so he can take it all back. So he can go back to the start and make it all right again.
iii.
The mundanity of paperwork is something that Draco actually enjoys, especially when his thoughts and emotions are chaotic and scattered. As he completes each task, quills each report, and signs off on something, he feels a sense of order and accomplishment. He doesn't have to think about all the ways his life is twirling into a dark abyss. Yet this time, he's distracted. He doesn't know exactly what he's expecting, but any commotion or any witch that passes by, he gets an electric shock of hope. He thinks that maybe it will be Hermione, come to say she's sorry and that everything will be okay. That they will be okay again. He knows it is impossible because he knows her better than he knows himself, and she isn't the sort of witch that lets go of things easily. She hasn't learned the art of sweeping problems under the rug and pretending. She's real and brutally honest. She takes problems by the helm and steers them in the right direction, gets things back on course. Yet this time is different, he can sense it.
Other than the short minutes at Astoria's, he hasn't seen or heard from Hermione in four days. He can't remember ever being away from her for this long, and yet he can't remember the last time he felt close to her.
When Harry Potter sweeps through the office, Draco sits straighter in his chair and watches him pass through. He's never really liked Draco, and he hasn't ever accepted Draco's relationship with Hermione, but he supports her because she is his friend. So when he pauses at Draco's desk and informs him that Hermione had lunch with Krum, Draco isn't sure if it is meant to wound him or help him. Jealousy takes an acute bite out of his ego and his brash reflex is to storm to her office and demand an explanation. However, he knows that will solve nothing and she'll only dismiss his distrust of Krum as possessiveness.
With a sigh, he slouches in his chair and rubs his hair with frustration. He wants to talk to her. Knows that he ought to and sooner is better.
However, as he waits for her in the atrium, his nerves start to frazzle. This is one of the hardest things he's ever had to do. He doesn't have a clue what to say to her or how to patch up the pain. He can't even begin to explain himself. The longer he stands there, the more he hopes he doesn't see her.
Then she's there, rushing through the atrium and stuffing papers into her briefcase. Her head is ducked and she isn't watching where she is going, and yet, somehow, the crowd seems to part for her. She has always had that power. Some strange presence that encircles her, and people have always reacted to it, unknowingly.
He can only stand there and watch, helpless and hapless, inwardly begging that she would just pass him by and save him from his cluelessness. Yet, as if drawn to him, her face lifts and when she sees him, she stops abruptly. Her eyes immediately brighten with tears, and her mouth forms a trembling pout.
Draco knows he can't run now, there is nowhere he can hide, and so with a confidence he doesn't feel, he begins towards her but with a subtle shake of her head, he stops.
Realization stabs his sternum, and with clarity he realizes she doesn't want to speak to him, she isn't ready, and he must wait for her to seek him out. At least, this is how he justifies his cowardice. He blames his father for never teaching him what it means to be a man.
As she turns the other way and makes her exit, he steps back to the wall and slumps against it. He doesn't feel the relief he expected. Instead, he feels regret and shame. He is back to nothing again. He doesn't have peace of mind and he certainly doesn't have his girl. With heavy shoulders, he turns himself to Pansy's. He promises that he'll get this right; he'll fix it all, for better or worse. He's not sure how and he doesn't expect it to resolve itself in a mere moment, but he has hope, and sometimes that is all he needs. After all, he loves her.
iv.
The minute hand on the clock that resides on the wall in the MLE office struts along slowly, and off-handedly, Draco ponders the relativity of Time. It is always slower at the end of the day, when he is ready to escape the confines of his desk. He hasn't seen Hermione in nearly a week, and his nerves are frazzled. He's no worse than a junkie; hollowed eyes, papery pallor, and jittery bones. He thinks that perhaps she doesn't know why he left her—because that is essentially what he'd done—and she probably assumes he's taken up with Pansy. It pains him that he's caused her to consider the possibility, and yet, there is nothing he can say to prove himself.
Closer and closer the minute hand comes to mark the end of his shift, and he can't help but glance at it in anticipation. One more minute. Then he's free from this torture. When the hand finally tips itself to his release, he stands abruptly and swings his bag over his shoulder. He's nearly to the elevator when he sees Hermione.
She's looking everywhere but at him and he hears her ask the receptionist for an available Hit-wizard to accompany her. It's like an acute stab to his heart. He can't understand why she didn't just send for him. She should have known he would come, that he'd never make her go alone. Instantly he's angry, and with forceful steps he crosses to her, grabs her arm and jerks her around to face him. His madness erupts all without contention and he's telling her what he thinks of her and the games she plays. He tells her she has no right to be jealous of Pansy because he knows about her secret. He knows about Krum and he doesn't like it. She's twisting away from him and telling him to grow up and that she has no idea what he's talking about. She's so self-righteous and obstinate that it fuels his fire. He's yelling back at her and he doesn't give a sodding Fuck if they are making a scene because he's tired of their relationship. Better yet, their lack of one, and why the shit can't she just ask him to go with her. Hasn't he always been there for her? Even when nobody else was? Not even Saint Fucking Potter.
She is so angry and her face is flushed; tears sparkle in her eyes and her fists are clenched at her sides. She's accusing him of treachery, of lying to her heart and that it is obvious that he has more on his mind than their marriage. She's had to deal with everything by herself and Krum is only being a good friend. Supporting her and talking her through this rough time. But she knows where he's been and it hasn't been at home. Her scathing insinuation is abrasive and bruises. She defends Potter until her entire being is throbbing and buzzing portentously. She reminds Draco that he hasn't been there for her—he was the one person who was supposed to be, but he is too selfish to do what is right. Suddenly, she reaches out and grabs his shirt and with a sickening, compressing twist, they are just outside of Puddlemere United's Quidditch stadium and Hermione Granger is marching away from him.
He can see her use the back of her hand to wipe away her tears.
v.
Cormac McLaggen is politely calm and helpful. In fact, he's too calm and helpful. And charming. Always charming, that one. He answers the questions with seeming honesty and gives mimicry of a blushing alibi, and yet, Draco Malfoy doesn't believe one word he is saying. Mostly because Hermione's tone is breathy and apologetic. As if this is all one big misunderstanding and that they will soon be out of his way once he shows them to the body. As they follow the large wizard to the locker room, Draco whispers to Hermione's hair that she should note that McLaggen is freshly showered. But she had already noticed, thank you. Of course she had.
Draco delivers a snide snarl, asking her if he's been helping her deal with her pain too, and she throws him a warning scowl over her shoulder. But she stops short and Draco crashes into her.
A 5000 ThunderStriker is hovering above the benches and lockers, and from it dangles a house-elf by its ears. It had obviously been beaten by the bats, and a Quaffle is imbedded into its face. Its hands are clasp and poorly sewn together, and a snitch tries in vain to escape the elf's grasp.
As much as Draco would like to lock McLaggen up and throw away the key, Draco instantly doubts his involvement. The scene is too familiar. There is an obvious pattern and Draco can't understand why the possibility of a serial murder hasn't been addressed. Why do they keep arresting the house-elves' owners instead? He pulls Hermione aside and tells her of his suspicions, but she glares at him, tongue-in-cheek. Doesn't he realize she is fully capable of her job? Besides, beyond the superficial, the evidence doesn't add up to a serial killer; the modus operandi doesn't extend to the first murder anyway. He feels dismissed, thrown off and he childishly turns away from her, barking at McLaggen to put his hands behind his back. He isn't even finished binding McLaggen's wrists when Draco Disapparates. He never notices Hermione protesting. He should really learn to keep his head and check his anger.
Later, over a cup of tea laced with firewhisky, he tries to explain it all to Pansy, yet it never comes out the way he intends. It seems as if he's holding the blame solely at Hermione's door, even though he knows it is mostly his fault. He concedes that perhaps he wasn't cut out to be a husband, a Hit-wizard. Or much of a man.
Pansy smiles sympathetically, but tells him to get over himself. That he would have never been happy as a bachelor living in Wiltshire and swimming in leisure. He would have hated himself and when Hermione came along, she gave him life. Gave him something to aspire to—he wanted to be a better person for her. She told him that he needed to go home and tell his wife that he loves her, lay her down and make her know exactly how much he feels for her.
He scoffs and drains his cup, but later, he thinks that perhaps he ought to listen to Pansy more often.
vi.
When Draco awakens to the tapping at the window, he feels as though he had only laid his head down upon the pillow a moment ago. Morning is still dark, but the owl's eyes seem to glow from his perch.
It's a letter from Hermione asking him to meet her. She reassures that it is not an emergency, but she wants him to come to Porthcurno Bay, the place of their first date, immediately. He knows it must be important and he knows that she must have something to tell him. He hopes for the best as he grabs his warmest cloak and goes to her. He is full of both eagerness and reluctance.
She's sitting on the soft sand, beyond a set of footprints and is facing the east, watching the cerulean waves crash against the shore. In the light of the dawn, he can see her pretty face clearer than before. He thinks that perhaps he hasn't looked at her as closely as he ought but she still looks the same as always—intensely erratic curls, a soft curve to her cheek, and deep brown eyes full of wonder. A simple beauty with no extravagance; a true English Rose. Yet, there is a shadow across her, only obvious to him, and he realizes that she's hollow inside. She isn't the same witch he used to know. That brilliant flame of vibrancy that always shone from her has disappeared. He knows because he no longer feels it, it doesn't warm his bones with affection. It no longer inspires him. Instantly, he wants to call it back, ask it why it left him all alone.
But he doesn't because he knows the answer.
She doesn't turn when he approaches, and when he settles his body beside hers, she doesn't ask him where he's been, or if he is coming back. She only folds her hand into his and asks if he's forgotten what magic feels like.
He means to tell her that she's being insipid—of course he knows what magic feels like! He only uses it a hundred times a day—everyday. But as the sun begins its ascent over Logan Rock, he's awed—humbled—by the beauty. The orange rays shoot up over the granite cliff filling the sky with hazy pastels of pinks and purples. Yellow and turquoise. He wonders what being was so powerful as to conjure effulgent magic such as this.
He never answers her because she already knows. He doesn't. Not raw, unadulterated magic. Not anymore. Not since that day. It was sucked out of him and his angry grief taught him to be numb. To forget.
Suddenly he's overcome with all the emotions that he had been denying. They begin to tumble out of his mouth with fortitude, with un-tethered freedom. He wants her to understand, to believe in him again and to empathize, but she shushes him with her fingertips and lays her head upon his shoulder. She knows, she says, because she does. Only then does he realize that the burden of guilt, grief and pain that lies upon her shoulders is deeper and heavier than his. He should've helped her carry it. He promises that he will, for now and ever. He lays a kiss upon her crown and when he lays his cheek on the softness of her curls, he squeezes her hand tighter. Asking her to give him her worries for awhile.
She leads him home under the guise that he can change his clothes and have a cuppa from his very own mug. He thinks she wants to talk then, that she is ready, but as they stand in the grey kitchen she only stares at him. As though she's trying to figure if he's real or a dream. Where lie his secrets and what do they hold for her?
He doesn't speak because in the darkness of her eyes, he sees a glimmer of his Hermione. That burning curiosity and unbridled passion. She moves slowly toward him, her hand outstretched, but as she pauses tentatively in front of him, she begins to withdraw it.
He holds his breath because he doesn't know what to expect and he searches her face for the answers. He likes to be prepared. He likes to know what comes next.
He doesn't expect her small hands to suddenly grasp his t-shirt collar and yank him down as she rises on her tip-toes. But her bottom lip falls right under his top lip with practiced precision. His hands find her waist, her hip, her familiarly round bottom and Draco can only clutch at her, pull at her. He wants to climb into her and live in her heart. Where he will always belong.
Her hands smooth over his shoulders until they wrap around his neck and her fingers delicately trail the curve of his ears. He shivers and breaks away, letting his forehead rest against hers. As he tries to catch his breath, he thinks that she must be the place. She's home. And he shouldn't have left her alone for all those short months after the day her body couldn't carry his child any longer.
His palms find the softness of her cheeks and he leans back to look at her. There are tears in her eyes and they drip past her lashes in quick relief.
Once upon a time, he could look at her for hours—just stare in awe of the love he felt for her; for everything he saw in her face. A future and family. Life. She was made for him, by the same deity that painted sunrises and sunsets. That everyday release of wild magic in the world. That bestowed them with the gift. That challenged them by taking it away. She was his match. Able to keep up with him, to give his life meaning and when he got out of hand, the skill to light up and see right through his silliness.
A tentative smile curves his mouth as he uses his thumbs to brush away her tears. He's sorry, does she know? And he loves her, will long after his body has left this earth. Does she? Will she for as long as he exists?
She sobs a laugh and tells him that, yes, silly man, how could she not?
He presses sloppy kisses to her lips, her nose, her forehead and back to her mouth and she pulls him closer. Inviting him, telling him to stay for a minute or two.
When he sweeps her body up into his arms and carries her to their bedroom, he promises he'll never leave again.
vii.
Draco knows that he must get up, put on his shoes, grab his robes and head to work. But the bed is warm and Hermione's body is pressed closely against his. Because they want to, and for once he doesn't blame their closeness on the dip in the mattress. He drops his nose into the cloud of her hair and inhales deeply, reveling in that peculiar scent he can only identify as her. He's grateful to be here—he'd missed it, certainly, and he's reluctant to let it go. Even if it is only for a matter of hours.
He knows that they ought to talk, work out the kinks and smooth things over. Compromise and plan for the future, but he is in no rush. He has his lifetime, right? He has forever. Right now, there is only the sound of her breathing, the beat of their hearts and the security of their embrace.
They could play hooky, he says, have a lie-in, brunch in bed. She snorts into his chest, but he doesn't believe that she thinks it is a totally bad idea. She might even be considering it. But then, their morning is interrupted by a tapping at the window.
Duty calls, she quips, and gracefully rolls from his arms, the blanket and the bed. He admires the form of her body in the fingers of sunlight from the window. She's roundness and curves, dips and valleys. Secret places and untold stories. But then her demeanor changes and she tells him to get up. Get dressed.
With fear dulling her brown eyes, she turns to him.
It's Pansy. Her elf.
He doesn't hesitate. He springs from the bed and dresses as fast as possible. He doesn't care. He has to get there because all he can think of is Pansy in the dankness of an Azkaban cell. He won't have it. He knows, with clarity, that she couldn't have done this. Someone else is responsible for this and for them all.
He grabs Hermione's hand as she's trying to slip on her last shoe and they Disapparate directly to Pansy's parlor.
She stands when they arrive. Her hair is neat. Her clothes tidy and pressed. But her makeup is smeared and mascara has streaked her face.
Draco crosses to her and pulls her close in a crushing hug.
There are others in the room, though. Solanda Sosa. Another officer from Hermione's department, the Welfare of Magical Creatures. And Potter.
They are taking over the case, it seems. Because now Draco is a person of interest. His relationship with Hermione conflicts with the ethics of the case.
She still demands to see the body, but Potter refuses. It's the same as the others. No need.
Draco doesn't care. He has to see for himself, and Pansy begins to sob. The spare room. Where he has been staying. Ignoring the protests from Sosa and Hermione, Draco heads up the stairs and throws open the door.
The elf is lying upon the unmade bed and its blood is a blue bloom on the rumpled, white blankets. Draco's MLE cuff is stuffed in its mouth, his ministry-issued tie binds its hands and feet, and his badge is pinned to its forehead, gleaming in the light of the sun.
Anger and disgust sweeps into Draco's chest. The scene has been staged to blame him. Suddenly he knows why McLaggen was so calm and why Astoria was inconsolable. Because they were innocent.
Potter doesn't bind Draco though. No cuffs on the wrists or magical restraints. Nothing more than a request to cooperate. Draco wants to rebel, to proclaim his innocence, but Hermione laces her fingers with his. The gesture calms his rage. She's there with him. They will get through this. Everything will be okay.
He pulls her closer and kisses her temple. Because she's there for him. Even when he wasn't there for her.
Hours pass and Sosa's interrogation is intense. She's more interested in getting his opinion on all the other murders, as though she's discussing a case with a colleague. Draco is careful what he says; he fears that they might use what he knows against him. The process is grueling and tiresome, and his alibi doesn't hold up. Hermione's word is all that he has; her letter had mysteriously disappeared.
They question Pansy for just as long, and like Draco, she doesn't know anything, can't figure it all out. Her grief brings out the worst in her and she rages against Potter and Sosa. Demanding her release. How dare they hold her for this long, don't they know who she is? And they are insane if they think she or Draco had anything to do with this! It was her elf, dammit, and can't they see that she's suffering a loss? She's going to have their jobs—even Potter's—if they don't let her walk out of here immediately.
Draco can hear her from his room and a smirk of admiration brightens his face. Hermione can only roll her eyes and note that Pansy's making it all worse, causing the process to be so lengthy.
Eventually, they are both told they can leave, but to stay within the country. Draco learns that Astoria and McLaggen are freed as well. Pansy wishes to stay with her mother, and Hermione offers Draco to escort her home. Before they floo there, Hermione makes sure that Draco is coming home. So they can talk. It will be time. She's ready and he thinks that he is too.
He doesn't like traveling through floo, but the Modest Parkinson home is heavily warded against apparition. However, when he leaves, he walks through the small, picket gate and Disapparates directly home.
Only when he arrives, he hears Hermione's angry tones before they are cut off by a thick, dangerous Bulgarian brogue.
Krum. A menacingly irate Krum, in fact.
There is a crash of dishes and Hermione's cry of pain, and Draco hurries to the kitchen.
When Krum sees Draco, he swears and grabs Hermione by the hair and then points a large hunting knife to her throat.
Instantly, fear freezes Draco and instinctively, he puts his palms out. Whoa, whoa, whoa! Just calm down!
His heart is a thundering drum in his ribcage and his whole body is vibrating like a taut rubber-band. He can't think of what to do. He can only stare with disbelief as Krum holds his entire future in his hands.
Hermione is clutching at the strong arm that is tight across her sternum but her whimpering struggles are futile. Draco holds his breath and tries to mentally convey for her to be still. Don't move. He'll save her. Somehow.
Draco should have stayed away, Krum says, but now, he can watch. Krum plans to injure her, severely; to the brink of death. He'll alter her memories. She will never remember the truth.
Draco ruined everything! Krum was supposed to be with her, make her his bride and she was supposed to carry his children! But Krum wouldn't be looked over for Draco anymore and when he learned how the murder of Nott's elf had affected Hermone, his plan developed. He murdered other elves and implicated Draco.. Once Hermione recovers from her injuries, she'll divorce him and in her vulnerability, will once again turn to Krum for comfort. Then all Krum's dreams will come true and Draco will have to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life. A life he will spend locked away in Azkaban for the grotesque murder of house-elves.
Stay calm. Stay Calm. Stay calm, is Draco's mantra through Krum's monologue. The muscle in Draco's jaw throbs because he's clenching his teeth to keep from verbally exploding and his fingers itch to withdraw his wand. Yet, the fear in Hermione's eyes, and the point of the knife against her delicate skin keeps him from any sudden movements.
She's fighting against Krum, jostling his knife hand, and she keeps asking him to stop, to let her go, but the apprehension in her eyes means she knows he won't.
Krum can have her, Draco tries, he didn't really want her anyway. Not an impure Mudblood like her. She can't even bear children. Weak and Pathetic. Just let him go and he'll never say a word. Draco drops his hands to his sides and begins to turn away.
But Krum sees through his lies and he laughs maniacally, derisively.
It all happens very quickly. Draco's eyes meet Hermione's and she throws her head back as hard as she can and Draco draws his wand.
Krum's nose begins to spurt blood and for a second, he loses his grip on Hermione. She takes the opportunity to drop to her knees.
Just in time to duck the Petrificus Totalis that shoots from Draco's wand.
Krum's form slumps backward, bouncing off the counter before tipping forward and crashing to the floor beside Hermione's cowering form.
Then, with a swift leap over Krum's prone body, Draco gathers Hermione into his arms. He is overwrought with relief and can only press desperate kisses all over her face as his fingers tangle in her hair. She clutches to him tightly and begins to cry—the shock wearing off—that she's sorry, so sorry.
He doesn't care. He's sorry too. But it is all okay, because she's still alive, she still is with him and there is still tomorrow.
For a moment there is no sound in the flat except for their hearts beating a rhythm against the melody of the refrigerator.
* Alludes to the song "Planet Claire" by B52s
Prompt: Post-war or during the war, EWE, can be a dark fic, epic/grand love story, possible betrayal on Hermione's part (not cheating though,) possessive/jealousy, accidental pregnancy, and marriage.
Song, Poem, or Quote:/b Cosmic Love by Florence and the Machine
Dealbreakers: Unhappy endings, beastility, femmeslash, slash, cheating/adultery, drug use, major OOC without detailed explanation, major character deaths especially Draco or Hermione, fic written in first or second person, fic written with flashbacks intertwined with the present.