Author: alptigerx
Title: Proper (1/1)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
WARNINGS: Death, a pathetic shot at angst.
i. the beginning
She was reclined on a couch with a book in her lap when Kingsley Shackebolt brought him in, frail and stumbling, eyes half-lidded, through the door of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.
Draco Malfoy.
His hair hung in grimy white-blonde wisps about his head, no longer the smooth silk she remembered from Hogwarts, and his face looked flush from exertion. A faint sheen of perspiration covered his sallow brow, and she realized that the Auror was the only thing keeping Malfoy from hitting the floor.
"What happened to him?"
Shacklebolt shot her a long, calculating look before he replied. "Cruciatus."
Oh.
ii. set it aside
She twiddled her wand at the dishes absently on her way past the kitchen, not bothering to glance at the plates as they began to scrub themselves clean. When she sat on his bed, it was with a glass of cool water in one hand and a damp washcloth in the other.
He wouldn't speak to her – to anyone, for that matter – and that compelled her to begin conversation. She spoke of mundane things, such as the weather and how useless it was to even try to clean. She brought him biscuits and tea every day. She touched him – brief touches, feather light touches to his brow, on his arm, a caress at his shoulder.
She itched to twirl a strand of platinum corn silk through her fingers. It was slowly beginning to shine again.
iii. of days long past
She brought him a game of wizard's chess and some books. Watching as she arched an eyebrow in mock challenge, he opted instead to quietly turn and inspect the books. They were Muggle novels, and he felt a fleeting quirk at his mouth. The spines bent with use, a couple of pages dog-eared, but he didn't mind. He observed the cover of one, unable to tear his eyes from the undeniably sensual cover of Lady Chatterley's Lover.
She was persistent, though. Just one game. I'll shut up.
After some needling, he hesitantly directed a knight to its ghastly doom.
iv. time runs
She scrutinized him carefully under her lashes. He was excellent at wizard's chess, and although her books were lying on the floor beside his bed, she could tell he rifled through them. There were more dog-ears than she remembered.
His halo of white-blonde was back. It was long, and he liked to look at her through his fringe. She could feel the crackle of his old arrogance in the air.
His eyes were steely, but she wouldn't break.
When did this become a test of power?
She began to hum.
v. the best of us
They were ambushed, and the losses were paramount. Remus was gone. Tonks was a wreck. Shacklebolt was taken. Harry was crippled. Ron was dead.
He stared at her through that fringe, his face carefully neutral. She returned his stare and set his plate of biscuits and a cup of tea on the table as if to inquire, What?
She didn't break in front of him.
Later that night, she curled up in bed under her comforter and leaked a continuous stream of tears into her pillow.
vi. the last of me
She didn't come to see him the next day or the day after. He wondered where she was, but he didn't deign it proper to ask.
She would come back.
In the meantime, he would polish off his game of wizard's chess and bend the spines of those books again, just for good measure. He rather wanted to reread Lady Chatterley's Lover anyway.
vii. over
It was three weeks before Ginny Weasley knocked softly on his door. Her hair was bedraggled and matted in filth. Purple craters made themselves at home beneath her amplified eyes. He didn't need a second glance at the half-mad look in her eyes or the evidence of grief on her face to know.
She wouldn't come back.
The war was over. Harry bloody Potter took out the Dark Lord in one fell swoop, but not before he slit the throat of the brunette witch standing on the sidelines with a well-practiced Sectumsempra.
Draco Malfoy turned himself out into the world for the first time in three years. The sky was just as blue as he remembered, the clouds just as white. The buildings were just as tall, the air just as welcoming.
He didn't deign it proper to recognize the hollow feeling in his chest, and he didn't deign it proper to mourn.
And so, he went on with his life, humming a tune that was left to him, a book in his hand and a game of wizard's chess locked in his bag.
fin.