The room is stark white, the only pieces of furniture being a clock, two uncomfortable chairs and a table. Outside, guards have been stationed, though Draco doesn't see the need to have them there. Without his wand, and his slightly sore battle wounds, he doubts he would be able to escape. His interrogator, Marcus Sawyer, sits across from him with a sour expression on his face. He seems to Draco as if he is being forced to do something extremely vile, although he is being paid for it.
"I trust that you will use absolutely no Occlumency whilst I do my job," he says in a clipped tone, fixing him with a stern expression. Draco nods silently, his eyes briefly flickering to the clock on the wall before returning to the man across from him.
"Legilimens."
Draco trains his gaze on Sawyer, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair tightly. He can feel the older man probing inside of his mind, looking through his memories and thoughts. The blond closes his eyes, and sees sixth year flashing across the back of his eyelids. Sawyer moves on to peruse his more recent memories, of living with Voldemort and, later on, Granger.
Draco can feel the man unnecessarily poking through other things, things that should remain private. Anger flares up inside of him, but he does not interrupt the man from viewing memories of his childhood. If he did, Sawyer would only accuse him of wanting to hide something from him. Time drags by slowly, and the tick-tock of the clock on the wall seems to taunt him.
By the time Sawyer removes himself from the inside of his mind, Draco is sweating heavily and his fingernails have formed crescent shaped marks on the wooden armrests.
"Done, are you?" he says quietly, a hint of anger showing in his voice. Sawyer looks at him sharply, a warning in his beady eyes, but Draco speaks no further. He watches as Sawyer pours a glass of water from the large pitcher on the table. His chubby hand withdraws a vial of clear liquid from the inside of his jacket coat.
Veritaserum, Draco thinks as Sawyer carefully measures a certain amount into the water.
"Drink," Sawyer tells him gruffly, shoving the glass towards the blond. Draco takes it, and downs the water without hesitation. Might as well get it over with quickly.
The moment he walks into the dining room, silence descends upon the table. Remus stands beside him, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder, a gesture which must have been meant to be reassuring, but it does nothing for Draco's nerves. He stares blankly at those who stare back at him, a familiar look of hatred in their eyes. The table is laden with freshly cooked food, and they seemed to be in the middle of dinner when he walked in.
His grey eyes scan the small gathering, noting who is present. Most of the Weasley family, a woman with shockingly bright pink hair, a grim man in dark blue robes, a man dressed much shabbier than Lupin, and Granger. He can feel the weight of ten gazes on him, but only three do not hold hatred; Granger, the pink haired woman and the man in blue robes—whom Draco will later come to know as Kingsley Shacklebolt.
"Why is he here?" the man in shabby clothing asks suddenly, breaking the silence.
"All in good time, Mundungus," Lupin says, walking towards the dining table to seat himself. Draco follows, taking the seat between Granger and Lupin, deeming it the safest place for him at the moment. Across from him is the man in blue robes, looking at him thoughtfully.
"Now," Lupin begins, and all those at the table look to him. "Settle down, everyone, and I will explain. Draco here, has agreed to give information—"
Draco does not bother to listen to the rest of what Lupin has to say. Instead, he stares at the wall opposite him, blocking out everything. His eyes trace the pattern of the repetitive wallpaper, ignoring the burn of several gazes boring into him. Beside him, he can hear the sound of Granger's fork as she idly pokes at her food. What comes next is completely unexpected, but welcomed all the same.
Her hand slips into his, dainty and small compared to his rather large hand, and she squeezes gently. His head whips sharply towards her, and he looks at her with a frown, feeling befuddled. Granger doesn't acknowledge him, seeming extremely absorbed in the task of spearing a cherry tomato. Her hand falls from his, but he can feel the warmth that lingers in her wake and that is enough.
The next few days drag by slowly, made slightly easier by the presence of Granger. But Draco doesn't see very much of her at all, for she hides away in her bedroom most of the day. He hates it here. The air is heavy and difficult to breathe, for a lot of dust has accumulated over the years the house has stood. There is a portrait of a shrieking banshee on the second floor, and an ominous house elf that fawns eerily over Draco.
Above all, the thing he hates most is the staring. If glares could set a person on fire, Draco was certain he would have reduced to charred remains by now. It is the accusation and the hatred in their eyes that makes him uncomfortable. And so he avoids the other residents of the house, taking care to take his meals at erratic hours when the others are either done or haven't eaten yet. Draco stays locked up in his bedroom for most of the day, leaving only for meals or the loo. He has Granger's books to keep him company, although she's starting to complain about how he borrows them far too often.
It is extremely early in the morning when he quickly dresses and hurries downstairs to eat before the others rise. Upon his arrival in the kitchen, Draco finds that he is not the only one who had this idea. He immediately tenses at the presence of others, but relaxes when he sees who it is. Granger, and his cousin, Nymphadora Tonks. Granger is seated at the table, reading from a book, and Tonks seems to be making coffee, judging from the burnt smell that lingers in the air.
The pink-haired woman turns out to be a relative of his, on his mother's side of the family. Mother had mentioned her once or twice in the span of Draco's lifetime, but only very briefly. He didn't expect her to be so—so chipper, and friendly. Most of those descended from pureblood lines tend to be extremely sullen people—but then again, he never did get the chance to meet Sirius or Regulus Black.
"Wotcher, cousin." She grins at him. Draco nods at her politely, feeling slightly uncomfortable at her unnatural friendliness. He blinks rapidly when her hair turns a violent shade of red.
"Merlin," Draco mutters, as he makes his way over to the fridge. "It's too early for that now, Tonks."
The Metamorphmagus shrugs, taking a long sip from her cup of burnt coffee that she doesn't seem to mind. Making a meal doesn't take very long at all, Draco finds. Muggles have invented this ingenious breakfast food called cereal.
"Did you finish the milk?" he says to Tonks, eying her suspiciously. She looks sheepish now, her hair turning pastel pink.
"Maybe," Tonks mumbles, taking another prolonged sip from her cup and smacking her lips. "I couldn't get the bitter out of the coffee though."
Draco stares at her for a moment, dumbfounded. In his frustration, he sighs. "It's supposed to be bitter."
"I can't understand why Remus would drink this all the time," she says, looking at the contents of her cup with disgust.
"Don't worry, Malfoy," Granger says all of a sudden. He turns to look at her, with a raised eyebrow.
"I made too much tea," she shrugs, "You can mix it in with your cereal if you want."
"But—" he splutters.
"I put lots of sugar in it, so it's a good substitute for milk"—here, she pauses with a thoughtful look—"besides cereal on its own is too dry."
Draco looks at the kettle warily, reaching out to grasp it by the handle. His hand hovers momentarily above it, and then he makes a decision, hoping that he will not regret this lapse of judgement.
He ends up pouring tea into his cereal. It's not that bad, really.
In the stillness of the night time, the only sound that he can hear other than his breathing is the occasional turn of the page. With a book on his lap, and his blanket tucked around him, he is perfectly content. Insomnia has been catching up with him lately, and he does the only thing that he can to fill up the empty hours. It isn't really all that quiet, at least not in Draco's head. He can see the sights, the glint of the snow, hear the sound of the wind, and the two voices in his head.
—"I say," said Lucy, "you do look awful, Edmund. Don't you feel well?"
"I'm all right," said Edmund, but this was not true. He was feeling very sick.
"Come on then," said Lucy, "let's find the others. What a lot we shall have to tell them! And what wonderful adventures we shall have now that we're all—
The voices of Lucy and Edmund in his head stop, and he looks from his book to his wooden door. It was very quiet, but Draco is convinced that he heard a sound. It was the staircases, creaking ever so slightly, but loud enough for him to discern it. Unable to deny the curiosity that burns inside of him, he slips out from beneath his blanket and pads to the door. Thankfully, the hinges of his door do not make a sound when the door swings open, and Draco steps out into the hallway. He is clad only in his sleep clothes, holding his book—or rather, Granger's—in one hand.
Draco's not entirely sure why he even bothers to see who's awake at this hour. It's two in the morning, and after all, it could have just been the house elf, Kreacher prowling about. Shrugging, as he's already left behind the comfort of his bed, Draco begins to descend the stairs. His blood circulation has gotten sluggish after so long, and it's good to stretch a little.
When he reaches the kitchen, he's not at all surprised to see Granger there. Draco moves silently past her, noting that she hasn't bothered to make any tea this time. A few minutes later, he is pouring Earl Grey into two mugs, steaming rushing up to kiss his face. He takes the seat beside her, setting the two mugs on the table.
"Thank you," Granger whispers softly, taking the mug in both hands. He nods, soaking in the warmth of the porcelain though his fingers. It creeps through his skin and into his blood, banishing the icy coldness that comes with chilly weather.
She hasn't opened her book yet, and his, too, sits on the table untouched. For a long while, they sit there, relishing the silence, the warmth of tea, and the comforting presence of another.
In the morning, they are both moved to separate safe houses.
It is the last he sees of her for two months.
"Weasley!"
"Now, Draco dear. Don't get your knickers in a twist." Fred snickers. Whether it is George or Fred Weasley, Draco can't tell and he doesn't really care. His hand wavers ever so slightly when he aims it at the older boy, shaking from anger. The little twat had drawn on his face while he was asleep, taken pictures with a muggle device, and had distributed them to everyone currently residing at Grimmauld place. Not only that, but he'd also eaten all the cereal.
"You look fabulous, did you know? In fact, I wouldn't mind getting one of those penis drawings for myself, temporary or not.
"Penis?" Draco yells, his face slowly turning red. "We'll see who still has one in five minutes. I'll fucking chop off—"
"Well, you don't look all that bad," Granger says from beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder to restrain him from following through with his incomplete promise. Draco growls, glancing sideways at her. The brunette is actually fighting a smile at the photo in her hand.
"Give me that." He scowls, taking the picture out of her hand. It was extremely early in the morning, and the residents of number 12, Grimmauld Place would soon be rising. Draco brandishes it in Fred's face, trying hard not to hit the redhead.
"If you don't burn all the copies of these pictures by the time everyone is down for breakfast, I won't hesitate to tell everyone about your fourth year at Hogwarts when you—"
"Okay, okay," the redhead says hastily, turning red at the mention of said event. He quickly hurries away, red to the roots of his hair.
"What was that all about?" Granger asks curiously.
"Nothing, at all," Draco says smoothly. "Please, excuse me, I have to get these atrocious drawings off of my skin."
By the time the rest of the household has breakfast, and Draco has washed away the drawings on his skin, Fred Weasley has successfully erased all evidence of his latest prank. However, he didn't manage to destroy them in time, for those who had awoken earlier had already seen the picture. This consisted of majority of the household.
Draco decides to join them for a second attempt at having breakfast, as Fred finished all the cereal from earlier on. When he walks into the dining room conversation comes to a standstill, but he pays it no heed. He pulls out the empty seat beside Hermione's, and sits down. He has only begun to butter a piece of toast, when Tonks bursts out into laughter. Draco scowls at her, self-consciously reaching up to brush down the fringe of his hair to cover his forehead. There were traces of the ink that he hadn't been able to scrub away.
Beside Tonks, Mad-Eye Moody has an amused glint in his eye, and his lips are twitching ever so slightly.
"Don't tease the boy, Tonks," Arthur chides, but even he is unable to suppress his amusement.
"Shut it, the lot of you," Draco snaps, but there is no conviction behind it. He's trying to pull together the remaining pieces of his dignity, is all.
Smoke clouds the air, making his eyes water as he ducks behind a large mound of rubble. Around him, fire burns and spreads, eating up all that it can. A stray green flash of light hurtles past above him, hitting a pillar. Draco staggers to his feet, knowing the battle is yet to be over. He can hear people dying in battle, the sounds of shouted curses and screams of agony.
Over the months, word had spread quickly in Voldemort's circles. They now knew him to be a traitor, and both sides, apparently, hated him and wanted him dead. Not too long ago, Seamus Finnegan had aimed an unknown curse at him. Draco highly doubted that it was a slip of the hand, for Finnegan had excellent aim in battle. The sound of someone wheezing and choking on the little oxygen that there is, has him turning his head sharply to the right.
There is a person half buried underneath the rubble, a woman, judging from her small stature. She mumbles something to him, indiscernible amongst the sounds of battle and fire crackling in the background. He squints his eyes at her, his vision made hazy by smoke. Recognition dawns upon him, and Draco curses himself for not realising who it was earlier. He falls to his knees and immediately starts to pull her out of the rubble that must be crushing her.
It is Granger. Her messy hair is matted with dirt and blood, her own. She is bleeding profusely from wounds on her back, blood having soaked through most of the fabric of her shirt. She whispers something to him, inaudible. Coughs wrack her body and Granger wheezes for breath, the smoke in the air intensifying tremendously by the burn of the flames around them.
The heat of the fire has made him dizzy, and uncomfortably sweaty. He is vaguely aware of how Granger's blood has stained his hands red, mixing with the dirt there. It is only later that he will realise the irony of it all, but that matters at that very moment is keeping her alive. His breathing quickens, and desperation runs through him as he manages to get the last of the rubble off of her.
"Granger!" he almost screams at her, when he sees that she has closed her eyes to the world. "Don't you fucking dare! Don't you fucking die on me!"
Her eyes flutter open, and she meets his gaze, listening to the sound of his voice as he speaks frantically. "I'll be sending you to St. Mungo's, okay?"
Draco fumbles in his pants pocket for the slip of paper there. It is crumpled and almost torn in half, but it is still full of the colour coded stickers Lupin had issued to all members of the Order. His hands tremble when he pastes the orange sticker on her forehead. The orange one meant that the soldier had sustained heavy wounds and needed immediate attention.
"You'll be okay," he chokes out, his heart breaking at the sight of her crumpled and broken. Memories of what they once had flits quickly through his mind, but disappear as soon as they had come. He has a battle to fight, and cannot let his emotions get the better of him.
Granger nods feebly, fighting to keep her eyes open. A moment before he presses the Portkey into her upturned palm, he kisses her chastely on the lips in an act of desperation. It is a rush of hot breath passing between two mouths, a quick brush of chapped lips, and the fervent pounding of two hearts.
She is gone as soon as the Portkey touches her skin. Draco thinks a prayer to whatever god that may be listening, and rises to his feet, clutching his wand tightly in one fist.
The walls are stark white. St. Mungo's is full of Healers rushing about on daily business. Nobody looks too surprised to see him there, a man with bloodstained clothing and several layers of dirt and smoke on his skin. Tension is high between the two sides, and people are dying every day. Here, in this hospital, and all around Britain, he thinks morbidly as he approaches the woman sat at the counter.
"I need to see Hermione Granger," he says to her, surprisingly calm for a man that barely got out of battle alive.
"Name?" she questions, in a dull tone. No doubt she has said that countless of times before.
"Draco Malfoy," he replies through gritted teeth.
She looks up at him sharply, for the first time, and her eyes widen in recognition. "I-I'm sorry, but only family members—"
"People are dying every day!" he almost shouts at her, angry at her and even more at the world. "Do you think anyone even has a family to depend on anymore? For fuck's sake, she could be dying right now!"
The room turns silent, and all heads turn to look at him. A man walks up to him, holding a clipboard under one arm.
"I'll take you to her, lad," he says calmly, breaking the silence in the room.
As they walk to Granger's room, Draco learns that the man had just finished tending to her not to long ago. By the time he arrives there, he has learnt that Granger is doing fine. According to the Healer, she had suffered from an immense loss of blood, and could have died if she had not arrived at the hospital when she did. The man, Healer Richards, leaves him in front of Granger's designated room, giving him a pat on the back before walking away.
Room three hundred and-sixty-seven turns out to be almost the same as the rest of the hospital. Everything is coloured in white, even the window panes. He feels out of place here, bloodied and battered, wearing clothes that he's certain will smell of smoke forever. When Draco shuts the door behind him, his eyes immediately land on her. They'd cleaned her up, vanished away all the blood and grime, and if Draco didn't know better, he'd never had thought she'd even fought a war in the first place.
Granger looks peaceful in her sleep, the only sign of the life inside of her was the gentle crest and fall of her breathing. He stands with his back against the door for a moment, content to watch her heart beat on the Muggle screen attached to the wall. Tentatively, Draco moves towards her bed. He sinks into the stiff plastic chair beside her bed, suddenly realising just how fatigued he really is.
His grey eyes trace her every feature, taking in all that the war had inflicted upon her, and all that had remained hers. There is a scar in her left cheek—just below her left eye—, a bruise on her jaw, and a cut on her lip. He looks at her—really looks at her— properly, for the first time in two years. With her strong façade, researching about Horcruxes, and doing all that she could while her two best friends were off hunting them, Draco had never realised how tired she must be.
She must have felt extremely lonely, he thinks. Helpless even. Without Potter or Weasley standing by her, like they always had.
On instinct, Draco takes her hand in his and squeezes gently, like how she had two months ago. Even though she isn't awake to be reassured, he does it anyway. Draco sighs heavily, closing his eyes for a moment, and leaning back in his chair. Somehow, he drifts off to sleep. But just as he is tottering on the brink of unconsciousness, Granger squeezes back.
It was hardly anything at all, and later on, Draco would wonder if he had imagined it.
Granger is released from the hospital within three days, going with promises to eat more and to take her medications at the specified timings. But he doesn't see her for another three, while she stays at Headquarters, not fit enough to use a Portkey. It is a rainy day when she arrives at the safe house he is at, all the way in Wales. She finds him sat at the window, absentmindedly watching the raindrops trickle down the glass. Draco turns at the sound of her coming in, hand automatically closing around the handle of his wand.
He visibly relaxes when he sees who it is, rising on an instinct, perhaps to greet her but he is not sure. He doesn't know what to say, and, evidently, she doesn't either. It is silent for a moment, the rain outside filling in the empty spaces with white noise that means nothing. They stare at each other, both feeling rather awkward. Granger shifts her weight to one foot, rubbing her hand up and down one arm.
Draco thinks about when he saved her life during battle. The few seconds before he puts the Portkey into her hand. He really hadn't meant to kiss her. It had been something instinctual, an act of desperation, because he didn't know if she'd make it out alive. He decides not to mention it, for it would make things unbearably awkward between them, and could possibly ruin whatever they had now. Perhaps it was a friendship, but Draco couldn't be sure.
Besides, there is a chance that Granger might not remember it at all. For she had been on the brink of unconsciousness then, worn out by all that she had gone through. Draco clears his throat, and meets her eyes with a steady gaze.
"How are you feeling?" he asks softly.
"Better than the last time I saw you," she replies, a hint of a smile on her lips.
They never mention the kiss, and soon, it is forgotten.
It is a week later, when he finds himself once again at Headquarters. Parchment rustles, the fire in the hearth crackles, and there is the thump of a book closing. Beside him, Granger sighs heavily, closing her eyes and massaging her temples. He bites his lip, glancing at the clock on the wall. It is three in the morning, and they have stayed up for quite a while now, reading through old texts they had found in the attic.
The books are of differing subjects: Goblin-Made Jewellery, the History of Witch Burnings, a story written in ancient runes, and others. Some of the books are so old, the parchment threatens to crumble between his fingers.
They've done all they can regarding researching Horcruxes, and all the possible places Voldemort could have hidden the ones he had made. Just two days ago, Granger had sent Potter and Weasley a Patronus—without anybody but the two of them knowing—, telling them about all they knew. If she had written a letter to them, it could have taken months to reach their hands.
Draco subtly glances over at Granger, all thoughts of goblin metal infused with ancient spells gone from his mind. She has bags under her eyes, and looks sickly pallid, like she hasn't been eating or sleeping well. He comes to a quick decision and stands up abruptly, causing his chair to topple over. This earns him a look of curiosity from his fellow Order member, but he merely nods at her and makes for the door.
"I'll be back soon," Draco says to her, just before he leaves. The last he sees of her, before he heads down the hallway, is her befuddled expression. The blond hurries down the stairs, careful to be light enough as to not make a noise. Upon reaching the kitchen, he tosses tea leaves in a kettle and pours more than enough water for two.
When he next climbs the stairs, he is balancing a tray laden with tea and slightly stale biscuits he found at the back of a cupboard. During times like these, biscuits are a luxury no one can afford, but he hopes they'll cheer her up, stale or not.
"I made tea," he says softly, shutting the door by gently bumping his hip against the wooden surface. Granger looks up from the text she is reading, and smiles tiredly at him. The metal tray meets the table with a soft thunk, and he takes the seat next to hers.
"Thoughtful of you to," she comments warmly, as she picks up her mug.
"It's nothing, really," Draco replies, taking a prolonged sip from his tea. It scalds his tongue as he swallows, but it sends a pleasant rush of warmth through him. Draco glances sideways at the brunette, watching as she languidly sips from her own tea. The crease between her brows has smoothed out, and there is a hint of a smile playing on her lips. Although making tea isn't very hard at all, he feels like he's accomplished something.
"I like these biscuits."
She acts as if they aren't stale at all, her smile widening.
"I do too."
It is one of the coldest days of Draco's life, when he visits the graveyard where many of the fallen had been buried. Tonks's and Fred's funeral had been a few days ago, but he had chosen to go on a different day—so that he could mourn for his cousin and friend in solitude.
The snows of the past December had just begun to melt, and was slowly turning to slush beneath his feet. Tonks would have loved to watch the snow melt, he thought with a bitter pang. She would have loved to see the world blossom once again with greenery. Spring was—no—had been her favourite time of the year.
Fred, he thought the name with a pang of sadness. The redhead had been one of the most lively people Draco had ever met. He had also been one of the first to accept him, right after Tonks and Granger. Draco unconsciously brushed his fingers over his cheek, right over the spot where his mischievous friend had drawn a phallus only months ago.
They had been killed in the midst of the battle a week ago, and their bodies had been found afterwards. Fred's hair had glowed fiery red in the dying light of the sun, that day. And Tonks—she had marched into battle without fear, not knowing that she would not come out of it alive. It was funny, Draco thought sadly, how the life in such magnificent people could be extinguished so quickly.
It had been dark when their bodies had been found, and Draco had been one of those sent out to recover those of the Order who had passed. In the shadows, the fire in Fred's hair had gone dull, and the light in Tonks's eyes had died. The sound George Weasley had made upon discovering his twin dead was something imprinted into Draco's memory, for it was a sound so heartbreaking that it could never possibly be forgotten.
Draco stops in his tracks at the sight of someone familiar, standing only metres away with her back to him. Granger is dressed warmly in a faded red coat, with her hair wild around her shoulders. She kneels in the snow, and Draco immediately thinks of how her knees must have gone numb with the cold. He is just about to call out to her, when he notices something.
Her shoulders are shaking silently, a sign that she is crying. Draco's eyes widen in surprise, for he has never seen her cry before. In fact, when he was younger, he had thought of Granger as a person who was incapable of it. She had always been so strong, bearing through everything life had thrown at her without complaint.
To see her like this, so vulnerable, makes him uncomfortable and rather upset. So he steps closer. And when he comes to stand beside her, he kneels and gently lays the flower in his hand upon the grave. A daisy. Granger turns to look at him, her eyes red and her cheeks streaked with salty tears. He meets her gaze, his grey eyes full of bitterness and pain.
"They didn't deserve to die," he says grimly, his voice hoarse from hours and hours of silence.
Granger looks away, to the grave in front of them. In a choked voice, she replies.
"I know."
Silence leaves its mark on them, and time passes, but neither of them move.
The buzz of conversation, and the occasional roar of laughter.
Fireworks.
Stashes of alcohol.
Yelling.
This is what Draco remembers of Victory day, five months later when the war ends. With Voldemort killed by Harry Potter himself, the final battle ends with tears of relief and of pain. So many had died in battle. Bloodied bodies littered the battleground, some mauled beyond recognition.
It is night by the time he manages to slip away from the celebration at Grimmauld Place long enough for him to Portkey away to a safe house in Kent. It is the one where he had stayed at months ago, when Granger had unintentionally brought him back with her from battle. He finds it empty and—thankfully—silent. The joyful celebration had been too much for him to handle.
It isn't meant to be like this, he thinks with a pang of sadness. George Weasley had still not emerged from his room since the death of his beloved brother. Teddy Lupin would live his life as an orphan, never to know the gentleness of his father or the liveliness in his mother. There are now three empty seats at the Weasley's dining table, with the deaths of Fred, Ginny and Percy.
The fact that war has finally ended, after years, is a bit hard for him to process. Any second now, he is half expecting Lupin to send a Patronus requesting for him so that battle strategy may be discussed. Draco undoes the clasp at his throat, leaving his cloak in the foyer. It is a relatively warm night, and it has been so long since he has seen the ocean. He longs for the sound of the water washing on the rocks, for the salt in the breeze and the peace that comes with it all.
He feels dirty stepping through the house to the backyard, for he is still wearing what he had donned during battle. There are blood stains on the fabric of his clothing, and they have been so dirtied that it is almost impossible to tell if it had originally been another colour.
The door to the backyard swings open silently, and shuts behind him with a click. He isn't surprised to see Granger there, standing at the edge of the cliff with her back to him. Without thinking, Draco finds himself walking towards her. He comes to a stop just before his foot would meet air, and stands beside her. The wind roars in his ears, combing through his hair and kissing him with salt. The ocean is as wide and as beautiful as it had been the last time he saw it.
A sense of peace washes over him for the first time in days. It would be nice to live by the ocean, he thinks absentmindedly, unaware that Granger is watching him intently. It is only when she says something unintelligible, that he turns to look at her. Her unruly curls are all over the place, floating in the breeze, and she has this look in her eye that he cannot decipher. It almost looks...like affection, even. His heart skips a beat in his chest.
"What did you say?" he asks loudly, for the wind is now loud enough for his voice to be easily drowned out.
Granger frowns, an expression of annoyance on her face. His pulse beats erratically when she fists his shirt in her small hand, and pulls his face down so that he may hear what she has got to say. The look of exasperation in her brown eyes immediately turns to mischief.
"I said," she begins with a grin, shouting to be heard above the wind. Her next few words come as a whisper and she looks away, blushing.
"What?" he shouts at her, perplexed.
Granger makes a sound of exasperation and, pulls him closer by the fabric of his shirt. Before he has time to comprehend what is happening, her lips meet his. Almost immediately, all the thoughts in his head melt away to nothingness and he is kissing her back. She tastes like years of longing, and the euphoria of returning home. When Granger pulls away, breathing heavily and red in the face, he looks at her properly for the first time that day.
There is a slight trace of sadness in her eyes, what the war did to her. It is hardly there, drowned out by the contentment and happiness inside of her.
"I've been wanting to do that for a while now," she tells him in a normal tone, for the wind has died down to a slight breeze now.
"Does this mean that you want to be with me?" he asks, in disbelief.
"I don't see why not," she smiles softly at him. "The war is over now, isn't it? You're a good man, Draco Malfoy. I'm just sorry I hadn't realised that earlier."
"B-But—" Draco is speechless now, and his breath leaves him in a whoosh of air. He wants so badly for her to be his at last, but deep down inside he knows he doesn't deserve her. Not at all. There are so many questions inside of his head. What if she won't be happy with him? What if he isn't enough? What if he hurts her? He doesn't want to hurt her again, not like before.
"No buts, Malfoy," she says promptly, in a tone that leaves no space for argument. "I know you think this is a bad idea, but I don't care. I'm happy with you, Malfoy."
"But we'll argue every day. And I'll say things I don't mean, and I'll hurt you—I don't want to do that." Draco looks away.
"It's what we do, Ma-Draco," she corrects herself. Draco feels his stomach tingle at the sound of his name rolling off her tongue. "We'll argue and we'll hurt each other, but it wouldn't be normal without that."
He realises at that exact moment, that she is determined to be with him. No matter what he says, nothing will deter her from being together with him. The thought of this has butterflies erupting in his stomach, but he represses the urge to kiss her. Sometimes, he thinks that she is too good for him. Granger—no, Hermione—takes his silence as acceptance, and continues to speak.
"As for what we should do now, Draco..."
She sighs, staring out at the ocean with a look of contentment. "We move on."
"But what if I can't?" he asks, frustrated.
"Of course you can," she says, turning to him again and taking his face between her warm hands. He unconsciously leans into her touch, but even the comfort of it cannot quell the doubts in his head.
"I have nightmares," he says breathily. "Almost every night, I see Voldemort torturing my parents, and you, as a way to get to me. He breaks me every time, and I wake up sweating. I sometimes see Fred and Tonks dying—"
"You're only human, Draco," she says, cutting him off. "Everyone has nightmares, even me. The war has taken so much from us. Are you just going to sit by, and continue to let it destroy you?"
"No." Draco exhales shakily, and repeats it again, "No."
"Then move on," she whispers, a moment before rising on her tip toes and pressing her lips to his again. This time, Draco wastes no time in kissing her fervently. Her words have sparked something in him, he realises.
He doesn't want to live his life as an empty shell. He doesn't want to let the nightmares haunt him anymore. He doesn't want to die wondering what it would have felt like to marry the girl of his dreams.
He wants to buy a small home by the seaside, and move in with her. He wants to spend the rest of his days drinking tea with her, and arguing with her about the silliest of things.
He wants to be happy, with her.
Two months later, they have moved in together into a cosy home in a small wizarding town near Wales. Draco spends his days writing stories about the adventures of a boy called Brynn, and Hermione—being the ambitious person that she is—takes up a job as an Unspeakable at the ministry, although she does most of her work from home. Draco's mother has decided to settle down in France. The last Draco heard of her was that she had met a 'wonderful' man named Robert. The wizarding world is still recovering from war, but things are moving at a fast pace, what with peace restored and Kingsley as Minister of Magic.
It is a cold day when Draco wakes up in bed. He forgets to blink away the sleep dust on his pale lashes when he rouses, for she is the first thing the sees. The morning sun bathes her in its dim light, illuminating her beauty. It brings out the different shades of russet and gold in her hair and the glow of her milky skin.
He counts the gentle spattering of freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose and memorises the way shadows play with the structure of her dainty collarbones. He traces her with his eyes, wandering from her perfect lips to the gentle rise of her nose and the thick lashes that frame her eyes. Her breathing is even, but hitches when he gently brushes a finger over the line of her jaw.
Hermione's eyes flutter open, and she yawns, blinking. Her sleepy eyes meet his, swirls of honey brown with lovely flecks of gold in them.
"Morning," she mumbles sleepily, pulling him closer by the waist. Her legs are entangled with his, and she holds on with a firm grasp, as if she is afraid that he would dissipate into the air the moment she let go.
"Go back to sleep," he whispers to her, kissing her gently on the crown of her head. She mumbles an okay, and soon enough, sleep has reclaimed her.
Sometimes, Draco finds it hard to believe that she really is there. There would be times when he would wake up in the early hours of the morning, scared that she would have left him. Only the touch of her skin would reassure him and lull him back to sleep. With her around, his nightmares have almost ceased to be, except for the occasional rare one. War has left a mark on everybody, but he believes that he will heal in time.
And so with this thought in mind, he closes his eyes and falls into slumber, perfectly content.