The walls of his flat were blue. Or, more precisely, cerulean. And terribly painted.
He stood in the rain.
He appreciated the melancholic beauty of it because it reflected the innermost depths of his soul.
Cerulean blue. Poorly administered.iHe stood in the cold rain.
Rubbish.
Draco Malfoy's cheeks puffed as he blew out his frustration and rubbed his hands through his short, silverish hair, mussing it completely. It was as if he couldn't write anything particularly eloquent and it was wearisome. Deciding to take a break, he grabbed the nearly empty pack of Viceroys and pushed back from the desk roughly, causing the chair to scrape across the chocolate hardwood flooring. As he perched himself against the jam of the French doors that were open to a small wrought iron balcony, he frowned at the dark, rumbling, tempestuous clouds above. They would open soon, and the precipitation would fall to earth, heavy and monotonous, to wash away the grime and sin of the city.
He placed the cigarette between his lips and flicked his fingers to ignite it. Whilst taking that first deep pull, he noticed the gamboge cat skittering up the fire escape to the balcony across the narrow alley. Draco had been living in the extremely small flat for two years and had only recently noticed that cat. Still, he had yet to see two things: The new tenant across the alley who owned the pet, and how said pet entered its home.
He stood in the cold London rain and let it wash away the sins of his soul.
It was staring at him pretentiously, undeviating. Its body was set lazily on the mat, softly flipping its bushy tail with unflappable fortitude. "Yes, yes, you bastard, I know you'll wait there all day if the mood strikes you. No worries. I'll go, and you can keep your secrets," said Draco bemusedly. He took a last drag and flicked the butt into the abyss of the alley. "Good day, sir! Enjoy your cream." He peeled himself off the jam and turned into the Cerulean Room. When he glanced over his shoulder a moment later, the cat had disappeared. As if it had never existed in the world at all.
The filth and transgression of his stained soul was washed away by the cold London rain.
He let a satisfied smirk cross his face and hurried to his typewriter, and he began to punch the keys with his fingertips, watching with a supreme sense of achievement as they slammed against the tape, leaving perfectly fuzzy letters across the cut parchment. The thunder drummed in the heavens, and the rain began to beat a melody upon the roof that blended against the tempo of the typewriter into a perfect song that swallowed the hours.
A disruption came later, after the storm had passed, and with the clapping of doors opening and raucous but girlish giggling. He broke immediately from his task, pinching the cigarette from his mouth and stubbing it in the over-full ashtray, confusion and curiosity bunching his brow.
He heard muffled conversation that faded into ephemeral nothingness, then a haggard crescendo that ended in a slam and more mirthful laughter.
Curiosity won over, and he leaned back on his old wooden chair, gripping the desk for purchase as the chair tipped back on two legs. He saw into a colorful room, and a large trunk that two female forms were collapsed upon, clutching themselves with silliness. One had ostentatiously flaming ginger hair, the other a chaos of burnt umber curls.
It was a Weasley. And a Granger.
His nose instinctively pulled up in a habitual sneer that he quickly relaxed into a furrowing inquisitiveness.
"Tell me again why we didn't just sodding Levitate it?" That was the Weasley girl speaking, her tones husky and rich, bordering on bawdy.
Granger rose chuckling and shrugged out of her taupe trench coat. "I told you, Mrs. Anderson in three is a Muggle and entirely nosy." She moved out of sight and Draco heard the sound of water running from the tap.
He pushed farther back on the chair, daring its agility, and strained his neck. All he caught was a fleeting glimpse of a fit derriere before gravity and physics betrayed him by slamming his body against the chocolate floor. The slats of the chair broke his fall, surely to leave lilac bruises across his spine, badges of his foolishness.
Worst yet was that from his periphery, he could see the Weasley girl guffawing ridiculously. But Granger was biting her lip, keeping her mirth at bay as she blinked those big mud eyes at him.
Draco Malfoy's discomfiture stained his cheeks persimmon.
There was a stranger in Draco's flat. Somebody who didn't quite belong. Someone who's austere robes clashed against the meager surroundings. It was obvious he didn't belong there. His large hands clutched his cane to his chest as his eyes swept the cerulean walls. He almost seemed claustrophobic, as if at any moment, the walls were going to cave in on him and he would explode. It was nearly deplorable to watch, and Draco would have surely pitied his father if the man wasn't wearing such a disdainful sneer. One that was so disgusted, Draco could only find annoyance.
"I do not understand why you have to be here rather than the Manor." Lucius drawled, reproachfully eyeing the awful seascape that hung haphazardly above the bed.
It was the same old song and dance. And every time Draco reminded his father of the reasons, stating his case with valid points and vehement arguments. Ones that wore Draco down and exhausted his emotions. With a sigh, he told his father yet again how he liked living simply, that he didn't need much, and it suited him perfectly. It was secluded, quiet, and hidden from the world. He felt peace here.
Lucius simply nodded, his mouth turned down grimly. "It's quiet at the Manor."
Awkwardness stifled the air instantly, and Draco's bridled grief threatened to break free. He rubbed his palms on his trousers, a nervous habit he had adopted over the recent years. With his lips pressed together and his argent eyes flickering everywhere except where his father was standing, Draco remained mum. There was nothing he could say to that. Not without opening old sutures and remembering things best left in the dark. Being empathetic with his father was something he couldn't seem to do. To talk about the exact reason the manor held a silent atmosphere.
They didn't have the normal father-son relationship. They'd never bonded over chats about girls whilst playing a pick-up game of Quidditch or spent evenings playing exploding snap and listening to the Wizarding Wireless Network. Anything they had connected over was distorted by dark magic and Voldemort's influence over Lucius. A dogma that Draco had successfully stripped himself of over the years, Lucius still refused to let go of it. If anything, he clung to it more. As if it was the only foundation he could find sturdy purchase upon.
Of course, there had been a time when Draco had strived to earn Lucius' approval and worked hard to follow in his footsteps. Part of him still wanted his father to accept him, and often he found himself seeking it, although he could not figure out exactly why he desired it. It was futile though, for Lucius didn't approve of anything Draco had decided to do in his life. He thought his son misguided, lost, and was constantly trying to beckon him back home. Both figuratively and literally.
Draco supposed loneliness and grief did that to a wizard. Lucius hid his desperation well, behind a mask of indifference and stoicism. Draco supposed that was about as similar as they could be. However, they both had different reasons and motivations. Draco knew his, but still didn't understand his father's.
Lucius coughed. "That office is still vacant if you'd like to come back to work. Perhaps you could afford something more…" With a sour expression, he gestured airily to indicate the flat. "Luxurious."
"No. This is just fine. And I can afford it on my annuity from Mum." As soon as the word slipped from his lips, he winced, instantly regretting it. When he peeked at his father, he found Lucius' face drawn, his brows knitted together, his mouth in a mournful frown and his eyes dull with sadness. Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I—"
"No, no. It's quite clear. You don't need anything." He withdrew his pocket watch and flicked it open. "I should be going anyway."
Draco stood and tentatively reached out to comfort his father, but hesitated. "I'm sorry."
Lucius' lips thinned, and with a lingering glance, he nodded before he Apparated away.
Draco growled in frustration. He was so stupid. Of course, he didn't appreciate his father belittling his lifestyle, but he didn't like seeing the pain of grief in his father's eyes either. It was like a mirror. And Draco preferred to avoid mirrors of the soul.
He kicked at his desk chair to emphasize his aggravation, grabbed the pack of Viceroys, and wrenched open the balcony door .
To his surprise, he saw Harry Potter standing inside Granger's flat, his robes and hair soaking wet. He was explaining something frantically to Granger as she sat upon her kitchen table. The way Potter's hands were gesturing to his chest, hectically, and with great conviction, it was easy to decipher that whatever Potter's dilemma was, it was one that crushed the heart. Then quite exhaustedly, the wizard crumpled into the proffered chair, his head collapsing into his hands.
Draco felt no pity. For his woes far outweighed anything the Boy Hero could ever worry over. But Draco did feel a pang of jealousy as Granger slid from her perch and in a very sisterly way, pushed her hand soothingly through Potter's hair before wrapping her thin arms around his shoulders.
It was at that moment that Draco missed companionship, comfort, and the sympathy of someone who understood.
Out of courtesy, he slunk back into the Cerulean Room, and closed his balcony door, giving Potter some privacy.
She was calling in his dreams. Not to him exactly, but to someone, something. The lost. The missing.
He stirred, not really wanting to awaken, but interested all the same. A warm body was snuggled against his torso. Soft, warm curves scented with flowers and the musk of sex.
Carefully, he unwrapped her arm from his waist and laid it tenderly upon the mattress, his lids heavy with somnolence, his body sluggish with lethargy.
Clumsily he sat up, blinking as he gazed around his Cerulean Room. Everything was cloaked in dreary grey and the kind of chill that caused one to snuggle deeper into the down comforter and wrap around a willing and pliant form. A door to the balcony was ajar, letting in the quiet spring morning. The patter of moisture accompanied the cool air and laziness, forecasting a day for getting nothing accomplished. To him, it was the perfect weather for writing.
He rubbed his face, smoothing out the drowsiness, and then he stretched, curling out his wrists above his shoulders and pushing his chest out. He yawned.
There was movement beside him, and he glanced down at the woman in his bed. Her face was hidden by her wheat colored hair, but he knew she slept on.
"Crookshanks," sang a lovely voice, but it filled his room in worry and trepidation.
There was an eerie pause that hummed in his ears; the tacit peacefulness was deafening and he suddenly wanted to do something. It was almost as if he felt foolish just sitting there while something precious and important was lost. He didn't know why it mattered. It wasn't his business nor his responsibility, but all that was irrelevant. He realized that it was probably too early to rise for the day, but for the first time, he had a reason. He wanted to be useful. Somehow.
Hurriedly, he crossed the icy floor to his chest of drawers and withdrew some flannel pajama bottoms and a cotton vest, donning them quickly before padding to the French doors as he rubbed his bare arms to stimulate warmth. As he reached the ajar door, hesitation paused his hand. There was a lumping panic in his throat, burning a coil in his apprehensive gut. It came so quickly, as if waking abruptly from a dream. Reality engulfed him and it was raw and striking—reality was that she didn't like him. That he didn't like her. She didn't deserve his assistance. Though, try as he might, he couldn't let reality take from his interest in the scene before him. He wanted to see, to know. He wanted to watch.
"Oh, Crooks. C'mon cat," the voice pleaded sweetly.
He pushed the sheer magnolia curtain from the pane and peered through it, his lips parted with intrigue at what he found.
Hermione Granger stood on her balcony amidst the misty drizzle, covered in a plum, satin night gown that reached mid-thigh and ragged puce dressing gown. Her feet were bare, and her hair was fastened at her nape but rested on her shoulder. In her hand she held a china saucer. Her brown eyes were large, searching the narrow alley. She tutted that universal sound that all felines seemed respondent to, but it was futile. The alley remained empty, soulless.
She sucked in her plump bottom lip, releasing it slowly, her teeth grazing the supple flesh.
"Crooks. Here cat. Here." When her watchfulness found nothing, she brought her tiny hand to her mouth, pressing it with signature worry, before letting it fall, her fingertips ghosting her chin, her neck, and then settling on her collarbone. It was like watching water drip from a leaf; slow, careful, and captivating.
"Crookshanks." Her voice was sing-song. Echoing off the alley's structures, filling the early London morning with a haunting yearning. "Come home."
A foreign emotion began to rise in his chest, constricting his soul and making him ache. He couldn't understand it, couldn't recall ever experiencing such intensity. The Cerulean Room faded until all he could see was her face. Her cheeks were rosy from the chill and eyes glittering with light and anticipation.
He just couldn't look away; he was entranced, beguiled, bewitched, and it birthed a need deep within to call out to her, to comfort her. To find that blasted cat so he could witness the coming of her smile.
Then from his periphery he saw a flash of marmalade, and instinctively his eyes darted to it. The large cat was sweeping up the wrought iron staircase, its tail straight, eager.
"Oh ho ho," she said, but it was more of a throaty laughter, happy and loving. She swooped to set the saucer down, and to Draco's surprise, the cat completely ignored it in lieu of receiving loving nuzzles and scratches from his beloved human. "There is my handsome boy. Where have you been?" she asked as she rubbed behind his ears, before she kissed his face and clutched his body to her chest for a relieved snuggle.
It was quite a moment to witness, and even more amazing was the bond between them. It transcended the standard of pet and owner. It was a friendship. A special relationship full of loyalty and adoration.
It made Draco wish he had someone to miss him when he was gone, a special person to welcome him home.
Glancing over his shoulder at the woman in his bed, he felt an astounding wrongness. It was heavy and cold, colored sloppily with cerulean and many shades of grey.
A.N.: I would like to thank Floorcoaster and Inadaze22 for your encouragement and cheerleading to bring me back to the wonderful world of fanfiction. A special shout out to K Writes Dramione for the beautiful graphic and for Floor for the excellent beta.
Playlist:
Feeling Whitney– Post Malone
Hysteria - Def Leppard
Like A Stone - Audioslave
Existentialism on Prom Night - Straylight Run
Redbone - Childish Gambino
Can't Take My Eyes off You - Craymer & Aiivawn
Sunday Best - Surfaces
This Feeling - Alabama Shakes
Iris - Goo Goo Dolls
People are Strange - The Doors
The Sweetness - Jimmy Eat World
