Chapter 8: The Destruction
Disclaimer: The next chapters are rated PG-13 because of coming violence and sex scenes – hehehe.
Thanks to Dreaming One, though I do really hate criticism. Yeah, I know, it's bad, and one is supposed to be thankful for "constructive criticism". Anyway. I'll try to improve it. And I thank you for wanting to help me, I'm sure you're right.
Kisses and of course many thanks to Amber, who's just the nicest person in the world. I LOVE compliments hehehe, but perhaps May is right. Surely, because her stories are great.
Thanks anyway and enjoy the next chapter, which will be mostly Harry's POV and will contain more *descriptions* and less *dialogues* than the previous ones, to make May happy.
Harry closed his eyes, rubbed them and then opened them. It was unbelievable.
Oh, Merlin, he thought, watching the disaster in front of her.
Obviously, Death Eaters had irrupted into their flat, because everything was upside down; the bookshelves containing Hermione's precious and beloved books had been violently thrown down, their furniture had been burned and all that was left of both the books and the pieces of furniture they had so lovingly chosen of were ashes. The wallpaper had been torn; one could see the white bricks behind the originally beige wallpaper, at some places, even the ceiling had fallen down and dust covered everything.
"Oh, Merlin." Hermione said, as if repeating his thoughts.
Harry literally jumped towards their room, frantically searching for his magical supplying. His foe-glass, his crystal ball, his broom, everything had been violently destroyed. He felt both rage and desperation grow in him, and clenched his fists to stifle back burning tears. He sat down on the ground, feeling his legs wouldn't hold him long.
With one moment, Hermione was at his side, and she too stared at the chaos. Even their bed, in which she had passed so boring nights she couldn't help being melancholic about tough, had been burned. Ashes, dust, broken pieces of wood and of metal and of bricks, everything soiled the light blue fitted carpet Harry had commanded without her agreement. It had angered her then, but now her hate for Voldemort had taken the best.
Voldemort had led it all be destroyed.
Who else could it be? No one except Voldemort and his followers hated Harry enough to do this to him. As a matter of fact, all those who didn't belong to the Dark Side adored the Boy Who Lived unconditionally. Hermione clenched her fists too, but she didn't feel the urge of crying, just of taking revenge. Her cheeks burned, and she knew she was blushing, not of shame but of fury.
She grabbed one of the last entire objects; a vase Charlie Weasley had brought from Romania and threw it on the ground. It spitted in hundreds of pieces and made a piercing sound.
Harry shot around and threw her a deadly glance.
"Do you really need to make it worse?"
"As if it wasn't the end."
Harry was furious, but he didn't have the strength of quarrelling with his wife who only followed her emotions when she was angry and didn't think of a solution. But he, he thought. He wouldn't let them squash him like a beetle. He'd fight. He'd show them who he was. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived and who was determined to go on with his precious life. Oh, he'd fight.
"Let's look for a hotel."
"At this hour of the night?"
"Have you got a better idea?"
She hadn't, but she didn't answer. Dignity was one of the few things she had still.
"Actually, yes, I have" she said suddenly. "What about asking the Weasley twins if they can accommodate us tonight?"
Harry hated asking others for favors, it offended his natural pride. He, son to Lily and James Potter, who had survived uncountable duels with Voldemort, was supposed to ask others for help? Then again, he thought a little bit of modesty would do him no bad.
"OK; OK."
Hermione didn't even smile to him, or hug him, or do anything wives usually do when their husbands grant them a wish. And that after all what he had done for her. He'd given her richness, a great job, and fame. Now, everybody knew the little mud blood Hermione Granger, who had nothing of a flirt and whom nobody would have noticed if it weren't for her excellent marks, had married the great, the famous Harry Potter.
And all this because he loved her. Because he loved her so much.
Hermione wasn't the woman of his dreams; she was pretty, but not someone exotically intoxicating like he had wished. She was smart, but somewhat ill at ease, friendly, but often egoistic and self-centered. But Harry loved her. He didn't know when exactly he had fallen in love with Hermione, but he had realized one day he loved her more than his life; and later, he had asked for her hand. Through tears and laughter, she had accepted, visibly untouched by the honor but rather by the surprise. She had first stared at him, then asked if it was a joke (laughing) then if he was just making fun of her (weakly crying, because they were surrounded by a curious mass of wizards) and then had just stared at him. Seeing he had said it seriously, she had looked around, and then she had nodded, very slowly, as if she wasn't realizing it. And then she had agreed.
The day of their marriage hadn't been the happiest day of Harry's life. He had wanted a simple, discrete wedding with their closest friends; Ron, Ginny, Fred, George, perhaps Dean, Seamus, Lavender and the Patil twins. And that was all. But Hermione had been more ambitious. She had wanted her parents, of course, and all those which she had known at school. Had she wanted to show everybody she was engaged to Harry? Or was it just feminine coquetry and the wish of bragging with her expensive bride dress? Harry had never known it, and he had not wanted to investigate. He was just happy, and nothing could harm his happiness. He was married to the woman he loved, it was peace, and there were no Voldemorts and no Malfoys to make his life a living hell.
They had rented a nice and spacious flat, and had been happy for some months. Then war had been declared, and the hell had broken out. Harry's entire heavenly life had broken into pieces around him, like a bubble, like a childish burst dream.
And now Hermione had already vanished and was certainly asking the Weasley twins for asylum, he wondered for the first time:
Did I take the right decision? Did I do the right thing asking her to marry me?
But it was just an excuse to push away the other question which had haunted his mind since he had seen Hermione come back in the middle of the night with her lips so strangely swollen. He had wondered what she had been doing, especially because her cheeks had been in fire and she hadn't wanted to talk much about her adventures. She was so reserved, so quiet, and never talked about her emotions.
Does she love me?
***
"Was that necessary? Destroy their home?" Draco asked raising a perfectly arched eyebrow.
Max Shafer rolled his gray eyes and smiled mischievously.
"Now they have nowhere to go."
"So what? They'll flee, idiot."
"Oh, no. Potter's much too proud to go away."
And Hermione? Isn't she too much in love with her life to stay bravely? Draco asked to himself. Hermione wasn't exactly altruistic, and, though she was purely good, she mostly thought about her own wealth and health, and only later about heroism and patriotism. But Hermione wasn't the one Voldemort wanted to kill of his own hands. If he had anything like this.
Drums reverberated in the huge room which was their meeting place, surely an old plane garage which the Death Eaters had let be renovated by muggle slaves. Used to the usual darkness, Draco looked around and smiled at the numerous stupid but beautiful women which were always in their meeting place to amuse them. The rare female Death Eaters had also some good-looking and sexy men to be distracted by, but today, Draco was not in the right mood to enjoy the company of the beauties. His mind was off somewhere else.
Hermione.
Was she beautiful? Was she attractive? Was it lust that gave him the urge of kissing her soft, pulpous lips? Or was it love?
He smirked.
Malfoys don't love. And Death Eaters still less. I'm both, so Granger – Potter – is just another idiot who would yield to my charms. If I wanted it.
Did he want it?
"Malfoy?"
"What?" he replied irritated. He hated it when someone interrupted his thoughts.
"We found this in the Potters' flat, and I was wondering whether…"
"Show it to me."
Max Shafer handed him a book, and Draco had to smile reading its title:
Gone with the Wind.
He laughed. He hadn't thought stuff like this could interest the bookworm Hermione. Skimming through the book, he noticed with amusement that she had even highlighted some parts, like when Rhett kissed Scarlett after their flight from the burning Atlanta. Mainly love scenes.
Granger, Granger, he thought teasingly. I wonder how bad Potter has to be in bed if you refuge yourself in love stories.
But then, something fell from the book, and Draco stared at it. It was a wand. And the others were so stupid, they hadn't even noticed it. She had used her wand to keep the page.
There she was. Defenseless. Having not even her wand to protect her. Well, there was still Potter, but Malfoy wasn't afraid of him.
Here I come, Granger, he thought. Prepare yourself for another fiery kiss.
