Read Me -
Disclamer: These characters (the lovely Hermione and the devilishly good
looking Draco) do not belong to me, but the ingenius J. K. Rowlings and
persistant Warner Brothers Company, only because WB will sue me (for the
love of the moon goddess Selene, the sue "innocent" children) for not
insisting this disclaimer is placed, informing everybody (who already knows
Harry Potter is a trademark of Warner Brothers), that HP certainly does.
Even though the real owner of this book series belongs to the true
sorceress of words J.K Rowlings. But all the other crappy stuff belongs to
me! Enjoy and don't sue.
Chapter Six- To Our End
The manor was a silent creature, void of the warm laughter that once found shelter from the rain. Kindred souls, of both Hermione and Draco, would still ignore the bleeding of their hearts, due to the fact of pride. Foolish pride. As Draco shadows away in the age old drink-till-you-drop facade, the other maiden that holds his heart into her hands had began to pack, ignoring the stirring refusals of leaving the place from the butler and the young mistress of the manor.
Hermione's POV-
"You can't leave, Hermione. You just can't. Draco would be lost without (A/N: Oh boy, here comes cliche-land. Look at the bouncing bunny. Squee.) you. He loves you."
He loves you. It held out so many expectations, so many doors of pleasure, to my ears. However I knew it wasn't true. I held no claim to his heart; I didn't consume his soul as I should, as the women he loved should. At times, I would have settled for the partial affection he had for me. Virginia, he loved this one treasure . . . and I was not this girl.
"Ellie, sweet Ellie. Your brother has no affection for me. I am no more than some girl he thinks would make an excellent wife. Draco loves another. I can't stand between a man and his passion; no matter how desperately I wish Fate had not tinkered with my heart. Please respect what's best. You are an extremely wonderful, talented girl, who will one day claim some man's heart and soul, completely. Then you'll know the power of rejection. Hopefully you will not feel the tugging of that particular emotion. Dear Lord, girl, I found that I love you as well, as a sister I had no pleasure in having. Please say you won't forget me. I may be leaving, but memories will sustain us, won't they?"
"No, they won't. Hermione, you are too stupid to see what's in front of you! My brother, that idiot, is too blind to get what he desires. Hell! Am I the only resonable person here? I hope you're happy."
With this, the vicious girl stormed out of the room, out of Hermione Granger's life. This was not how I expected to say farewell. Seeing that I could not bade adieu to the only sister I've known, I chased her out of the doors, into the garden outback. The sun has set, inviting the moon and her blanket of velvet azure into the canvas above, dimming the lantern of the world into the pearly glint of the moon.
In the distance the hue of silvery blonde stood out faraway, which I assumed to be Elle.
"Elizabeth Malfoy, stop scaring the wits (A/N: Now you say, "Who the hell says 'wits' anymore?" Then I respond, "The freak who wrote this story." Afterwards you say, "Ohhh.") out of me. Please, Elle, come back. It's dark, and you don't want to get lost. What will your brother say when you come up missing. Probably eaten by a werewolf. Or some frightful, blood- lust vampire. Or maybe worse, flying Bob Barkers? (A/N: Okay, I might have been a little . . . hyper and disfuntional when I wrote this, but who's not hyper and disfunctional all the time?) ELLIE!!!"
The night encased the dimming light, as all was seen in the forest was the olive green branches and the exotic mysteries of the forest. With this, I knew that I had gotten myself lost, and Ellie was secure and comfortable in the warmth of the Manor. Screwed-up rabbit. Tricks are for kids.
Silently, I enveloped myself in a tiny ball, hiding underneath the security of a branch, waiting for something. For the one who I had unrequited love for to rescue me like the prince in every fairy tale.
"Draco . . ."
Draco's POV -
"Draco . . ."
One familiar whisper of the wind had drawn my attention. Yet I knew it was the illusion of the trees. In the basking of the night, I, a drunk Malfoy, not the least bit sober, wandered into the forest, to escape to the place where my childhood days centered: atop a grassy cliff, overlooking the best view of the Draconis Forest, where the sun and the moon would share a caste kiss and create such a sight that would blind a corrupted man into one with values.
Unfortunately, my father had no knowledge of this place, so he died the same evil, corrupted Death Eater under Voldemort's reign. Foolish idiot.
Where this private spot had calmed the nerves that sent me to mental suicide more times than one. Where I can find a recollection of the pain one woman had caused me during these past few days. Hermione. Hermione. I could have given you the jewels of the sun, the pearls of the moon, and the heart of the sea. All the treasures to sustain a maiden for eternity. Is this what you want, material aspects of human hands? Would that satisfy you enough to spend life until death with me?
If so, love would no longer matter, as long as you stay by my side. Forever mine, where no man would take you as I would, neither I taking another woman for you are the only one whom I love. Was sexual pleasure that only taste of Draco Malfoy you needed? If so, I would give you an eternity of endless nights, lovemaking until your breath can no longer take the blinding light . . . what will it take for one to love a Malfoy?
"Draco . . . "
There it whispers again, my name, like some deep longing from the soul, as if I would indeed be needed with such depth in the regions of the heart. Bewitched by the siren calling my name, I followed the sound, until I halted deep in my tracks.
Such a vision, a sight, of the celestial. There, lying with the pearls of the moon staining her porcelain face, was Hermione Granger, clad in only a thin, virginal white gown . . . calling to me. Only me, once I'm through with her.
With the resistance upon the forest, a shower of rain fell gracefully upon us, drenching all who it touches. So with this, I gathered the small wood nymph (sp?) in my arms, in search of shelter from the rain. If any romantic fool would observe this scene, they would gasp and sigh in wishful thinking, for the flaxen locks curled around his head and the possessive grasp around his bundle had made Draco Malfoy into the persona of some Lancelot, Rhett Butler (From Gone with the Wind), and every other heroic male fantasy that might have infatuated a woman's dreams.
The only thought in his mind was to be the only one to infatuate this certain goddess's heart. With seduction. With wealth. If love cannot win her heart, then maybe material items can. Anything to possess her affections and gain full control of her heart. Before mine shatters.
***
The morning after, merely moments after the sun made its daily debut, causing a butterscotch glaze over all inferior to it, insouciant and pure to the sins of mortals, especially causing the flesh of Hermione Granger to appear more radiantly earthy, like the Venus de Milo in colored tints.
A scent, unlike any other female creature known to me, a devilish rouge whose lain with women, barmaids and high-class daughters of society alike with their cheap reek of perfume, drew my consciousness into awakening. It was too entirely intoxicating that all I could desire was to envelope myself into her scent and die in such a content state. Never before in my meaningless existence had I felt jovial, which shouldn't be abnormal if one had lived in the shoes of an abused little boy who starved emotionally for a single praise from his father, a toper. Only sarcastic skepticism as if he was a retard who needed to be inculcated many times with violence. With such abuse, that little boy's heart entered oblivion to never return. All I wanted was an embrace, was to find that one who would express some affection, enough to remind me every morning that I could, I should wake to the morning sun and not find hatred towards myself.
That I, indeed, deserved ... love.
Hermione. Even her name was temptation on the tongue. In her arms, at this point in time and space, it was as if I had no return once finding paradise, a nirvana within a woman. Of course, who would desire to return to endless misery and solitary? She was my salvation, a requisite in my humanity, the reason I learn to breathe. And it was now that I realized I truly, deeply, madly love her, despite my imperfections as a human with no emotion, as a man to his family, as a son to his father. She was like a glistening oasis in my desert, the only chaste aspect that didn't spell death or oblivion. I could not live without her, yet I needed more than this unrequited love. I needed her to whisper in the early hours of the morning, in the bed we share as husband and wife, that she needed me as well, loved me, and will remain mine eternally.
That never again will I sleep alone, in the riches of material life, and die amongst my greed as a bitter old man.
There was passion. At first, I thought I could slate the hunger of the skin amongst the bed, that insatiable feeling of pleasure when I sing into her warmth, whimpers and moans apparent on her lips. However, lovemaking only fed to this undoused flame, never tiring of her body, causing an addiction that caused me to yearn more. More.
There was love, great amounts that drowned me in emotion. I needed her protection from the hates and evils of the world, so she can maintain her chastity that is entirely her own. I needed her heart, almost demanding it for his was in her possession, a vulnerable cause indeed. Paucity in my love for her is nonexistent because it was if I could love her forever, and continue to love no less than I do now. 'Till we are old and gray, hair fallen and skin no longer taut from youth. Yet I will still think you the most beautiful woman ever lived.
"If only you knew, my love. If only you could except it. Except the only thing I can offer you. Love."
Never did I realize that my deepest confessions, the most sacred to my heart, was said out loud, in the presence of a very alert Hermione who held the facade of a sleeping seraph for what reason we do not know.
After relishing the last hours of paradise in this antediluvian world where time is no longer, where embracing, flesh upon flesh, was not a sin, I was free to love for the first and last hours of my life. And then I brought her, carried her still figure, sleeping with the most celestial grin upon her face, through the foliage of my Mediterranean terrain, and into the imprisonment of her room, laying her in the comforts of the bed. Already, I wept at the loss of her warmth.
Then my feet carried me to the one of the few places where I can find peace: in front of my dead grandmother's portrait as a young maiden, blossoming in love with the hard steel cage called my grandfather. For this, I think that's why Lucas Malfoy fell for the lower-class chambermaid; she was his salvation, as Hermione is mine, and seen through the eyes of another debonair Malfoy, his soul mate.
The lighting was dim, for it was early morn, yet I could still notice every curve and dimple present on her face, maybe I merely memorized her. Such a gracious person as Laine Malfoy had spoken words that a young Draco could never comprehend, even at this age, I could not understand the meaning of her infamous advice.
"My dear boy, you will never live a fulfilled life until you've loved and felt love in return. At that moment, you will find the meaning of live, why humans continue to live even when their souls demands rest. Love is an ever-powerful thing."
Love. Where can I find my peace, an end to my suffering? If I could find this peace, will she allow me to savor for a bit longer, enough to live without her being? Even a memory would do. But did I want just a memory? How about forever?
It was then I realize that behind the rage and insanity, I was hurt from her words, from her confessions, and from the truth. For a man-boy who lived a life where a single embrace would send him in a fit of joy, where death and deception was told instead of fairy tales, life with her was heaven. Then to hear that denial of love, it could never have pained me more than to witness death to the highest degree.
The unexpected occurred. A glistening tear made a trail of hurt through my flaxen cheekbone, clumsily causing a pool to appear on my chin, and then found end when it fell to its depths on my shirt. It hurt so much, the rejection, the loss.
"Draco . . . "
I, tear-eyed and exhausted, turned to find a Hermione Granger, next to tears, clutching her nightgown with such power, I thought it would have torn in her hands.
H.G. POV -
"Draco . . . "
I could not comprehend the urge, that desire that drives us to impulses leading to life and death, the line between the demented and the living. I had dared pass this partisan line because of Draco Malfoy, a man who at this moment, looked at a portrait of an anonymous, mortal goddess on her canvas, with such intensity and great love apparent in his molten eyes, it nearly brought me to my knees in wistful envy.
Here was a man who loved a woman with undying devotion, despite death or otherwise, with passion and zest, someone who loved beyond human bounds, and this was why my heart belonged to him.
This must be Virginia, the woman who owned his entire being: body, mind, and soul.
Though my presence was made, stock-still, Draco would not attempt movement, as if he could not, and surely his passion-brimmed eyes, undoused with tears, would not fair well, for I would have given myself fully for a single glance that he held for her.
(A/N: Why do I write this crap? Oh, I'm not disturbing your reading am I? Well, sor-ray!)
Like an antediluvian stone statue under the debris of time and elemental abuse, his character was still, wounded, yet unfaulting. He would have been renamed as such if not for his slight eye movements.
Then I questioned the obvious, knowing the truth, yet not excepting for my own sanity.
"You loved her, didn't you?"
What compelled me to become stupidity in human form, I could not grasp why, all that could make me as nearest to regretful contentment was his amorous proclamation, so that hope can retreat from the crevices of my heart, to watch with eyes enviously at a man who'd never love me. As a man loves a woman, as a soul mate adores his other pair.
"Yes, she taught me how to love when I knew I could never. Her presence was the only salvation I knew then. When she passed away, it was as if I failed twice in finding that other human that could show affection from another human, a single touch was all I yearned for."
Despite a brief hesitancy in his voice, it remained solid, unwithering. Another reason why my love for him grew deeper, roots in such depth, there was no escape.
"Father, I failed with him as well. Never could I be good enough for him. I could never . . . make him happy."
It was then, for the first time in his years as an overbearing pillar, he collapsed, as all things do with age and abuse, battered without strength, his back against the dim tope wall; hands mused in fists with such agonizing anguish.
"Why couldn't I be good enough?"
His tears compelled me to reach by his side, capturing him in a tight embrace, in some foolish attempt to relief the pains of his past. I tilted my head to plant a comforting, chaste kiss, neither passionate, but a paucity of love that I endure for him, on his right temple; my tears and his mingling into a solitary tear, a diamond of choleric fathers and the travails that a mere mortal cannot endure, to his lips, bitter.
"You are. You are." A constant mantra I repeated in his ear. If only he could see what I saw . . .
"Yet I wasn't enough for you. You said that night we shared had not mattered to you, that intimate bond between man and woman was nothing for you. But unless you experienced endless nights wishing for nothing more than the touch of another human being, a loveless family. Unless, you've never been the object of mockery after you've tried with all your being to achieve the impossible. Until you've been through that, never show a plaint or denial of your happiness in this house, for that night, for the many days and nights you lived among my residence, it was heaven. So please, don't."
He was pleading, begging with no pride or some justice to himself, like the vulnerable toddler, his fetal position showed such childish abandon, and I merely comforted him until his disheveled appearance remained, but that look of pained horror no longer inhabited his face. Till his self-conscious could not bear the weight of his physical despair, he fled to the Land of Nod. And I continued to rock him back and forth to the end of his short, whimpering breaths.
"You are more than I can deserve."
The only thought I could maintain before drifting into slumber was of the martyr enveloped in my arms, and if only he could find some peace in his ill-fated life.
***
The sun, warm on my face, had been my alarm to escape the dreary comfort of sleep. Tinted shapes, painted from the gothic glass windows that created the promise of coveted escape from this doll house, disfigured my coloring and caused me to wake in an irritable mood.
Then to my constant surprise and disdain, Draco was no where to be found; his slumbering heap not present in the binds of my arms.
Frantically, I, almost desperately, called out for his name, some evidence of his existence, that this tragic pipe dream was not the cause of slumber, that Draco Malfoy was not a name, not a person, that all wasn't reality. I was Psyche, originated from the love stories of Greek Mythology, imprisoned in the House of Eros, searching for her beloved with such romantic travail, and then to be banished into her consequence after a brief, sweet glance from Eros, remorsefully in search with endless limitations for him. It was if I was she, and Draco was my Eros, the pillar of strength in which I lean towards.
My search had come to a close at the prime of a grand stairway, steps escalading to the bottom, where he stood with an expression of one deep in though, who pondered as thoroughly as one who would occupy the supremacy of Athens, enthralled in the unknown beauty found through intelligence. It was an incomprehensible look upon his face, wry pursued, and then that righteous gaze found my silent figure.
Eyes that showed nonsensical concupiscence engraved in those lucid, cat-like orbs; adulation, obsession, and the regretful tale of sorrow, glazed by softness, giving birth to a man who convey such a smoldering gaze like he witnessed the debut of his goddess for the very first moment, awed at her majestic beauty of within, but still it contained an eternity of memories to age the love to even a sweeter thing.
I began to speak.
"Draco, I--"
"Come with me from Lebanon, my bride, Come with me from Lebanon."
His voice, a dictatorial echo amongst the silence, speaking of a passion he known for me.
"Descend from the crest of Amana, From the top of Senir, The summit of Hermom, From the lion's dens, And the mountain haunts of the leopards."
It was as if I had bore an instinct to draw myself towards him, confused, yes, but enthralled, taking plight steps to the man I grown to adore, respect with ardor, and love beyond the limitations of a woman. Who could not be drawn to a flame, despite containing the knowledge of a suicidal death, of the scalding in which the flame causes, and the burning in which envelopes one into submission?
Once I was mere inches away from his glorious being, when I forced my eyes to pair with his, I gasped in utter shock over the power of his transparent gaze. Emotions had taken haven in his orbs, reflecting the intensity of concupiscence, of the alacrity in love making, in the pain and suffering, the deadly game of possession, the endless mornings in where he would be the solitary person in his life, and to the end of his nights where he would nearly weep out of this enduring suffering, this death with no content end. Finally, the wolf has shed his sheep's clothing.
"How beautiful you are, my darling! Oh, how beautiful!"
Then a positively carnal expression had taken over the sentimentality that shown in his eyes, it was this devouring of his eyes on his prey, like consuming paradise where paradise cannot be consumed. Approaching, Draco came so entirely close, to the point I did not know where my body's length had ended and his begun. We were one, the distance no longer, and when he drew his hand to brush against my half-closed eyelids, for it was all I could have done to not cry in desperation and devotion, I knew at that moment there would never be two individuals between us, no separation, nothing but this unity between mortals.
"Your eyes behind your veil are doves. Each has it's twin; Not one of them alone."
Fingers traced the enticing curve of my lips, neither making immediate contact on my skin, yet so intimately near, it was as if blind men were trying to recover my apperance, memorizing every curve of my face. The sensation of his insouciant seduction caused a shiver throughout my body. There was no man who could cherish a woman more than he. No other could linger, stray on my skin, telling a tale of longing.
"Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon, Your mouth lovely."
"Your temples behind your veil are like the halves of a pomegranate."
To Solomon's infamous love story, I felt a heated exposure on one side of my temple, as if it was trying to find the certain taste I possessed, and in satisfaction, defiled the untainted skin, the halves of a pomegranate, and caused it to whimper from the absence of his presence, almost to reply an almost desperate request for that rouge tongue.
His Pyrrhic victory on the battlefield on my skin, continued over the elegant tower, her ivory neck calling wanton pleads for his touch. That he did, gracing it with lazy circles, soon replaced by his nose and lips, nuzzling for her affection, approval, anything to prove her satisfaction, and the brief brush of his textured lips on the joint in which the neck and shoulder meet as one, barely whispering of its shadow. He was painting on nature's canvas, perfecting a creation until it was called his own. With a final nuzzle of his aristocratic nose, his hands continued his sensuous expedition over the hills of his beloved, nearly drowning in the river in which lies in between the mountain of beauteous, feminine glory (her boobs, stupid! opps, sorry for destroying the poetic romance.).
"Your neck is like the tower of David, Built with elegance, On it hand a thousand shields, All of them shields of warriors."
"Your two breasts are like two fawns, Like twin fawns of a gazelle that browse among the lilies."
Indiscreetly, as if morality was no more but the thing of a distant past, the mountains were trekked by the traveling hand, or rather lone finger who discovered nirvana in nature's amble curves, courageous beyond compare, or righteous to the most demented sense, journeys the valley of nightly pleasure and the nectar of morn. Enriched by the beauty, yet it does not join festivities to annihilate with lecherous greed. No, there was intimacy, touches that remained indefinably tender as if the beholder of such valleys were of glass herself.
"Until the day breaks and the shadows flee. I will go to the mountain of myrrh and to the hill of incense."
"All beautiful you are, my darling; There is no flaw in you."
Hands that held calluses which could not be the possession of a worldly aristocrat ensnared mine. The febrile sensation that coursed my body, it was the heat, warmth surpassing the cold homage, the security that could never stand against the emotion and triumph of passion and love. Gentle coaxing by his fingers directed the ensnared embrace to the location of his heart, as if a heart as his could only be tamed by my own living flesh.
"You have stolen my heart, my sister, my bride; You have stolen my heart, with one glance of your eyes, With one jewel of your necklace.
A silent climax surpassed us, with one glance of his eyes, no longer was the ambiance of tension and the awkwardness of lost words, but of comfort, the lasting serenity in a forlorn tragedy which to end, and for the birth of our forever. From the embrace of the hands, then too, he drew me in his arms, and hands were still locked, desiring the presence of each other eagerly.
"How delightful is your love, my sister, than wine; And the fragrance of your perfume than any spice!"
Coaxing, enticing with mimicking words of his tongue, a kiss was not merely a kiss with the man before me. I was resurrected, brought to my rebirth by this union, such a blessed one it is. And yes, Lord, milk and honey was under his tongue, the sweetness of his love could not compare to any ambrosia conjured. If lips could make love than ours . . .
"Your lips drop sweetness as the honeycomb, my bride; Milk and honey are under your tongue."
To the response of his act of profound devotion, affection, and depth, all I could utter was,
"The Song of Solomon."
"Yes, well, no other wizard, muggle, or otherwise, had the depth of Solomon's love poetry. If any other deserved such poetry, it would be you. Darling, you could never realize how much I love you."
I was to respond with something, anything, but the hush of his finger impugned.
"I don't want to fail again. I can't. I won't. I need your happiness to sustain mine. Man has his limitations, and you are mine. I love you. I'd die for you. I cherish you. I could not possibily continue living without you, and if I did live, I would be breathing, but not alive. Darling, you are my everything, and to see how completely dependent on you I am, it is by far the most hilarious and wonderful thing in the world to be yours."
Yours. Mine.
Absent for words to express the blithe hilarity, I myself drank the romantical wine of poetry, reciting the end in which he began our copious love affair.
"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth -- For your love is more delightful than wine. Pleasing is the fragrance of your perfume; Your name is perfume poured out. No wonder the maidens love you! Take me away with you-- Let us hurry. Let the king bring me into his chambers."
And that, he did. The king brought me to his chambers, his name, like perfume poured out.
Draco Malfoy.
His love more delightful than wine. For then, I could spend lifetimes a toper of this wine, drowning in what could be my "no return."
I could never be more content.
THE END.
Chapter Six- To Our End
The manor was a silent creature, void of the warm laughter that once found shelter from the rain. Kindred souls, of both Hermione and Draco, would still ignore the bleeding of their hearts, due to the fact of pride. Foolish pride. As Draco shadows away in the age old drink-till-you-drop facade, the other maiden that holds his heart into her hands had began to pack, ignoring the stirring refusals of leaving the place from the butler and the young mistress of the manor.
Hermione's POV-
"You can't leave, Hermione. You just can't. Draco would be lost without (A/N: Oh boy, here comes cliche-land. Look at the bouncing bunny. Squee.) you. He loves you."
He loves you. It held out so many expectations, so many doors of pleasure, to my ears. However I knew it wasn't true. I held no claim to his heart; I didn't consume his soul as I should, as the women he loved should. At times, I would have settled for the partial affection he had for me. Virginia, he loved this one treasure . . . and I was not this girl.
"Ellie, sweet Ellie. Your brother has no affection for me. I am no more than some girl he thinks would make an excellent wife. Draco loves another. I can't stand between a man and his passion; no matter how desperately I wish Fate had not tinkered with my heart. Please respect what's best. You are an extremely wonderful, talented girl, who will one day claim some man's heart and soul, completely. Then you'll know the power of rejection. Hopefully you will not feel the tugging of that particular emotion. Dear Lord, girl, I found that I love you as well, as a sister I had no pleasure in having. Please say you won't forget me. I may be leaving, but memories will sustain us, won't they?"
"No, they won't. Hermione, you are too stupid to see what's in front of you! My brother, that idiot, is too blind to get what he desires. Hell! Am I the only resonable person here? I hope you're happy."
With this, the vicious girl stormed out of the room, out of Hermione Granger's life. This was not how I expected to say farewell. Seeing that I could not bade adieu to the only sister I've known, I chased her out of the doors, into the garden outback. The sun has set, inviting the moon and her blanket of velvet azure into the canvas above, dimming the lantern of the world into the pearly glint of the moon.
In the distance the hue of silvery blonde stood out faraway, which I assumed to be Elle.
"Elizabeth Malfoy, stop scaring the wits (A/N: Now you say, "Who the hell says 'wits' anymore?" Then I respond, "The freak who wrote this story." Afterwards you say, "Ohhh.") out of me. Please, Elle, come back. It's dark, and you don't want to get lost. What will your brother say when you come up missing. Probably eaten by a werewolf. Or some frightful, blood- lust vampire. Or maybe worse, flying Bob Barkers? (A/N: Okay, I might have been a little . . . hyper and disfuntional when I wrote this, but who's not hyper and disfunctional all the time?) ELLIE!!!"
The night encased the dimming light, as all was seen in the forest was the olive green branches and the exotic mysteries of the forest. With this, I knew that I had gotten myself lost, and Ellie was secure and comfortable in the warmth of the Manor. Screwed-up rabbit. Tricks are for kids.
Silently, I enveloped myself in a tiny ball, hiding underneath the security of a branch, waiting for something. For the one who I had unrequited love for to rescue me like the prince in every fairy tale.
"Draco . . ."
Draco's POV -
"Draco . . ."
One familiar whisper of the wind had drawn my attention. Yet I knew it was the illusion of the trees. In the basking of the night, I, a drunk Malfoy, not the least bit sober, wandered into the forest, to escape to the place where my childhood days centered: atop a grassy cliff, overlooking the best view of the Draconis Forest, where the sun and the moon would share a caste kiss and create such a sight that would blind a corrupted man into one with values.
Unfortunately, my father had no knowledge of this place, so he died the same evil, corrupted Death Eater under Voldemort's reign. Foolish idiot.
Where this private spot had calmed the nerves that sent me to mental suicide more times than one. Where I can find a recollection of the pain one woman had caused me during these past few days. Hermione. Hermione. I could have given you the jewels of the sun, the pearls of the moon, and the heart of the sea. All the treasures to sustain a maiden for eternity. Is this what you want, material aspects of human hands? Would that satisfy you enough to spend life until death with me?
If so, love would no longer matter, as long as you stay by my side. Forever mine, where no man would take you as I would, neither I taking another woman for you are the only one whom I love. Was sexual pleasure that only taste of Draco Malfoy you needed? If so, I would give you an eternity of endless nights, lovemaking until your breath can no longer take the blinding light . . . what will it take for one to love a Malfoy?
"Draco . . . "
There it whispers again, my name, like some deep longing from the soul, as if I would indeed be needed with such depth in the regions of the heart. Bewitched by the siren calling my name, I followed the sound, until I halted deep in my tracks.
Such a vision, a sight, of the celestial. There, lying with the pearls of the moon staining her porcelain face, was Hermione Granger, clad in only a thin, virginal white gown . . . calling to me. Only me, once I'm through with her.
With the resistance upon the forest, a shower of rain fell gracefully upon us, drenching all who it touches. So with this, I gathered the small wood nymph (sp?) in my arms, in search of shelter from the rain. If any romantic fool would observe this scene, they would gasp and sigh in wishful thinking, for the flaxen locks curled around his head and the possessive grasp around his bundle had made Draco Malfoy into the persona of some Lancelot, Rhett Butler (From Gone with the Wind), and every other heroic male fantasy that might have infatuated a woman's dreams.
The only thought in his mind was to be the only one to infatuate this certain goddess's heart. With seduction. With wealth. If love cannot win her heart, then maybe material items can. Anything to possess her affections and gain full control of her heart. Before mine shatters.
***
The morning after, merely moments after the sun made its daily debut, causing a butterscotch glaze over all inferior to it, insouciant and pure to the sins of mortals, especially causing the flesh of Hermione Granger to appear more radiantly earthy, like the Venus de Milo in colored tints.
A scent, unlike any other female creature known to me, a devilish rouge whose lain with women, barmaids and high-class daughters of society alike with their cheap reek of perfume, drew my consciousness into awakening. It was too entirely intoxicating that all I could desire was to envelope myself into her scent and die in such a content state. Never before in my meaningless existence had I felt jovial, which shouldn't be abnormal if one had lived in the shoes of an abused little boy who starved emotionally for a single praise from his father, a toper. Only sarcastic skepticism as if he was a retard who needed to be inculcated many times with violence. With such abuse, that little boy's heart entered oblivion to never return. All I wanted was an embrace, was to find that one who would express some affection, enough to remind me every morning that I could, I should wake to the morning sun and not find hatred towards myself.
That I, indeed, deserved ... love.
Hermione. Even her name was temptation on the tongue. In her arms, at this point in time and space, it was as if I had no return once finding paradise, a nirvana within a woman. Of course, who would desire to return to endless misery and solitary? She was my salvation, a requisite in my humanity, the reason I learn to breathe. And it was now that I realized I truly, deeply, madly love her, despite my imperfections as a human with no emotion, as a man to his family, as a son to his father. She was like a glistening oasis in my desert, the only chaste aspect that didn't spell death or oblivion. I could not live without her, yet I needed more than this unrequited love. I needed her to whisper in the early hours of the morning, in the bed we share as husband and wife, that she needed me as well, loved me, and will remain mine eternally.
That never again will I sleep alone, in the riches of material life, and die amongst my greed as a bitter old man.
There was passion. At first, I thought I could slate the hunger of the skin amongst the bed, that insatiable feeling of pleasure when I sing into her warmth, whimpers and moans apparent on her lips. However, lovemaking only fed to this undoused flame, never tiring of her body, causing an addiction that caused me to yearn more. More.
There was love, great amounts that drowned me in emotion. I needed her protection from the hates and evils of the world, so she can maintain her chastity that is entirely her own. I needed her heart, almost demanding it for his was in her possession, a vulnerable cause indeed. Paucity in my love for her is nonexistent because it was if I could love her forever, and continue to love no less than I do now. 'Till we are old and gray, hair fallen and skin no longer taut from youth. Yet I will still think you the most beautiful woman ever lived.
"If only you knew, my love. If only you could except it. Except the only thing I can offer you. Love."
Never did I realize that my deepest confessions, the most sacred to my heart, was said out loud, in the presence of a very alert Hermione who held the facade of a sleeping seraph for what reason we do not know.
After relishing the last hours of paradise in this antediluvian world where time is no longer, where embracing, flesh upon flesh, was not a sin, I was free to love for the first and last hours of my life. And then I brought her, carried her still figure, sleeping with the most celestial grin upon her face, through the foliage of my Mediterranean terrain, and into the imprisonment of her room, laying her in the comforts of the bed. Already, I wept at the loss of her warmth.
Then my feet carried me to the one of the few places where I can find peace: in front of my dead grandmother's portrait as a young maiden, blossoming in love with the hard steel cage called my grandfather. For this, I think that's why Lucas Malfoy fell for the lower-class chambermaid; she was his salvation, as Hermione is mine, and seen through the eyes of another debonair Malfoy, his soul mate.
The lighting was dim, for it was early morn, yet I could still notice every curve and dimple present on her face, maybe I merely memorized her. Such a gracious person as Laine Malfoy had spoken words that a young Draco could never comprehend, even at this age, I could not understand the meaning of her infamous advice.
"My dear boy, you will never live a fulfilled life until you've loved and felt love in return. At that moment, you will find the meaning of live, why humans continue to live even when their souls demands rest. Love is an ever-powerful thing."
Love. Where can I find my peace, an end to my suffering? If I could find this peace, will she allow me to savor for a bit longer, enough to live without her being? Even a memory would do. But did I want just a memory? How about forever?
It was then I realize that behind the rage and insanity, I was hurt from her words, from her confessions, and from the truth. For a man-boy who lived a life where a single embrace would send him in a fit of joy, where death and deception was told instead of fairy tales, life with her was heaven. Then to hear that denial of love, it could never have pained me more than to witness death to the highest degree.
The unexpected occurred. A glistening tear made a trail of hurt through my flaxen cheekbone, clumsily causing a pool to appear on my chin, and then found end when it fell to its depths on my shirt. It hurt so much, the rejection, the loss.
"Draco . . . "
I, tear-eyed and exhausted, turned to find a Hermione Granger, next to tears, clutching her nightgown with such power, I thought it would have torn in her hands.
H.G. POV -
"Draco . . . "
I could not comprehend the urge, that desire that drives us to impulses leading to life and death, the line between the demented and the living. I had dared pass this partisan line because of Draco Malfoy, a man who at this moment, looked at a portrait of an anonymous, mortal goddess on her canvas, with such intensity and great love apparent in his molten eyes, it nearly brought me to my knees in wistful envy.
Here was a man who loved a woman with undying devotion, despite death or otherwise, with passion and zest, someone who loved beyond human bounds, and this was why my heart belonged to him.
This must be Virginia, the woman who owned his entire being: body, mind, and soul.
Though my presence was made, stock-still, Draco would not attempt movement, as if he could not, and surely his passion-brimmed eyes, undoused with tears, would not fair well, for I would have given myself fully for a single glance that he held for her.
(A/N: Why do I write this crap? Oh, I'm not disturbing your reading am I? Well, sor-ray!)
Like an antediluvian stone statue under the debris of time and elemental abuse, his character was still, wounded, yet unfaulting. He would have been renamed as such if not for his slight eye movements.
Then I questioned the obvious, knowing the truth, yet not excepting for my own sanity.
"You loved her, didn't you?"
What compelled me to become stupidity in human form, I could not grasp why, all that could make me as nearest to regretful contentment was his amorous proclamation, so that hope can retreat from the crevices of my heart, to watch with eyes enviously at a man who'd never love me. As a man loves a woman, as a soul mate adores his other pair.
"Yes, she taught me how to love when I knew I could never. Her presence was the only salvation I knew then. When she passed away, it was as if I failed twice in finding that other human that could show affection from another human, a single touch was all I yearned for."
Despite a brief hesitancy in his voice, it remained solid, unwithering. Another reason why my love for him grew deeper, roots in such depth, there was no escape.
"Father, I failed with him as well. Never could I be good enough for him. I could never . . . make him happy."
It was then, for the first time in his years as an overbearing pillar, he collapsed, as all things do with age and abuse, battered without strength, his back against the dim tope wall; hands mused in fists with such agonizing anguish.
"Why couldn't I be good enough?"
His tears compelled me to reach by his side, capturing him in a tight embrace, in some foolish attempt to relief the pains of his past. I tilted my head to plant a comforting, chaste kiss, neither passionate, but a paucity of love that I endure for him, on his right temple; my tears and his mingling into a solitary tear, a diamond of choleric fathers and the travails that a mere mortal cannot endure, to his lips, bitter.
"You are. You are." A constant mantra I repeated in his ear. If only he could see what I saw . . .
"Yet I wasn't enough for you. You said that night we shared had not mattered to you, that intimate bond between man and woman was nothing for you. But unless you experienced endless nights wishing for nothing more than the touch of another human being, a loveless family. Unless, you've never been the object of mockery after you've tried with all your being to achieve the impossible. Until you've been through that, never show a plaint or denial of your happiness in this house, for that night, for the many days and nights you lived among my residence, it was heaven. So please, don't."
He was pleading, begging with no pride or some justice to himself, like the vulnerable toddler, his fetal position showed such childish abandon, and I merely comforted him until his disheveled appearance remained, but that look of pained horror no longer inhabited his face. Till his self-conscious could not bear the weight of his physical despair, he fled to the Land of Nod. And I continued to rock him back and forth to the end of his short, whimpering breaths.
"You are more than I can deserve."
The only thought I could maintain before drifting into slumber was of the martyr enveloped in my arms, and if only he could find some peace in his ill-fated life.
***
The sun, warm on my face, had been my alarm to escape the dreary comfort of sleep. Tinted shapes, painted from the gothic glass windows that created the promise of coveted escape from this doll house, disfigured my coloring and caused me to wake in an irritable mood.
Then to my constant surprise and disdain, Draco was no where to be found; his slumbering heap not present in the binds of my arms.
Frantically, I, almost desperately, called out for his name, some evidence of his existence, that this tragic pipe dream was not the cause of slumber, that Draco Malfoy was not a name, not a person, that all wasn't reality. I was Psyche, originated from the love stories of Greek Mythology, imprisoned in the House of Eros, searching for her beloved with such romantic travail, and then to be banished into her consequence after a brief, sweet glance from Eros, remorsefully in search with endless limitations for him. It was if I was she, and Draco was my Eros, the pillar of strength in which I lean towards.
My search had come to a close at the prime of a grand stairway, steps escalading to the bottom, where he stood with an expression of one deep in though, who pondered as thoroughly as one who would occupy the supremacy of Athens, enthralled in the unknown beauty found through intelligence. It was an incomprehensible look upon his face, wry pursued, and then that righteous gaze found my silent figure.
Eyes that showed nonsensical concupiscence engraved in those lucid, cat-like orbs; adulation, obsession, and the regretful tale of sorrow, glazed by softness, giving birth to a man who convey such a smoldering gaze like he witnessed the debut of his goddess for the very first moment, awed at her majestic beauty of within, but still it contained an eternity of memories to age the love to even a sweeter thing.
I began to speak.
"Draco, I--"
"Come with me from Lebanon, my bride, Come with me from Lebanon."
His voice, a dictatorial echo amongst the silence, speaking of a passion he known for me.
"Descend from the crest of Amana, From the top of Senir, The summit of Hermom, From the lion's dens, And the mountain haunts of the leopards."
It was as if I had bore an instinct to draw myself towards him, confused, yes, but enthralled, taking plight steps to the man I grown to adore, respect with ardor, and love beyond the limitations of a woman. Who could not be drawn to a flame, despite containing the knowledge of a suicidal death, of the scalding in which the flame causes, and the burning in which envelopes one into submission?
Once I was mere inches away from his glorious being, when I forced my eyes to pair with his, I gasped in utter shock over the power of his transparent gaze. Emotions had taken haven in his orbs, reflecting the intensity of concupiscence, of the alacrity in love making, in the pain and suffering, the deadly game of possession, the endless mornings in where he would be the solitary person in his life, and to the end of his nights where he would nearly weep out of this enduring suffering, this death with no content end. Finally, the wolf has shed his sheep's clothing.
"How beautiful you are, my darling! Oh, how beautiful!"
Then a positively carnal expression had taken over the sentimentality that shown in his eyes, it was this devouring of his eyes on his prey, like consuming paradise where paradise cannot be consumed. Approaching, Draco came so entirely close, to the point I did not know where my body's length had ended and his begun. We were one, the distance no longer, and when he drew his hand to brush against my half-closed eyelids, for it was all I could have done to not cry in desperation and devotion, I knew at that moment there would never be two individuals between us, no separation, nothing but this unity between mortals.
"Your eyes behind your veil are doves. Each has it's twin; Not one of them alone."
Fingers traced the enticing curve of my lips, neither making immediate contact on my skin, yet so intimately near, it was as if blind men were trying to recover my apperance, memorizing every curve of my face. The sensation of his insouciant seduction caused a shiver throughout my body. There was no man who could cherish a woman more than he. No other could linger, stray on my skin, telling a tale of longing.
"Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon, Your mouth lovely."
"Your temples behind your veil are like the halves of a pomegranate."
To Solomon's infamous love story, I felt a heated exposure on one side of my temple, as if it was trying to find the certain taste I possessed, and in satisfaction, defiled the untainted skin, the halves of a pomegranate, and caused it to whimper from the absence of his presence, almost to reply an almost desperate request for that rouge tongue.
His Pyrrhic victory on the battlefield on my skin, continued over the elegant tower, her ivory neck calling wanton pleads for his touch. That he did, gracing it with lazy circles, soon replaced by his nose and lips, nuzzling for her affection, approval, anything to prove her satisfaction, and the brief brush of his textured lips on the joint in which the neck and shoulder meet as one, barely whispering of its shadow. He was painting on nature's canvas, perfecting a creation until it was called his own. With a final nuzzle of his aristocratic nose, his hands continued his sensuous expedition over the hills of his beloved, nearly drowning in the river in which lies in between the mountain of beauteous, feminine glory (her boobs, stupid! opps, sorry for destroying the poetic romance.).
"Your neck is like the tower of David, Built with elegance, On it hand a thousand shields, All of them shields of warriors."
"Your two breasts are like two fawns, Like twin fawns of a gazelle that browse among the lilies."
Indiscreetly, as if morality was no more but the thing of a distant past, the mountains were trekked by the traveling hand, or rather lone finger who discovered nirvana in nature's amble curves, courageous beyond compare, or righteous to the most demented sense, journeys the valley of nightly pleasure and the nectar of morn. Enriched by the beauty, yet it does not join festivities to annihilate with lecherous greed. No, there was intimacy, touches that remained indefinably tender as if the beholder of such valleys were of glass herself.
"Until the day breaks and the shadows flee. I will go to the mountain of myrrh and to the hill of incense."
"All beautiful you are, my darling; There is no flaw in you."
Hands that held calluses which could not be the possession of a worldly aristocrat ensnared mine. The febrile sensation that coursed my body, it was the heat, warmth surpassing the cold homage, the security that could never stand against the emotion and triumph of passion and love. Gentle coaxing by his fingers directed the ensnared embrace to the location of his heart, as if a heart as his could only be tamed by my own living flesh.
"You have stolen my heart, my sister, my bride; You have stolen my heart, with one glance of your eyes, With one jewel of your necklace.
A silent climax surpassed us, with one glance of his eyes, no longer was the ambiance of tension and the awkwardness of lost words, but of comfort, the lasting serenity in a forlorn tragedy which to end, and for the birth of our forever. From the embrace of the hands, then too, he drew me in his arms, and hands were still locked, desiring the presence of each other eagerly.
"How delightful is your love, my sister, than wine; And the fragrance of your perfume than any spice!"
Coaxing, enticing with mimicking words of his tongue, a kiss was not merely a kiss with the man before me. I was resurrected, brought to my rebirth by this union, such a blessed one it is. And yes, Lord, milk and honey was under his tongue, the sweetness of his love could not compare to any ambrosia conjured. If lips could make love than ours . . .
"Your lips drop sweetness as the honeycomb, my bride; Milk and honey are under your tongue."
To the response of his act of profound devotion, affection, and depth, all I could utter was,
"The Song of Solomon."
"Yes, well, no other wizard, muggle, or otherwise, had the depth of Solomon's love poetry. If any other deserved such poetry, it would be you. Darling, you could never realize how much I love you."
I was to respond with something, anything, but the hush of his finger impugned.
"I don't want to fail again. I can't. I won't. I need your happiness to sustain mine. Man has his limitations, and you are mine. I love you. I'd die for you. I cherish you. I could not possibily continue living without you, and if I did live, I would be breathing, but not alive. Darling, you are my everything, and to see how completely dependent on you I am, it is by far the most hilarious and wonderful thing in the world to be yours."
Yours. Mine.
Absent for words to express the blithe hilarity, I myself drank the romantical wine of poetry, reciting the end in which he began our copious love affair.
"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth -- For your love is more delightful than wine. Pleasing is the fragrance of your perfume; Your name is perfume poured out. No wonder the maidens love you! Take me away with you-- Let us hurry. Let the king bring me into his chambers."
And that, he did. The king brought me to his chambers, his name, like perfume poured out.
Draco Malfoy.
His love more delightful than wine. For then, I could spend lifetimes a toper of this wine, drowning in what could be my "no return."
I could never be more content.
THE END.
