*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Still a little bit of your taste in my mouth
Still a little bit of you laced with my doubt
Still a little hard to say what's going on
Still a little bit of your ghost your witness
Still a little bit of your face I haven't kissed
You step a little closer each day
Still I can't say what's going on
Stones taught me to fly
Love taught me to lie
Life taught me to die
So it's not hard to fall
When you float like a cannonball
Still a little bit of your song in my ear
Still a little bit of your words I long to hear
You step a little closer to me
So close that I can't see what's going on"
'Cannonball' Damien Rice
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
/b
Hermione bit her lip cautiously as she swirled the contents of her tall glass around in slow smooth circles. She sat alone, looking on at the various people in the room. Her mind was loose and unbound, as she slowly drank away all of her frustrations. George had been gone for two days, and before her first sip of elderflower wine, she was worried sick.
Hermione's soft pink lips touched the glass again, downing the remaining contents of the glass. George's kind reassuring voice echoing through her mind, "I'll be back my daybreak." Day break my ass. Hermione could feel herself snarl. He had lied to her. Just for that, he should stay away for two more days to avoid any bodily harm. She hated nothing more than when he felt it was necessary to lie to her. If only he had told the truth, she wouldn't be sitting at the birthday party of a friend who is upset with her. She wouldn't be drinking, and she definitely wouldn't have been groveling.
It seemed it was all anyone ever did to her. She hated the feeling of complete helplessness and noninvolvement. The longer she remained in the Ministry of Magic at her dead end job recruiting Hit Wizards, the more respect people lost for her. Before, when she was fresh out of Hogwarts, she was a force to be reckoned with. She was bound to succeed, powerful, even an inspiration to people around here. Now she was just a mediocre wife, with a mediocre job, and an equally as mediocre life.
Not only was her life mediocre, she was also easily shaken. Before Draco's disappearance from her life, she was able to stand strong and defend herself. Now the simplest troubles, like George not returning from Russia yet, or serious problems like Harry hinting that he knew were Draco Malfoy was; left her broken and shaken. Hermione could barely stand, yet alone think, so George not returning the day after her encounter with Harry was too much. She got up, her head slowly spinning, and began to plow her way to the kitchen to get another glass of wine. She needed it; for it she stopped drinking, she wouldn't be able to control the memories that were flooding her all at once. Everything about Draco was haunting her; she could still hear his voice ringing in her ears. She could still imagine her skin against his, she could smell him, his sweet manly musky smell, she could feel his tongue wrapping around hers, and brushing against her own. Hermione lowered her head, trying to snap herself out of her thoughts. However, the drunker she got, the more she thought of him. She was only a foot away from the doorway leading to the kitchen when she felt an arm wrap around hers.
"Hello Hermione deary!" the voice rang brightly. Hermione turned around and faced a grinning Molly Weasley. The smaller yet plump woman wrapped her arms around Hermione in one sweeping motion. An inebriated Hermione hesitantly returned the gesture.
"How have you been?" the smaller red headed woman asked. Hermione attempted to smile at her, but it felt like more of a wince. She was too drunk to put on a happy façade, she wanted to tell the older woman how she was worried sick because she had not seen George in two days, Ron had frustrated her more, and she had the prospect of Draco being around every corner looming over her precariously.
"I'm just fine," Hermione lied, the corner of her lips turning upward into a forced grin. The redheaded woman beamed back at her. Hermione already knew the course of what their conversation would be. She would ask her if she was enjoying the party, how was work, how was George, had she made up with Ron yet; Questions Hermione didn't feel like answering. Hermione could feel herself sigh; she really didn't even feel like thinking. She was too tired, and too weak. Her mind was soft like jelly, and her heart was barely beating, she couldn't handle all the stress and the hurt. However, Harry's words had stuck to her like paste. I've found him. Hermione had always assumed that Draco would never return to England. She felt with him and Sam gone, it was the end of an entire chapter of her life. A chapter full of memories, and feelings she didn't ever want to feel again. Being with George helped her try to suppress her fears and feelings from her dark period, but Harry had thrust everything back into her perspective. It was like a foul smelling material that he was waving spitefully under her nose. His eyes gleamed coldly; he was only a mere silhouette of his former self, Hermione hesitantly standing still, wanting to strike back, but too afraid to try. She couldn't ignore it anymore, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't, and she was just too weary to push him and the foul material away.
"Oh, Hermione, when will you come by the Burrow? A few of my friends and I have tea every Tuesday, Fleur comes, so I was hoping maybe my other daughter-in-law would stop by too," Molly smiled at Hermione brightly. Hermione stared back at her shortly, suddenly remembering her empty wine glass. She briefly thought of why Molly had to mention that Fleur came. Hermione always felt a sense of resentment towards Fleur, everyone looked upon her as the perfect mate, worker, and person. She closed her eyes; she could still feel the slight tingle as Draco lovingly nibbled on her ear. She opened them again, Molly stared up at her, wearing a particular look of confusion.
"That sounds really fun. If I'm…" Hermione could feel her mind fade out, but her lips continue to move as her eyes fell on the staircase. She could feel all the blood in her face slowly drain away as her normally soft face contorted into one of pure rage. George cheerily made his way down the steps, his face was lit up, and he wore his familiar goofy smile. However, his smile was not enough to suppress Hermione's feeling of unadulterated rage. He spotted his mother and Hermione, and quickly made his way towards them.
"Hello!" he smiled at her, wrapping his arm around the much shorter woman. George turned to Hermione, the smile on his face instantly vanishing when his eyes finally fell on hers.
"George Weasley…" Hermione muttered in a low tone. George flashed her a mortified look, he looked slightly regretful for acknowledging his mother before his irate wife. She turned back to Molly, who seemingly had picked up the hint that Hermione was not particularly happy with her son.
"Oh, I think I see Remus! If you two need me, I'll be over there. Toodles dearies!" and with a wave of her freckled hand, she was gone. Hermione stared at George for what seemed like an eternity. His face was slightly dirty, but he appeared as if he was wearing a brand new set of dress robes. Hermione could feel her eyes fall to the floor, her anger still bubbling madly from within.
"I've been worried fucking sick about you." She grumbled. George's dark eyes slightly widened when Hermione cursed. She usually never felt the need to curse, but the elderflower wine was overpowering Hermione's sane and calm side.
"I know and I'm sorry." George said quickly. Much to the chestnut haired witch's surprise, he was still smiling. He leaned his head down until his nose was lightly touching hers; he wrapped both of his arms around her waist and gave her a squeeze. Hermione inhaled his soft scent, he smelled almost identical to Ron. The world around them seemed to slow, and blur, and Hermione could feel her mind began to wander again.
She watched intently as George's lips began to move, he was telling her something important. Why was she not listening? She could feel herself ask, his hand were still around her waist. Hermione closed her eyes; she had been in an embrace similar to that one years before. Something about it was so familiar, yet the fantasy seemed almost too intangible. She remained in George's protective grip as her eyes rested on a tall blonde haired man standing behind him. Hermione could feel all the muscles in her body simultaneously grow taut, and her mind suddenly congeal. She could feel a lump slightly rising in her throat, as she blinked again, hoping it was the wine, praying that she was drunk, and she was not laying eyes on what, more like who, she thought it was.
However, he remained there, his eyes bright, his lips were slightly open as he stared right back at her. He turned to a dark haired man at his side, his lips forming words, and then he reared his head back into a loud joyous laugh. Hermione could feel the lump in her throat harden, she had been in an embrace like this before, and she had seen a man like him before. She blinked, yet again, and he remained. His eyes shown a vivid shade of gray, they seemed almost identical to ones she had laid eyes on before. She closed her eyes, keeping them closed longer, trying to snap herself out of her daze. The memories were too painful, the images too vivid, too real. She opened her eyes, George was still talking, but no sound escaped from his lips. She looked past him, hoping she was having yet another Draco fantasy, but with a different subject, a more haunting subject, a dead subject.
He wore stunning jet-black dress robes, and his hair was tossed about lazily as if he had just crawled out of his bed. Her eyes searched the man up and down frantically, praying for the sight she was seeing to be a fantasy. He stood before her, clearer than the day she had first laid eyes on him that eventful summer day over Hogwarts: A History. He had now stopped laughing; he turned back to his dark haired companion, running a hand through his dirty blonde hair nonchalantly. She noticed he was young, around the same age he should be. His eyes were bright, and wide, and he had those soft pink lips. Lips Hermione had kissed so many times before. She could feel herself inhale sharply, as his face spread into a soft, coy half grin. How had she suddenly forgotten how to breathe? She clutched onto to George, as if holding on for dear life. She could feel her intellect start to spin slightly, and her vigor began to diminish.
"Hermione? Are you even listening?" he asked, his voice suddenly cutting through the murky depths of her mind. The stranger had almost put her in a reverie; Hermione couldn't pry her eyes off him to look at George. She was frozen, immobilized. It just couldn't be true, her heart screamed, she had watched them lower his casket into the ground. She had thrown a lone white rose onto the black coffin, she had cried for a week straight after losing him. Unsure if mourning for one, more than the other was wrong, so mourning twice as hard than everyone else had. She had fought so hard to pull herself out of her own grief, so hard to try to forget him. Now she was standing before someone, that looked just like him, and all at once, all of her suppressed grief was hitting her, overcoming her, piling on top of her, and smothering her to death. He was dead, it could not be happening. It could not be real; one does not come back from the dead. Death is entrenched, dark, murky, and eternal. The man was now shaking the hand of his companion. He was leaving, she could feel herself began to panic.
"Hermione?" George said tartly, trying to grab his wife's attention. "Hermione!" he repeated. She couldn't hear him, or didn't want to hear him. She couldn't decipher his words. She turned towards the man, who was slowly making his way past a crowd of young witches, who's eyes all fell on him. She turned back to George, pulling away from his embrace with one last reassuring squeeze. George's lips began to move again, but no sound came out, the only words he could understand were, 'What's the matter' and the name, 'Draco Malfoy.'
Hermione stared back at him, then at the stranger. She felt slightly surprised at herself when she thought of seeing Draco as a more welcome sight then to the mysterious stranger. She quickly turned away from him, finally ceasing to think about Draco for the first time in days. Her wobbly legs carried her after the blonde haired man from her nightmares. She prayed it was a delusion, just a dream, and a drunken hallucination. People do not emerge from the dead, and this man was dead.
She continued to follow him as he made his way into the foyer, where was he going? She asked herself, she didn't care. She continued to follow him; her feet felt like they weighed fifteen times more than they really did. She put one foot in front of the other frantically, her world started to slightly spend around her. Hermione suddenly remember she had nearly eight glasses of wine, the saner side of her self told her the truth, that she was dreaming, but she had dreamed so long of touching him, her drunken inner being was screaming at her to hurry up and catch him, that he was real. That a miracle had occurred, that he had came back to make her laugh again, to make her smile, to help her forget. To make things right again, maybe just maybe Draco would help the Elite track down the other Deatheaters, and return to living in Britain. They'll have a joyful, guilt free and pain free reunion, and be simply friends. Ron would forgive her for marrying George, and Harry would be happy again. She would have a great job, outside of the Ministry, and meaningful life. Moreover, he'll be there, guitar in hand, grin on his face, and heart on his sleeve. Draco and him would be best mates again, no strings attached, no jealousy, no resentment. His sweet Aussie accent would fill her ears once again, his sarcastic quips and jibes would full her heart with happiness, and life would be perfect. It would make sense, and all of the jagged puzzle pieces from her past, and all of her tangled relationships and bonds would suddenly become smooth. Maybe he had returned to help her fit all the pieces of the puzzle back together again, and she would be happy.
The man walked through the kitchen, and into the dining room. It appeared as if he was leaving through the sliding glass doors of the breakfast nook. Hermione remained close behind. Tears were blurring her eyes, it couldn't be. He was dead, and the man she was following was probably just a look-a-like. People do not come back from the dead. So, why was she so entranced by him? She reached out for the man, in a sweeping motion, grabbing his arm tightly. He turned around, flashing her a look of utter surprise. Hermione eye's widened as she got her first good glimpse of him. The light from the moon shone in through the wide windows of Ron's breakfast nook, giving his face a glowing ethereal glow. Hermione stepped back from him in surprise, as she felt an odd numbing sensation slowly drip from her head, all the way down the length of her body, down to her toes. It felt she was staring into her memories, for his stranger, was more than just a look-a-like. He was the spitting image, the correlative of Samuel Austin. She couldn't stand it anymore, her lips moving faster than her more rational mind.
"Sam?" her voice asked, small and trembling. The man stared at her, his face blank, his eyes bemused. Hermione could feel her heart sink as she looked into his eyes. This was not Sam.
"Have we met?" the man asked in a slightly perplexed tone. Hermione bit her lip; she could feel her face flush intensely. She looked down at the floor, unable to face him now. She felt ridiculously foolish. Of course, it wasn't Sam; Sam was dead.
"No, we haven't," Hermione said softly. The man stared at her a split second before continuing his towards the sliding glass doors of the breakfast nook. With that, he was gone. Hermione sighed, "We haven't," she repeated again once she was alone. We haven't.
Hermione emerged from a deep and dreamless sleep almost twelve hours later. She sat up in her bed slowly. Her head immediately began to throb as she attempted to look around the room and try to place herself. She moaned; her head felt like a nail was being driven through it. She imagined the looks on everyone's faces as it dawned on them that she, Hermione Granger, was piss drunk. Hermione ran a hand through her tousled hair, she must have passed out in front of them, for she was at home.
She could feel herself sigh as her thoughts returned to Ron's party. She was a dupe to ever believe that the mysterious stranger could have been Sam. She knew he was dead, but she had let something bottle up inside of her. Like a slow toxic poison, she left it alone, as it struggled to get out, but she just kept on suppressing it. Seeing that mysterious stranger seemed to set it off, set off her imagination, set off her heart, and released the awful sadness she had been holding back for so long. All she wanted to do was crawl into a little ball in bed, and cry for the life lost.
At times, Hermione wondered why she didn't? She had spent so much time with Sam, and yet all her heart could feel was her love for Draco and no one else. She almost felt like she was barreling through her life with her blinders on. She could feel all her memories of Sam slowly hit her, and fill and warm her cold and malnourished soul. She remembered the first time she had ever laid eyes on him. Headphones on, his head down, his eyes scanning rack upon rack of books, his soft smooth voice cutting through the quiet drafty air of Flourish and Blotts. She could feel her lips turn upward into a smile as she remembered the day that she had bit Sam's tongue on accident, she incident seemingly brought them closer together. As the memories came towards her, after years of trying to suppress them, they grew dimmer, and dimmer, and harder and harder. Sam being sorted into Slytherin, Eva, Draco's parents dying. She could almost feel her world slightly spin around her, as her life in her memories began to spiral and descend into the depths.
She remembered getting caught up in her a morass of all of her guilt and love for Draco. Losing her sight in a moment of passion, abandoning her friends, falling in love with Sam, harder then she ever had expected. Then the memories ended suddenly, with a solitary image. Her hand wrapped around a lone white rose, she could still feel the warmness of Harry's hand wrapped around her spare hand. She could still taste the salty tears in her mouth; hear the mother of Sam's desperate and completely grief stricken calls out to the sky. Why? She cried, Why did you take him from me too? He's all I had left! She could still remember her mind slightly tripping over the grieving woman comment, why did you take him from me too? Had she suffered a similar loss before? Hermione could remember herself brushing it off, lost in her own grief, frozen, for only two weeks earlier, she was in his arms, uttering that she loved him. It had all fallen apart, Sam was gone, and Draco was gone, forever and for good. The memories were enough to bring her to tears.
Hermione reached up to her eyes with a tremulous hand, but they were dry. She lowered her head, her fingers tracing the soft embroidery of her bed linens. She lay back in bed, shutting her eyes, hoping that she could get the tears to come. If they came, she could just get it done with, she would not have to think of him ever again, but they never came. Hermione was about to turn over in bed, when a freckled hand reached out and grabbed hers. Hermione looked up as her face flushed in shame, it was George. He stared down at her, and much to her surprise, he was grinning madly.
"Look who has risen from the dead!" he exclaimed, his voice dripping in sarcasam. He kept her hand in his as he sat down on the edge of the bed. Hermione strained to stare up at him, but the sunlight pouring into their bedroom window prevented her from otherwise. Hermione agitatedly swatted at the air as George turned around to glance at the window. He got up and quickly drew the drapes closed before turning back to her.
"Blimey, Hermione!" George exclaimed, Hermione opened her mouth to explain, but he cut her off. "You were bloody drunk last night!"
Hermione attempted to breathe, but it felt as if there was a ton of stones over her chest. Pressing her down, and trapping her. She couldn't defend herself, and her reasons for drinking so much, for even she did not know why. George stared at her shortly before sitting back down on the bed. The pair sat in an awkward and dim silence before the red head finally spoke.
"I know I worried you, but even worry wouldn't drive you to drink that much," He said silently, all of the sarcasam in his voice had disappeared. Hermione stared straight at the ceiling, afraid of making ere contact with her own husband. She felt ashamed. She loved the bright and happy George, and he was rarely ever completely serious with her. Now here they were, and he was serious, dead serious. A colossal foreboding dam still held her tears at bay, but George stood before her, a giant hatchet in hand. Hermione stared back at him, still unsure of what to say to him.
"I..." she stammered. "I was worried about you, that's why I started drinking." She still could not stare into his eyes. He raised his arm, ready to unleash all his agitation with her into the dam.
"You're lying 'Mione." He admonished, his voice dripping in pain. Hermione still could not look back at him, even though she could feel his eyes on her, and his warm hand around hers. The hatchet made contact with the slightly weak brick of Hermione's dam.
"You've been acting strange since you went to see Harry." He stated, his voice was soft and rushed, as if he wanted to hurry her into a confession so he could return to his light and airy self. Hermione remained still, and quiet, too afraid to reply. As much as she wanted to, she had never really voiced the intensity of her and Draco's relationship, she had simply told him that they were in a relationship that went wrong. The hatchet made contact with her damn for the second time.
So, how could she explain to George, that just the mere thought of Draco returning to her life could have driven her to drink. How could she explain the truly awful feeling of breaking your best friend's heart every time you are within his presence. How would she explain the true panic she felt when George hadn't returned when he had promised? She couldn't blame her drinking on just one thing; it was the stacking, folding, gathering, and doubling pressure that she began to feel. All she wanted it to do was for it to go away, so she could be happy again. She stared up at George for the first time in minutes, as the tears silently began to come, he had penetrated the dam, and behind it was years of tears she had failed to cry. Next thing she knew, she was face first in his lap, sobbing intensely, only pausing to breathe. She looked up in his sad eyes again; his eyes were wet with tears. He stared back at her; with a bittersweet all-knowing look in his face.
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief; she didn't have to tell him. She didn't have to force herself to utter Draco's name; she didn't have to describe how it made her feel. She didn't even have to say it, for he already knew. He held her in his arms, as she cried. As she lay herself open for him to see, absorb, and understand. She closed her eyes, inhaling his sweet scent, forgetting all of her problems for the time being. She silently continued to enjoy her little piece of happiness. Completely unaware of what was soon to come, and how it was going to turn out to be a strange blessing in disguise.