Deliver Me, a harry potter fanfic

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, JKR does. Nor do I own the song 'Deliver Me' which belongs to the Dave Crowder Band.

A/N: This made me sad while I was writing it. It's just a wee plot bunny that hopped into my head one day. D/Hr warning. Read, comment and enjoy everyone!

Deliver Me

She'd always thought that he'd have pampered hands. Soft, well looked after. After all, he'd never done a hard days work in his life. But when his hand held hers she felt the calluses, mostly from Quidditch, he told her.

But later she found another reason for the calluses. A reason for the way he held his quill just so. An explanation for the ink – she assumed – stains that she sometimes saw on his fingers.

Deliver me, out of the sadness
Deliver me, from all the madness
Deliver me, courage to guide me
Deliver me, your strength inside me

"Where are we going?"

A shrug and a smirk. "You'll see."

Sometimes she feels like hitting him. He looks over his shoulder and gives her a cocky wink.

Correction, make that a lot of the time.

"Here."

They're standing in front of a large, locked door.

"Where are we exactly?"

He squeezes her hand slightly, "Dungeons."

"The dungeons?" She raises an eyebrow, "Malfoy, if this is some insane plan of yours to kidnap me and-"

"And what?" he interrupts coolly, "Seduce you?" He leans close enough she that she can feel his breath, hot against the skin of her neck. "Believe me, Granger, if I wanted to steal you away and ravish you – which I must admit is an appealing thought – I would find a much better place than the dungeons."

She glares at him, "You're a sick, twisted person, you know that?"

He kisses her lightly on the lips, "You love me for it."

The strange thing is, he's right.

He turns to the door and raises his wand.

"Alohamora!"

The door swings open. He smiles, but there's uncertainty lurking behind it. "After you, princess."

She scowls, "I've told you not to call me that!"

All of my life
I've been in hiding
Wishing there was someone just like you
Now that you're here
Now that I've found you
I know that you're the one to pull me through

"Draco, what is this?"

He hears the amazement in her voice and smiles inwardly. It helps dispel his nerves. Who would have thought? Draco Malfoy, nervous at the thought of someone else's opinion. It must be stated as being against the natural order of things somewhere.

"My studio."

She continues to gape at him, and for some reason he wants to fill in the silence. "I found this room way back in fifth year. It's been abandoned for ages, I think. Anyway, no one was using it, and-"

"You did all this?"

"Yeah." He fiddles with the sleeve of his robe, his nervousness growing.

Paintings fill the room. Still lifes, landscapes, portraits, angels and demons. Light and dark. On the wall, rough sketches doodled on pieces of parchment. She walks through the room, taking it all in.

In the corner, a small, locked trunk. On the table, paintbrushes and paints lie scattered beside a half finished canvas. The center of the room contains a still life set-up.

"Muggle paints?" she asks him, half-disbelieving.

He nods, "They're harder to work with," he gives her a half-hearted smirk, "And I love a challenge. Besides, there's something magical about a painting that doesn't move."

She comes and stands next to him, sensing his anxiety. "They're beautiful." Takes his hand in hers, lets their fingers twine together. "Will you give me a tour, please?"

"I've been drawing and painting since I was about seven," he tells her in an attempt to mask the silence, "Mother insisted that I learn. Father thought it was a little girly, but mother doesn't really insist on much so he gave in." He shrugs, never comfortable about talking about his family. Especially with her. "But I like it," he says, a little defiantly, "It relaxes me, and when I came to school I found that I missed it. So when I found this room…"

He trails off at her gasp of surprise.

A pair of serious grey eyes stares at them. Propped up against the wall is a self portrait. "I did that about a year ago," he mutters self-consciously.

The background is black with blood red overtones. It bleeds into the white blonde of his hair. His face pale, angular and emotionless. His eyes are cold. Yet the painting itself screams of emotion. She feels a chill run up her spine along with a pang of sympathy for the boy in the picture.

"Draco…"

He squeezes her hand tighter telling her not to say anything. "This is what I wanted to show you," he says, pulling her away from the painting.

It's a portrait of the two of them. Painted in black and white, the monochromatic colours are a sharp contrast to the rest of the work in the room. It's nothing spectacular. Just the two of them. Her face over his shoulder. His fair hair contrasting against her darker tones. It says nothing and everything about the nature of their relationship. There's wariness in their eyes, the constant fear of being found out. A stubborn tilt in her chin, telling the world that she doesn't care, not really. She'll be with this boy if she wants to. He's protective, easily read in the way his body is placed in front of hers. But there's a look in his eyes too. One that says "Don't mess with her. She's mine." The expression on his face says it all.

"I couldn't say it," he says softly, almost plaintively, asking her to understand, "I couldn't tell you. So I did this. I know it's not really the same, but-"

She cuts him off with a kiss.

Because she does understand. He can't tell her that he loves her; it's been unspoken all this time. It's not in his nature. And somewhere along the way she's stopped expecting if of him. She's always known that it was too much to ask.

When they pull apart, she smiles at him.

"Thank you."

Deliver me, loving and caring
Deliver me, giving and sharing
Deliver me, this cross that I'm bearing

He pushes the parchment into her hands and watches as she reads it.

"What are you going to do?"

"Do?" he laughs bitterly, running his fingers through his hair, "Go, of course."

A numbness settles across her heart, "Go?"

He sighs, "What else can I do, Hermione?" The shadows under his eyes have grown darker lately, looking like bruises on his pale skin. "It's an ultimatum. I have to go."

"No, you don't have to go." Her face is closed to him, emotionless, "Do you want to go?"

"What kind of stupid question is that?" he paces the room, agitated. "Of course I don't want to go!"

She flinches, "Don't yell."

He doesn't say anything, just looks at her. His hair is dishevelled and his eyes are weary. "What do you want me to do, Hermione? Do you want me to go to Dumbledore? I won't do that. I can't do that."

"Of course you can!" she snaps, the shock wearing off, "Why don't you, Draco? Why don't you just tell him?"

"Because," he turns to look at the fireplace, watching the flames flicker. Light and dark. "I don't care about my father, Hermione; he can rot in hell for all I care. But my mother on the other hand," He looks at her and his eyes are haunted, "I can't just leave her to him. I won't."

It's quiet in the room, no noise except for the crackling of the flames.

"So you're just going to leave me, then?" She tries to keep her voice steady and fails miserably.

His eyes soften imperceptibly, but he makes no move towards her. "You're safe here. You have Potter and Weasley, they'll look after you. Not that you really need it. You're probably more skilled with your wand than the both of them combined."

She ignores the compliment. "Draco-"

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning," he tells her. For a moment she thinks that he will come to her, that he'll wrap his arms around her and tell her that it will all be all right. That he'll be back. Instead, he walks towards the door. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

Just like that, he's gone. Leaving her standing in the room, a piece of crumpled parchment in her hand.

Oh, deliver me…

She makes her way down to the dungeons. It's been two months since he left. Two months of anger and wanting to hate. She wonders what she'll find down here, whether he left the room as it was, or if he cleared it all out.

"Alohamora!"

It smells of paint in here. But he's stacked most of the paintings in a corner. The place is tidy, unused. Nothing litters the tabletops. In the centre of the room she sees the portrait of the two of them sitting on an easel. Unchanged. She walks towards it with half a mind to destroy it. Revenge for what he's put her through.

There's a piece of parchment wedged underneath the canvas. With cold fingers she picks it up.

H –

Keep it. I know I never said it, and I'm sorry.

Love always,

She reads it again, and for the first time since he left she allows herself to cry.

A/N: I've always loved the thought of Artist!Draco. I hope I've managed to keep in IC for this though. Read and review please!