In The Cold Cold Night
By Cedar1
A/N I'm completely overwhelmed by the number of reviews I'm getting for this, its so lovely hearing your views and makes me rather cheesily happy. So thank you Mesmer, Frozen Darkness, Donnie, tabitoo, QuestionMark?, cjean, Forever Dracula's Bride, moonlightpixie89, amber, lucyferina, justcrazyobessed, Thalion '81, Stacey, roseshavethorns, spectrosilver, Caitlin
Had a request to email when i nxt update (no problem Stacey) if there is anyone else who would like me to email them as well tell me in ure review, and leave ure email address nxt to ure name!!
Not sure if mentioned this but the story is not just over a night anymore, several mths will have now passed.
So thanx again and hope u enjoy it......
Disclaimer: Inspiration and Lyrics The White Stripes (bold and italic) and characters from that clever fox JK Rowling
Trinity Marquise Cheers Dears! 4 betaing
In The Cold Cold Night
I see you walking by my front door
I hear the creaking of the kitchen floor
I don't care what other people say
I'm going to love you any way
Come to me again
In the cold, cold night
In the cold, cold night
Chapter 3: I don't care what other people say
Turning over on her side, Hermione cast a glance at the tiny alarm clock that was the sole occupant of her bedside table. She watched as the two flipped to a three. One more minute had gone, and he had still not come. Months had past since their routine for 'warmth' had first been established, and his arrival was no longer a surprise. Times had been decided, and up untill tonight, they had always been met. Sitting up, she failed to defend herself against the surges of worry and fear that flooded her mind, as images of his dead body flashed through her brain. She probably shouldn't be worrying about him. He was a grown man, and she had been telling herself all along that this was a relationship of convenience and raw needs: emotions were not involved.
But who was she kidding?
Her emotions had been involved ever since he had first slept in her bed. She was just that kind of a girl. She had tried to deny them, tried to suppress them. But she had them, and what's more, Hermione Granger, achiever of the highest scores in the history of Hogwarts, couldn't explain them.
The war had not relented in its viciousness or ferociousness. Casualties on both sides were rising, and any hope for an end was diminishing day by day. Aurors were being sent on missions that saw more die than return. Draco in particular was one of those that received orders for such suicide operations. In truth, he got more than most, the prejudice against his family still living on in the minds of the strategists. And so at the beginning of each day Hermione would watch his blonde hair disappear into the horizon, praying that he would come back. Being in the front line herself, she was not able to stay in her chosen spot, yet through the astonished whispers that past back and forth between the troops, the news of his return would eventually reach her ears, and that feeling of peace would once again consume her tense body.
But she hadn't heard anything today. The word 'Malfoy' had not been mentioned once, and she had gone home that night with a slight sickness to her stomach. She had waited for hours, sat on the edge of her bed, her gaze never leaving the door of her bedroom, waiting for the handle to move. It had turned 12.00 and he had still not shown up, so she had decided that perhaps if she went to bed and slept, time would go faster. But her attempt had been in vain, for all she had done was lie in bed, wide-eyed and fully awake.
What should she do?
It was past three now, and the first rays of a new day would be shining through her bright pink curtains soon. Her mind flipped through her options, the logical side to her adding the advantages and disadvantages of each action.
Go out and search for him, but what about the old saying that declared that it was best to stay in one place?
Do nothing. And drive herself mad in the process.
But there was one, that although was the best, was also the most unappealing… go and see Harry. He would know where Draco had been sent, and where he was now. He was privy to information that Hermione never could be. He could help her.
He would help her.
Grabbing her dressing gown that was slung over the dressing table chair, Hermione headed downstairs. Opening the living room door she was mildly surprised to see how dingy the place actually was. The silver threads of intricate spiders webs shone eerily in the darkness. Well, that's what she got for not cleaning. Walking over to the fireplace, she flinched slightly at the sensation of dust sticking to her bare feet, the particles settling uncomfortably between her toes. Squinting, she could just about make out the small brass pot that held the granules of Floo powder. She rarely used this mode of transport, mainly because she hated the feeling of the ground leaving her feet. She liked to have something stable and constant beneath her; the thought of being suspended in just space was one that she detested. Yet there were times when her childish fears would have to be met, and this was one of them.
With a determined look on her face, she grasped a handful of the colourful powder and stood within the fireplace. And as she threw the powder from her fist to the floor, she screamed the name, 'Harry Potter'. She closed her eyes tightly as she felt the air around her pass by her at such an incredible speed that a loud whooshing noise filled her ears. What had felt like an eternity, but was in reality seconds, ended as she could feel her feet contact the hard floor. With the memento of the force still continuing her legs buckled under her, and she fell in an ungraceful heap on the soot covered floor.
"Hermione."
At first she had failed to hear him, the spinning sensation in her head dampening her senses. But when a hand made contact with her shoulder, she was brought out of her daze. Looking up she saw him staring down at her. The Floo network that had been set up by the order had probably alerted him of the arrival of someone, and he had most likely been waiting patiently for her.
"Hi, Harry," she said weakly. Rising from her position on the floor, she stood up and greeted her best friend with a hug. And although her arms were squeezed tightly round his lean body, his remained motionless by his side. Even when she gave him a tentative peck on the cheek, he failed to respond. He didn't even blush like he used to. His face stayed expressionless. His eyes dead. Feeling awkward, Hermione released her grip and stepped away from him.
"Why are you here?" he asked, his voice flat and monotone.
The dull glow from the lowly lantern that hung in the corner was enough for Hermione to properly assess the man before her. He had lost weight. A hell of a lot of weight. His clothes hung from his body. What had once been broad from the years of Quidditch training was now reduced to bone and wire-like muscles. It was almost like he was once again wearing Dudley's clothes. But she caught the small logo of the Chudley Cannons embroided on the pocket. The top had been a gift from Ron many Christmases ago. But his face was probably the part of him that had changed the most. Her memories of handsome features faded fast, succumbing to red eyes, black bags, a thin, stretched mouth and dipping cheekbones.
"I came to see you," she lied.
He cocked his head to the side. Even after all that had happened, he could still read her like a book.
She fiddled nervously with the tie of her robe, biding time for the courage to reply to build up within her.
"I wanted to know if you knew where Draco was." Her words had come out as a whisper. She was too scared of his reaction to say them out aloud. Despite his deference to the light side Harry had never liked him, or trusted him, even when Ron was alive. Now that Ron was dead Harry trusted no one; if he couldn't believe in God there was no hope for anyone else.
"Why do you want to know?"
He had not reacted as violently as she thought he would have, but his thin lips had dipped into a slight scowl, and that action alone was enough to indicate his displeasure at being asked such a question.
"Because I was worried about him," she replied truthfully.
"And why would you be worried about him?"
It became obvious that he was leading her on, prodding her to confess. He knew. She didn't know how, and yet she still couldn't get the words out of her. Instead she chose to look shamefully at her dirt-covered feet.
"Is the sex worth it?"
She cringed when he had said the word sex, his tongue lengthening those three dirty letters so it hung like a bad smell in the air around them. Was their relationship just meaningless sex? There was no way the term a 'true relationship' could be used to describe them.
But then, Hermione Granger would not partake in such activities. No, their relationship was something that transcended above that. Hermione suddenly felt the strong urge to defend herself, wanting to confirm the fact that her morals were still intact to him, and probably to herself.
"Worth what?" She was no longer the pathetic woman she was at the beginning of their meeting, as her voice came out strong and clear, demanding to know what he had meant.
He smirked at her anger.
"Worth Ron's death. Because isn't that when you started sleeping with Malfoy?" He said it as if he was merely inquiring about the weather, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. But beneath that were intense feelings of malice and hatred that whacked Hermione into speechlessness. How dare he suggest that she would sacrifice Ron just for the chance to roll around in bed with Malfoy?
"What the hell's that supposed to mean? You know I'd give anything to get Ron back!" Hermione screamed, her voice cracking with the raw emotion that exploded from her.
Harry seemed unaffected by her rage and simply shrugged his shoulders in response.
Hermione watched dumbly as he turned away from her and began walking towards the door that led to his study. How could he not believe her? She had always thought he had knew her so well, that he could see the truth within her, even at times when she was unwilling to concede to it. Perhaps…
…She really did prefer the 'thing' - for she had yet the time or the energy to define it in words - Malfoy gave her to the years of friendship and platonic love that Ron had bestowed on her?
Was he really more important to her than Ron was?
That was the ultimate question and it made Hermione want to fall to her knees and cry. She couldn't win either way. If she said 'no' she would be branded a slut. They wouldn't, he couldn't, understand the desire to feel wanted, the need to be engulfed by pleasurable heat that had first driven her to go to him. No, she would simply be the heroine that had fallen to the lows of being a whore.
On the other hand if she said 'yes' she would have to come to terms with the fact that she had fallen for someone, someone that she never should have. Draco was never the man that had entered her dreams during sleepless school nights when she imagined her future with a thatched cottage and two kids. In fact, in the later years it had been Ron's tall frame that would be next to her, his arm wrapped lovingly around her. Of course it had never happened. Ron had always been too shy when it came to asking her out and she too stubborn, believing it was time he grew up, and she wasn't going to help him do it.
And now?
Now it was a mess.
Hermione gave way to the emotions that engulfed her and crumbled to the floor, rocking back and forth like the mad woman she had become. A tissue was suddenly trust in front of her nose. She snatched it from the air and roughly dried her eyes and wiped her nose.
"He was sent out to the Rockerford area. There had been reports of death eater meetings there yesterday. His mission was to verify this information and gather any intelligence if possible. I've just talked to Pickford, he said he got into some trouble but he's alright and managed to get out of there with all limbs attached."
Not like Ron.
The words were unspoken but they were no doubt thought as he ended his speech with a touch of distain.
Gathering her legs from under her, Hermione stood up, her legs wobbling slightly from the information that he was safe and from the giddiness that came from crying. She looked up at him. His face was set like stone, not a glimmer of emotion lighting of any of his features. It was ironic, really. The man that he seemed to hate so much was the one that he had become so much alike. The coldness, the stoic expression, all the things that had once defined Draco Malfoy now described her best friend perfectly.
"Thanks, Harry."
She considered kissing him. But his previous response to the action made her hold back and stand her ground.
"I had better get going," she said, her words filling the silence. He simply stared at her. Hermione felt the sudden urge to get the hell out of his house. The thought that Draco would soon arrive at her house and the need to get away from Harry's dead eyes and the suffocating atmosphere that surrounded them all played equal parts in her decision. Putting one foot behind the other, she backed her way towards the fire place. She turned round at the last instant, perhaps hoping he would say something. Anything. Grasping another handful of floo powder from the pot nearby, she prepared herself to go home. The granules had slipped through the cracks of her slim fingers and her lips had opened, ready to give the command that would send her back home, when he suddenly spoke.
"He loved you, you know. Ron loved you."
0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
Hermione filtered through the photographs that were scattered haphazardly on the floor in front of her, each one depicting a brown haired girl and a flame haired boy. Flicking through them she watched as the two characters grew up, morphing from children to mature adults in their mid-twenties. Looking closer she could see the sparkle in their eyes that came with the nervous feelings of a crush and the bubbling tension of rising lust.
Of course she had loved him.
Of course he had loved her.
And of course she would always love him.
But did that mean that after he was gone, she was prohibited from indulging in a sexual relationship with another man? Did her ongoing love for a dead man tie her to a life of loneliness? Was she really betraying his memory?
Hermione stared at the mess she had created at her feet. She knew what Harry thought. He felt that she had disregarded and tossed away all the feelings she had for Ron. Or perhaps he thought she had simply forgotten that Ron had loved her, and by reminding her he had hoped that she would suddenly see the error of her ways and see the relationship she had with Malfoy as a giant mistake.
But the truth was, Hermione had never stopped loving Ron.
She had never forgotten.
Therefore, it would make sense to conclude that what she did with Malfoy wasn't a fault, but it meant something.
But what?
She was going round in circles. Always returning to the same question.
And the one person who could help her solve her problem had yet to arrive. She stood up, her legs cracking from the act. Walking over to the bedroom window, she stared out into the expanse of the world that lay outside. Then she saw it, the figure slipping through the patches of mist, heading for her front door.
'I see you walking by my front door'
It might not be him, a little voice in her head taunted her. But then she heard the click of the door rise up the stairs and to her ears.
It was him.
It had to be.
Her eyes were concentrated on the carpet of her bedroom. Her imagination was so good, she could practically see him walking through the kitchen, removing his cloak, and hanging it on the hook above the umbrella stand, having to stand on the tile that would groan when even the smallest of weights were placed upon it. As to assert her suspicions, the noise of the broken tile floated through the house.
'I hear the creaking of the kitchen floor'
Well, it was now or never.
She tip-toed down the stairs, trying to avoid the steps that elicited the loud creaks that would echo through the house. She was behaving in a way that made no sense to anyone else but her. It was her house, her living room.
But she didn't want him to know she was there. She wanted the chance to look at him. To really look at him and decide what he meant to her. She couldn't have the issue tearing up her conscious any longer. It was dark on the staircase, and she had to keep one hand on the banister to guide her. Suddenly a faint glow dully lit the last step. He must have lit one of the lamps downstairs. Step by step she gradually made her way down and soon she was standing on the edge of the boundary that divided the living room from the hallway. Looking up she could see slithers of his reflection in the mirror that was placed opposite her. He must be sitting in the chair next to the door. He was so close, he might hear her, she thought suddenly, and she held her next breath in her throat. She stared at the pale skin and hair that lay side by side to layers of dust. The spot of red that were his lips. Soon she was pulled to the glinting silver of one of his eyes, the other being obscured by dirt. They were hard, impenetrable like the purest of diamonds. She couldn't tell what he was thinking. But then, that was nothing new.
Then she noticed it. The smudge of red that rested just above the smooth arch of his eyebrow. Her eyes began to dart over the mirror, and there it was again. Those smudges of red appearing again and again marring his flawless skin. The breath she had been holding came out in a gasp of horror. He was hurt. Forgetting her original plan, she rushed from her position to the place where she thought he sat.
'I don't care what other people say'
And he was exactly where she had guessed. His back was ramrod straight, and his arms lay stiffly on the arm rests, while the long lengths of his legs were spread apart. He had yet to look up at her. His eyes were staring straight through her stomach, staring into a world that was far from the reality in which they existed. She dared herself to touch one of the dark red patches with her finger. He flinched slightly as the slick substance came off onto her finger. It was definitely blood. But whose? Please not his, she prayed as she once more placed a finger on his face. More liquid came off, but there was no cut or wound. It wasn't his blood. She stepped between his legs and with the sleeve of her robe, began wiping the substance that stained his skin. Finished with the forehead, she harshly grasped his chin, yanking his face upwards. And with a rush of fervent determination, she began cleaning the blood from the rest of his face. Caught up in her task she failed to notice how his eyes radiated with confusion at her sudden treatment. She needed to get it all off. Needed to know that he was all right. That he wouldn't die and leave her. And as she continued rubbing the blood from him, it all became clear in her head. If it wasn't for that instant of fear that he might be seriously hurt, a moment that hadn't been thought up in her imagination but a time when he was in front of her, covered in blood, she might never have known for definite. But now she did. It was that same feeling she had gotten when she had seen Ron's body. The dread that she would lose someone she loved.
There she had said it. She loved him.
'I'm going to love you any way'
The cool touch of fingers against her skin brought her out of her insight.
"Hermione, I'm alright," he said.
"I know," she replied, "I know."
Her second response came out as a murmur as she leaned in to kiss the patch of skin above his right eye. The taste of him together with the metallic remnants of dried blood coated her lips, while the soft feel of his eyelashes fluttered against her chin. She pulled her lips back. But only ever so slightly as she lifted one leg at a time off the floor and onto the chair. Nudging his legs closer together, she moved so she was in effect straddled over him. She let her fingers trail down the side of his face, over his cheek, and down to the hidden area of skin below the lower corner of his jaw. Once more, she let herself come into contact with his skin. Her lips lingering for longer, as she enjoyed the way she could feel the rhythm of his pulse through them, reminding her that he was very much alive and was very much with her. Tilting her head she was now only fractions of millimetres away from his lips. She lifted her gaze off his mouth and up to his eyes. He was looking at her; the grey orbs swirled with darker clouds of black. Confusion mixed with lust. She knew she was acting out of their normal routine. She knew her lips came down on his skin in tender touches that were traditionally unused in their meetings. The way her fingers fleeted over his face, trying to remember every contour and curve was too slow, too loving. She never did that. Of course they were never rough with each other, but this was a moment that entered a world of intimacy, a place they had not yet dared visit. Hermione knew she was ready to take the first step, that it was something she wanted. The question was whether he wanted the same? Did he feel what she felt?
She gave him one final kiss on the corner of his lips before pulling away from him. Fingers trembling she reached out for the hand that lay on the armrest. She trailed her fingertips down the top of it, over the smooth bump of his knuckles until her hand was lying flat on his. He was cold, and she took it upon herself to heat him up. With firmer pressure she pressed down on his hand and then winding her fingers around his she lifted it off the chair. She could feel him staring at her, as she continued to pull his arm up higher and higher till their entwined fingers were at eye level. With another clever move, Hermione twisted their hands until one of his fingers was resting above her eyebrow, in the exact position where she had kissed him minutes ago. She finally looked down into his eyes. He knew what she wanted, what she craved.
'Come to me again'
The seconds dragged as Hermione gazed at him, desperately wanting to know what lay behind the grey depths of his eyes, wishing to be privy to the inner workings of his mind. In truth, it was all very selfish, for she wasn't really concerned about him but about what he would do. Would he reject her? Could he love her? It was all about her. Chiding herself on her self-centredness she was slow to realise his face was inching closer to her own. It was only when she could feel the hard body shift beneath her that she realised what was happening. She held her breath as the features of his face blurred in her vision as he neared her. And she didn't release it until she felt the soft touch of his lips against her forehead. She felt like all the bones in her body were melting, and her hand slipped from their mutual grasp landing on his lap with a soft thump. She was feeling weak everywhere but in her heart, which seemed to beat faster and faster with the renewed strength that washed over it.
She closed her eyes as she concentrated on the feeling of his fingers tracing a path to her chin, stiffened as his fingertips curved over her jaw line onto her neck, and then shivered as he placed a gentle kiss in the spot. They started to move again, up to the corner of her mouth. She could feel the skin of her face start to glow with the redness of pleasure as he moved in to leave one final kiss. But he didn't move away from her as she thought he would. Instead he slowly slid his full lips until they were resting on hers, and began to kiss her with a tenderness that she had never felt before.
And that night, Hermione lost herself fully to it and to him.
'In the cold, cold night
In the cold, cold night'
A/N Got requests to mention the war, Harry - who was a bit arseish I know. But hey its nice writing him like that, thou it may b a bit OOC - and her past relationship with Ron. Hope it twas alrite!
Any now its the end of another chapter and so its time for me to get down on my knees and beg for u lovely people to do the brill thing and REVIEW!!!
So go on.........
Luv Cedar1
Disclaimer: The kissing scene between Hr and D was a slightly altered form of a scene in the v. cute French film Amelie.
