Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy, etc…here borrowed for non-profit, purely entertainment reasons.
Author's notes: Is it weird to write an outtake for my own story? Yep, and probably self-centered as well. Forgive me; I couldn't find a feasible place to put this. This can be read without reading The Painted Past, but would probably appear darker without the context. Not intended to be a dark-fic, so the non-consensual themes are dealing with purely emotional force, and nothing to do with physical trauma.
Many More
By Adelaide E
xoxox
How many times, Draco? How many times?
And he knew how many, for each time had left a glaring scar on his heart. He knew that these statistics shouldn't have existed.
He could not answer, unable to do anything except stare at her. The room was dark, utterly drowned in the inky night, and yet he could see her so clearly. How did she do that? How did she manage to be so easily found, a constant anchor, despite the crumbling of this world?
Draco did not have the answer. He never had the answers when it came to this witch, for she had the irritating habit of raising the loveliest paradoxes.
He had to keep her, and find the answers. He had to.
Malfoy's response had been a frightening look of determination, and so she found herself sobbing another horrified question.
"How many more times, Draco? How many more?"
As many as it takes. The words were not spoken except by the tone of his grey, unyielding gaze. It was wrong to love and hurt her, he knew that…somewhere inside him. But that part—the one that protested his force, the one that protested his cruelty—rarely rose to the surface these days. His conscience would bob up with the absurd hope of being heard and acted upon; only to wither under the scorching prospect of returning to that life. That life of death after death, loneliness dancing hauntingly between the silent lulls.
"Please don't. Please don't, Draco, not again."
But he was Slytherin. More than that, he was a Malfoy.
And, more than that, he was a man in love.
So to stop betraying her seemed like nothing more than a betrayal to them, as a singular unit. It would be giving up, and that wasn't what people in love did. She would frown on that, wouldn't she? Abandoning a cause—a righteous and damned noble cause of ensuring true love—simply because she wasn't fully aware of what sacrifices were to be made? It wasn't palatable. It wasn't right.
He had never been a great sponsor of doing the right thing. But as he took her into his arms, tightening his hold as she tearfully fought for freedom, Draco decided that loving her and keeping her with all the weapons within his grasp—it was not wrong. It was what any other man would have done.
If that man was in love with Hermione Granger.
Here they were, surrounded by the struggle, destroyed antiques and ripped books displaying the ferocity of the adversaries. Age and knowledge, surrounded by it, immersed in it…and yet neither could achieve their respective goals without hurting one another.
The only reason Draco succeeded time and time again was Hermione Granger's tragic flaw—she listened to her conscience. She hesitated to willingly wound his heart when he stared at her longingly, begging for a chance to explain.
And so…she lost.
How many more times, Hermione? He thought—somewhat sad, but mostly coldly impatient—as he performed the spell, watching her eyes flutter shut. How many more…before you realise that you love me?
Just one more.
xoxox
The End
