Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc. belongs to JKR.
There has always been something strange about a lack of light. It opens people up. It lets people spill out their souls without remorse or reserve.
You remember back to before the beginning, back to the life you had when everything you held so dear to you in the past was but a fairytale. You remember back to when there was no magic, no good and evil, no war or never ending shades of grey with an enemy obscured. You remember days of innocence and a monotony you never treasured enough, days where your security almost suffocated you and you dreamed of an escape. You remember days before the letter that changed your world…
You remember sitting in the dark, much like you do now (minus the manacles and the blood) and talking as you do to him (minus the bitterness and the desperation and hate). You remember curling up and whispering with a hushed voice into the darkness in response to your friend's questions.
It had been her tenth birthday… Her mother must have been quite strict, because it was the first sleep-over/slumber party you had ever had at her house… You can't remember her name or her face anymore. You don't know how you met or where she lived… but you do remember her voice. Hushed so not to draw attention to your conversation (you were meant to be asleep), soft in the absence of sleep but ever bright even in the dark. It was the kind of voice you could literally hear the smile in, the memory warms you.
That night you had told her your secrets and she had told you hers. They were small, what boys she liked, how embarrassing that time was when something happened… You can't remember what the something was but you do remember her gasp of scandal and your giggles. You remember how you told her things you'd promised yourself you'd keep to the grave, you remember how easy it was… Simply because you could hear her voice but not see her face. You couldn't see the expectation before the answer or the horror, amazement or pity after. It had been dark, and to you two girls it was as if you could say anything and if it came out wrong it could be as though it never happened, you'd dreamt it in the night… You couldn't see her face so surely if you willed it enough she wouldn't hear what you just said, or it would be forgotten in the morning.
Promises made then were the best kind. She could tell no one your secrets and vice versa because it may not have happened in the first place, what if you dreamt she said that and it wasn't true at all. You couldn't tell anyone.
Whatever your reasoning at the time, you always found it easier to talk in the dark, It's like talking to yourself and having someone reply without the embarrassment of the person seeing you talking to yourself… Kind of.
Well. If your logic was garbled it was with good reason.
He wasn't talking.
He hadn't been talking for more than two torture sessions.
And it wasn't just a he's-been-knocked-out-and-will-be-back-in-a-couple-of-hours kind of a silence or a he's-asleep-so-don't-make-too-much-noise-or-he'll-wake-and-he-needs-all-the-sleep-he-can-get kind of silence, it was a he's-not-talking-to-you-Bitch kind of silence. It was a silence that made you want to die even more, because without him there truly was no point in living. It was the kind of silence that made your teeth ache with shame. You really had gone too far.
And now he might die and you could never know because he wasn't talking to you and you'd keep talking to him and he wouldn't answer and you'd think it was because you were a bitch and actually it was because he was dead but you wouldn't know that and you'd keep on talking and it would be horrible because you'd die alone without even knowing it and you'd hate him for letting you die alone when in fact it was you that let him die alone because you were a bitch and made him not want to talk to you.
You really hated yourself sometimes. (Most of the time.) (All of the time that your efforts weren't devoted to hating him – the bastard.)
Stupid really. Waste of energy. There were enough people out there to hate you and him to the moon and back and yet you still both felt the need to hate each other on top of it. Waste of effort, waste of breath. You were both already damned, why damn each other more when you were the only people left to listen to each other's moaning? Masochism he calls it. Waste of life.
"Well, it's true. To bleed is to know that you're alive."
"Well maybe I don't want to be alive."
"You think I do? At least there is something to focus on. Even if it hurts it is real. Who knows, give it a few more years and you might develop a thing for it… assisted masochism or something, could even be fun."
"You are one twisted fuck."
"Oooo. Harsh words. You know I'm right."
"Don't you smirk at me Draco Malfoy, I would kick you if my feet weren't strapped to the wall."
"I'm touched, truly."
Perhaps you should apologise? You had no right. You never had the right. You never will have. You don't blame him for hating you. You hate yourself. But that never stopped you talking to yourself… Why can't he just say something? It hurts to be alone. It hurts until you can't feel your thoughts anymore… It's not like their pain. Sharp. Violent. Quick. This is pain only he can conjure. Soft (too soft). Aching (never ending). Personal. This time you really messed up.
How do you apologise for something like that? You can't expect him to understand why you said it. You have no right to expect that of him. You don't understand yourself so how can you explain it to him. You were bitter? Resentful? Because you always are… and you've never gone that far before. You wouldn't forgive you. How can you expect it of him?
You miss him. It hurts.
Maybe you should compose a poem or something? Sing to him; serenade him with your heartfelt apology. It would make him laugh if nothing else. You like it when he laughs. When he laughs you can close your eyes and see Grimmauld Place with that wooden table between you and Tonks shaking her head while she leaves you to his dark, sarcastic taunts.
You hated him then.
You hate him now.
But you miss him and you want him back.
"Malfoy?"
There is no answer and you want to cry. You want to scream and pound you fists into his chest and break down and hold him. But you can't. And you won't. So you bite your lip and taste the blood and try again.
"Draco?"
Silence and you hope and pray and dream that he is still asleep. That he isn't ignoring you and hating you and resenting you even more than before… Because it had been a mistake. A slip up. Old habit. Bad habit. It shouldn't have happened.
"Draco. I'm Sorry." Your voice cracks and you feel so weak and so alone that it hurts and you ache.
"I'm so, so, so sorry."
He doesn't respond and you break down and retreat into memories. Because that is all you have left without him. Memories and dreams. Childhood dreams that long since shattered.
But sometimes you like to pick up the pieces and look at the fractured jigsaw of innocent hopes. Sometimes it helps you forget. Sometimes it feels nice and comforting in an empty sort of way.
Sometimes it just makes you miss him more.
Bright skies and loud music.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, I bid you welcome to the one, the only…. Grimmauld Place House Of Horrors!"
Halloween afternoon.
Eleven months had passed since Draco Malfoy changed sides.
She wasn't sure how it happened but by the suggestion of Malfoy the three boys had employed Fred, George, Tonks and Ginny to create a huge scale Halloween party for the members of the Order. Complete with costumes. White costumes with pretty white flowers and dresses that scream misused innocence. She really hated him sometimes.
Since the beginning of War the Order had been taking more and more orphans under their wing and one morning the week before, Draco Malfoy (ex-Death Eater extraordinaire) (not to be trusted) stood up at breakfast and announced to her, Ron, Harry, Mrs Weasley and Ginny that they were going to throw them a party on All Hallows' Eve.
"A party?" She had said; practically radiating scepticism in a way only she could manage.
"Yes, Granger. A party. You may not be personally acquainted with the concept, but some of us do know how to have fun."
"Uh huh. It's a nice idea but... don't you think it could possibly be considered slightly insensitive to throw a party on the anniversary of their parents death?"
"No. We throw them a party to take their minds off it."
"I'm not sure if that's the best idea… They could take it the wrong way."
"How many ways is it possible to take a party, Granger? Just a bit of harmless Halloween fun, no references to last year or white lilies hanging from the doorways. It'll give them something to focus on… You know, a bit of distraction."
"Maybe it's not healthy to avoid the issue like that. Maybe some of them would rather mourn than prance around in fancy dress?"
"Just cause you're a killjoy doesn't mean the rest of us have to be! Do you honestly want to sit around a house of depressed kids pining for their parents?"
"No! But– Gods, Malfoy!" She glared. "You are so damn insensitive! You can't just give them a bit of music and cake and hope all their problems will wash away! Not everyone is as bloody unfeeling as you! Their parents died! They deserve to mourn in peace! Not be hounded by you! Of all people you being one of the ones who made them orphans in the first place."
She was suddenly very aware of everyone's eyes on her. Malfoy's eyes narrowed, face paling. She had taken it slightly too far.
There was a heavy silence and then:
"Hermione, sit down."
Expelling a shaky breath she allowed Harry's hand to guide her to her seat. She hadn't noticed standing up.
"Well…" He started hesitantly. "I think it was a good idea. There's little point in us all moping around waiting for the day to end. If they can't be in Hogwarts for the feast then we can at least give them something to enjoy." He paused and looked around. "They're just kids. They have the right to have a bit of fun. Not everyone should have to grow up as fast as we did."
"I– I didn't mean it that way. I'm sorry, Malfoy." He just looked at her before inclining his head so slightly it was barely noticeable. Apology accepted. "So…" she started again, needing more than wanting to make it up. "What sort of party do you have in mind?"
He smiled the sort of smile only he could, the kind that announced some deep dark plan with an undertone of utter mischief. "Molly?" Mrs Weasley eyed him with suspicion, they never had seen eye to eye. "Would you mind terribly if I invited your sons over for dinner?"
And that was it. An owl to Tonks and a visit to Diagon Alley later and the twins, the two heroes, the little sister, the auror and her Death Eater cousin locked themselves up in the attic of the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix with several plates of Mrs Weasley's sandwiches, and didn't come down for three solid days.
She had been sitting in the kitchen, reading up on some of the Dark Spells Malfoy had been trying to teach Harry, when they burst in, Luna and Neville in tow, looking distinctly pleased with themselves. That in itself was enough to set the alarm bells ringing but George Weasley handing her a brown paper package had her very nearly hitting paranoia.
Malfoy slapped her on the back and sent her shell-shocked form off the get changed and here she was. Dressed as a sacrificial virgin (Malfoy's idea, Ron had confessed at wand point) complete with long white dress and small white flowers in her hair, she returned to see the house transformed to it's medieval torture chamber glory, thumbscrews and everything. It was impressive.
The ivory dagger strapped to her hip started looking particularly attractive when Malfoy (slimy vampire, all slick black dyed hair and musical voice – bastard) had smirked his treacherous Malfoy smirk at her, ushering the wide-eyed schoolchildren into the garden.
But he had been right. And it had been fun. And for the first time since the Department of Mysteries, the official start of the War, four years previously she relaxed one hundred percent, sipping her green dyed drink with a smile, watching Harry, Ron, Fred, George and Malfoy do the cancan to music belting out of a music box charmed to play 'Muggle Popular Classics From The Nineteen-thirties'.
What you wouldn't give for that now…
To be able to witness Ron dressing up as a troll, Fred and George a muggle pantomime horse… Harry had been a muggle punk, 70's style with safety pins and leather, it scared the hell out of the younger pureblood kids… And Malfoy for that matter. Luna had been one of the Fae; you remember Neville stuttering whenever she looked at him. You remember agreeing to tango with Malfoy and looking in horror a few weeks later at one particular picture (courtesy of Colin Creevy) where you appeared to be staring into each other's eyes with your leg draped over his hip. You thought you'd never live that down.
As the tears fall silently and unceasingly down your cheeks you long to hug yourself, or anyone really, but your arms are bound and muscles wasted. You want to talk to Ron again; you want to tell him what you never had the guts to then. You want to hug Harry and tell him how proud you were, how proud you'd always been. You want to tell Neville to get over it and ask Luna out, you want to get Tonks to grow her hair again, you want to hug Mrs Weasley and thank her for being there for you when you needed a mother's love more than anything in the world. You want to thank Snape for everything you never managed to thank him for before, because without him you wouldn't even have Malfoy. And you want to thank Malfoy, you need to thank Draco Malfoy for being there even when he didn't want to be, when you didn't want him to be, but all the same doing the right thing and trying. And now, for being the only thing that keeps you living as more than a shell. You want to thank him for keeping the memories alight and for making the silence a little less silent and the cold a little less cold and the pain a little less painful and life a little more bearable. You want to thank him for being him but still doing the right thing and not acting bitter about it.
You open your eyes and this time the darkness is blurred, you turn to face where you always hear him from and gaze into the empty blackness. You look and you look until your eyes water on top of your tears and then you think you see it. Silver-grey eyes, apologetic, beautiful, pale. Pale like the skin, the hair. Pale like his entire being as he looked at you those last ever moments in the sun. It sounds cheesy and cliché but in your mind he almost has a halo of light around him and as you cry you plead with all your soul that he will reply. That he will listen and talk back.
"I'm sorry, Draco. I'm so, so sorry."
Your voice cracks and plead and pray and hope.
"I know. And don't call me Draco. It's bloody intimidating."
Through your tears you laugh and choke and snort a bit and then he starts laughing too and you feel for a moment like everything will be alright. Even as you bleed and cry and hang broken from a wall, he laughs and you laugh and it almost feels good.
It almost feels as if everything will be okay.
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