Title: Who They Were
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It's in that minute that he hates the world, hates the War, hatesthemselves--for being who they were.
Author's Note: The other side of No Longer Pretend. This time it concentrates on Draco and Hermione. Dedicated to Katrina, who asked a fic for her birthday. So here it is. Hope you like it! And--oh yeah, this was written while listening to Break Me Gently by Doves. :D
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It's not supposed to be like this.
He can't keep seeing her, especially now that they're in between the War. He can't keep running to her whenever there's time; he cannot lie beside her in the long hours of the night, simply because she asks him to and because he wants to stay there forever; he can't risk holding her after one of her friends die; he cannot keep watching out for her in the battlefield, just because he wants her alive; he cannot keep pretending that one day when the War ends, they'll both live, because that can't happen—it shouldn't happen.
And yet… he knows he cannot survive without her. It's some sort of sick irony, because he's meant to kill her and her like; she's the filthy vermin of the world and yet he thinks her the most beautiful creature he's ever set his eyes on.
It's holding her hand and realizing he'll never let go.
One day it'll all vanish, simply because it isn't meant for the two of them, but neither cares—they've been ready for it since the beginning, and he's content with living this lie that it'll last forever.
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He loves watching her, watching her move through the cool hallways of the castle, a number of books in her hands, her wild hair—the color of mud, he notices—falling down dramatically behind her. He's taken to observing her nowadays: a habit he can't seem to shake off.
He's noticed many things about her, things not even Potter and Weasley would ever pay attention to. He's learned she has a habit of tickling her own chin with her quill when she's deep in thought. He's noted how carefully she takes in her bites during mealtimes; how she herself even gets sleepy during History of Magic; how confidently she walks into any room, as if to say that she's capable of anything; how she wrings the hem of her sweater when she's anxious; how easy it is to make her laugh.
She never notices the piercing gaze he always seems to give her whenever they're in the same room. Sometimes he imagines that—just maybe—she knows he's looking at her. Perhaps she likes the attention. Perhaps she's keeping him in the dark. Perhaps she likes it whenever he looks at her. Sometimes he imagines her tilting her head towards his direction and gazing pointedly at him, challenging him as if she's telling him that two can play in his game. Sometimes he imagines her lips curving into a smile, one intended only for him.
It never happens, though. He suspects it never will.
…Not that he minds, because he's content with watching her forever.
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He's standing right across her on a deserted field. It's another battle—one significant enough to be written down for the future. He's surrounded by his allies and like all of them, he's wearing his hood over his eyes, his wand held tightly by his right hand.
She's there on the other side, her riotous curls flailing about as a hostile breeze blows through the field. Her lips are set in a grim line, her eyes—colored mud, he absent-mindedly notices—bright with anxiety and determination. She's in between her two friends and for a brief moment, he's reminded of the past.
It's in that minute that he hates the world; hates the War--
Hates themselves—
For being who they were.
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She's smiling at the two bloody gits again. Slowly, gently, she throws back her head and laughs—and he hears it again, that tinkling, lovely sound he swears he hates. They're laughing all together, as if they're a bunch of idiots, and he hates it, abhors it—and then there she is now, her laughter subsided, only to be replaced by a soft smile.
That's all it takes for him to be grounded. It's not as dazzling as any of the Patils' smiles, or as seductive as that Brocklehurst's, or as flirtatious as that Brown's, but it's different.
It's real. It's enough to make anyone feel important to have deserved it.
But that's just it—he doesn't deserve it. It's never for him.
It'll always belong to Potter and that damn, hateful Weasley. It'll always belong to someone else.
She'll always belong to someone else.
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There's a gash on the side of his face, noticeable on his pale, smooth skin. He feels her fingers gently tracing the horrible line, and it hurts—hurts so much, but he doesn't want her touch to go away. He sometimes imagines her fingers working their own magic on his scars, believing they could heal them on their own.
He watches her eyes go wide; her lips part as she releases a soft gasp—and then she's wearing a look: a look she always tries to hide in vain, a look unmasking all the things she never should show him, revealing the tiniest part of something he's never supposed to know. But there it is and he smiles slightly, taking her hand that's on the side of his face.
You deserve that, she whispers. For all the things you've done.
He smirks. Yet here you are again intending to heal it. Funny, isn't it?
He notices that there's a bruise on her shoulder, and he runs his fingers over it, looking at it with disdain. His eyes flicker back to her face and he scowls, withdrawing his hand. He recalls that he hates her then.
Remember that I won't always try and protect you, Granger.
It's her turn to tilt her head and smirk, barely uttering a word of reply, because he knows what she'll say anyway.
He almost smiles.
Funny, isn't it?
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The first time he kisses her, he knows he'll never try to kiss any other girl again. He doesn't know what's possessed him to do such a thing, but there it is and there's no way he's stopping now. He's clinging to her robes when he pulls her closer, his lips trying to consume every part of hers. What's strange is that she's not pushing him away; on the contrary, it seems as if she's wanted this to happen. She tastes sweet, if anything, just as he imagined her to be.
Just when he thinks that it'll last forever, she pushes him on his chest and slaps him. Her eyes are wide, aghast and embarrassed; her cheeks are marred red from heat; her lips are swollen and pink. She's breathing erratically and hisses, "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, Malfoy?"
He scowls, a sort of anger building up within him. What the bloody hell WAS he thinking, kissing someone like her? He's disgusted, but he can't seem to shake off the memory of her lips.
"Don't ever try to do that again, Malfoy, you hear me?" she says. "Or I won't hesitate to curse you, you bloody prat!"
It's funny that he knows it's an empty threat.
And he's right, because a week later—
They're kissing again.
And this time she doesn't pull back.
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It's dawn before the next battle. She's standing outside, watching day unfold before her. The air is promising, as if by the time night comes, everything will end. As if everything will finally work out for the both of them.
He comes next to her and stares out into the distance.
It's then that she speaks. What will you do if I never come back from a battle?
He hardly turns to look at her. Nothing, of course.
You won't come looking for me?
I should think so.
Why not?
Why should I?
It's just that, I thought… you…never mind.
She shrugs and keeps silent once more. He doesn't dare ask what she was going to say; he knows anyway.
When she speaks again, she tells him she has to leave. He nods, his gaze still intent upon the rising sun. He hates seeing her leave. There's simply a feeling of fear that she'd never return.
Granger?
Yes?
Promise me you'll come back.
There's nothing but silence after he says that. He assumes she's left already…
But then he feels arms wrapping around him from behind; a firm, almost final hug, and a soft whisper in his ear.
I promise.
It's the last thing she ever tells him.
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"Malfoy?"
"What?"
"I don't suppose you still hate me, do you?"
"No, not anymore, I think."
"Then I suppose you love me?"
"Why are you asking me?"
"It's just that if you did, it'd complicate things, you know?" she replies, as if she were explaining a lesson in class. "If anything, I wish things were the same as before."
He simply stays quiet.
"Promise me you won't try and love me, Malfoy?"
He looks away and scowls; nevertheless, "I promise, Granger."
She smiles and he tries in vain to smile back.
But everything's too late—too late to take back what he's said, because he'd already broken it.
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They're standing in the shadows of the cemetery. It's raining like hell and it's all too risky to have come out like this. He doesn't care, though—doesn't care anymore that his enemy is just a few feet away from where they are. Pansy's come along, surely to see Potter and make sure he's alright, but he hardly pays any mind to her and instead keeps his attention to the small crowd gathered together in the near distance.
It's a few minutes until they disperse; Potter and Weasley stay a bit longer than the rest, because after all, it was their loss, and for a moment, he almost thinks there's something common among the three of them.
And that was her.
Every step towards where they had been is almost painful to take—every single one breaks him; he knows that when he stops, he'll have to face the one thing he's been trying to avoid.
And there it is, staring at him in the face: the truth of it all that she's quite gone—gone.
The rain is pounding against the earth so much harder and the wind is harsh when it blows through the cemetery, and he hears Pansy talking to him, but he can't seem to hear—he can't seem to hear anything but the cruel ringing in his ears.
He drops to his knees and tries to reach out for her, tracing what could have been her face, his fingers against the cold, hard surface of the stone that could have been her soft, warm skin. He's nothing but numb.
He's never even told her he loved her. And he silently chuckles; his shoulders shake because he thinks it is funny, how he could have been with her for so long and had never taken a chance to tell her.
Perhaps she's known all along; perhaps she's angry at him for never telling her; perhaps she's here right now, watching him as he's down on all fours before her grave.
What will you do if I never come back from a battle? She'd asked that before.
He digs his fingers into the mud when the tears begin to fall.
I'll miss you, that's what.
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He's come to look for her after graduation. She's in one of the terraces overlooking the Great Lake, her black robes billowing gently as the wind blows by. The sun is setting behind the mountains, and for some reason, it's the most beautiful sunset he's ever seen.
"So we still end up being enemies, huh, Malfoy?" She grins slightly.
"Obviously."
She laughs, and he thinks he could die happily on this spot if that were the last thing he'd ever hear.
"Take care of yourself, will you, Granger?"
"I will."
"Don't try to get yourself killed."
"I won't."
And this it—when they finally say goodbye, and he almost wishes he could try to hate her all over again.
When he turns to look at her, however, she's gazing up at him almost fondly. There's a look in her eyes that seems almost loving.
And there—there on her face is her smile.
And it's meant for him.
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