Author's Note: Once again, thank you to all the reviewers, your opinions mean a lot! Updates will be a bit irregular, some may come early and some a little later as I'm busy at Uni, but rest assured, they will come.
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o 0 o Through the Valley o 0 o
By FicklePen.
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Chapter Three:
Room With A View.
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Draco couldn't move; couldn't concentrate on the moment, could barely breathe. It was too much - hurt too much. The weight pressing against in his chest only grew heavier as the seconds slid by like rivulets of condensation rolling down brittle glass. They didn't speak. How could they? After everything they had said and done, after he had left without a single word. . .
She looked the same.
Merlin's fluffy boots, she was beautiful - if only to him. Cinnamon hair curled in intoxicating waves around her shoulder; expressive muddy eyes that still retained some semblance of innocence, even after all of the atrocities they had witnessed. Clad in a white muggle, strapless muslin sundress that fluttered around her curvaceous frame, she was the epitome of everything pure and good he had left behind. . . It was if she had been frozen in time from their painful last encounter. Except - except that the shadows in her eyes were nearly all but diminished. Those hateful shadows were dimmed by an air of serenity; it surrounded her like a dove-white cloud, and it was all he could do to keep out from reaching towards her, aching to touch her just for a moment. Aching to touch that purity because he was tainted.
But he couldn't. Wouldn't.
So instead. . . He remembered.
He remembered that as much as she loved books, she also loved art. Vivid, mesmerising, captivating art. Therapeutic; that's what she called it.
In their summer villa, he had seen her using all manner of muggle equipment. Watercolours, oils paints, acrylic paints. . . sometimes pastels, other times charcoal and graphite. But most of all, he remembered the curve of her wrist as she flicked a fine paintbrush across a stark white canvas. It was like watching a haunting dance; almost as if he could taste the tangible sorrow in that one simple gesture. A lifetime of regret and despair entrenched onto her canvas and he had been drawn to it like an unsuspecting moth to a flame.
Such beauty and refinement. . . And he had left, all because he had been burnt by the flame. Burnt by her.
He blinked, but remained unmoving, watching intently as she shuddered and drew herself back from her own musings before casting a single, subtle nod in his direction. What was she thinking?
His throat tightened and grey eyes hardened, but he managed to nod back. He knew the implication of her open acknowledgement. The time for them to speak had come. Too soon, in his opinion.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her childhood friend deftly slip his wand back into his sleeve, as if it had never left with the intention of causing harm. She spoke to the dark-haired, bespectacled man in a hushed and hurried voice that reminded him of the various forays that had occurred in the warm bed they shared before his departure.
Fascinated and mildly disgusted by their familiar interaction, another longing pang reverberated through his hollow chest. Jealousy was an unbecoming trait in a Malfoy. It was not only a vile feeling, but very deadly. His hand itched to grab his wand and blast. . .
They stopped talking and he sighed with relief.
Without even a glance of recognition in his direction, the Boy-Who-Bloody-Kept-Living stalked away into the open area of the shop, leaving him alone with her.
Eyes focused once more, his brow winged with savage surprise as his former lover motioned for him to follow her through to the back.
Breathing deeply, he took that first step into the abyss.
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They stepped into a fairly large office, painted with cream and egg-shell blue, and the first thing Draco noticed was the bay window that looked out onto a familiar view. . . It was a charmed window, of course. There was no snowy, mountainous landscape in London. But the view was from the villa; their hidden sanctuary. So she remembered. . . It was an exact replica of the scene from the villa's bedroom window. He wondered if she ever went there, or if it had turned into a crumbling relic.
A spark of hope ignited before he tamped it down ruthlessly. That time was gone, and he would bow down at Potter's feet before ever humiliating himself again like that. He had given her everything of himself and she - she had tossed it back in his face, without remorse, without preamble.
The anger he had felt for the first year after her rejection returned full force. It blazed through him recklessly and heknew that if he didn't control it, something terrible would happen.
Draco shifted warily, turning his cold gaze away from the window and onto the woman standing nervously before him.
He wanted to hit her. Fuck her and hit her.
He wanted to kiss her. . . Kiss those pouted cherry lips -trap that juicy bottom piece of flesh that called out to him like a siren waiting to lead him to his climactic death.
Shuddering, he reigned in every ounce of control and glared at her. His Hermione. . .
She wrung her hands awkwardly before motioning him to sit on a comfortable antique chair. She took the chair behind the desk, purposely putting a strong object between them. Smart woman. But then again, she was the brightest witch of the age.
Not so bright if she could toss away everything they had with a few colourful words.
She cleared her throat. "How did you find me?"
He almost rolled his eyes. He almost screamed. Instead, he sighed. "I wasn't looking for you."
Draco could have sworn she brightened at his carefully controlled words.
Damn witch. . . She still didn't want him.
Contrary to the novels of high romance his mother had been so fond of reading, a person cannot "mourn in sorrow all their days" over anything. There is too much good in the world, too much joy in simply being alive, in every single day, to dwell constantly on all the things of life that wasn't. The grief of her past had faded and been replaced by something new, something different and more distilled. It glittered like a diamond bathed in moonbeams.
She glowed and radiated contentment. And it made him feel deflated, as if someone had punctured every pore in his skin and there was nothing left inside but an insignificanthusk of the man he was. Of the man he had become for her.
Hermione smiled with relief at his forced words.
And with that smile, he began to feel like two titanic storm fronts were clashing in his head, wheeling into a tornado that threatened to sweep him away. With that same smile, something sang inside him like the warm winds over the moors. Heat began to kindle and grow inside his chest like a slow burning hearth fire after a long freezing day. Two years. . . Two very long years without her smile. He had waited so long to see it and much to his chagrin, it sent him soaring upwards.
But from such a high, precarious pinnacle. . . there was so far to fall. So far. . .
"How are you?" She finally asked softly, as she used her wand to prepare him a simple beverage of tea with a lemon and honey twist.
Just the way he liked it.
Something inside him snapped. "I'm not here to exchange pleasantries with you, Granger," he heard himself snarl. He was saying and doing everything opposite. He wanted to hold her, but all he could do was push her away with cold words.
Her smile froze and her hand trembled as she pushed the tea in front of him.
"Oh? So what do you want, Malfoy?" She placed a façade of coolness over her shattered joy but it didn't fool him. Malfoy. Not Draco; not love. But Malfoy. Used like a curse word.
He dismissed the tea with a flick of his own wand. "I'm here to discuss a few rare texts from my father's library," he drawled, "I was hoping to speak with the owner, not the middle-man." He trailed his eyes down her body with a sneer, knowing it would infuriate her. Gods, didn't she know how delicious she looked when angered?
Predictably, his insinuation caused her to bristle. "I am the owner," she hissed, before concentrating on his previous sentence. "How rare are we talking?"
Draco snorted. "Rarer than Hogwarts, Dumbledore and Potter trapped in an ashwinder."
Hermione's mind focused solely on the business as she ignored the insults; a flash of anticipation lit her eyes. "I could have a curator look at them for you. What's their condition?"
He swallowed more insults and returned to the discussion at hand. "Relatively pristine, but a few need to be restored," he admitted.
"Are you willing to sell them? Or do you simply want to find out their condition and price?"
"I would have sold them here, but now that I know you're the new owner. . . I'm not so sure." He smirked outwardly as she huffed with indignation, but on the inside he felt as if he were being ripped apart by a thousand razors.
"You can keep your fucking books," Hermione snapped, and he felt hisheart sink to the tips of his toes. "Have them sent over next week and we'll sort it out. I may have a few collectors interested in buying. . . And you don't have to trouble yourself by coming all this way in person, you can send a representative if you prefer."
"It's no trouble. I got to annoy you, didn't I?" But there was no enthusiasm in his biting words. "The squalor of this place suits your Mudblood heritage. I'm not surprised that you own this pathetic dump."
Lies, it was all lies!
He wanted to tell her that he was impressed, that this was the first book-shop he wanted to stay in. Because it was hers.
Dark brown eyes narrowed dangerously at his careless words. "You're still the same annoying little boy trapped in a grown man's body, aren't you?" She stood from her seat and leaned over the desk, offering him a delectable view of her creamy breasts. Much to her outrage, she caught his eyes looking at her chest and snarled like a wildcat, slamming her palms on the desk. "Oh grow up and get some balls! Of all the degrading, idiotic. . . "
Draco started inwardly at the venom in her voice, but tuned out the rest of her words. A haze surrounded him as her chest heaved buoyantly with fury and it drew him in with startling earnest. By the Gods, he hadnever realised how much he missed those breasts. . .
Her snarling and shrieking went unheard as his eyes remained fixed permanently on the two creamy mounds that seemed to have a life of their own.
He came out of his stupor as he felt something hard smack his cheek. Belatedly, he realised it was her palm.
It stung. . . But damn, what a view.
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But what's a man without a past?
We love him for his lies ,
And then we try to break him down to make it last,
'Til they come true.
Thank God for this beautiful view.
Beautiful view.
- Tina Dico.
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