Disclaimer: I don't own the title, it belongs to a lovely French movie, and the idea of this fanfic comes from that movie to. HAIL 5 X 2! I also don't own any of the characters you recognise, as they belong to the great J.K. Rowling, so don't sue!
A/N: for those of you who are waiting for the promised update of Keep Guessing, despair not! I'm on a major writer's block, so I'm not really up to writing long fics right now, so please bear with me and I'll get that chapter up ASAP :o)
Anyway, here's a short fic detailing the crucial moments in the relationship between Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. This chapter is set in after their time at Hogwarts, where Harry is looking for the fragments of Voldemot's soul, and Voldemort is slowly weakening. Despite this, the Death Eaters are growing more determined than ever, desperate to gain every scrap of power possible from Voldemorts influence. (chapters are not in chronological order! Hence it starts with chapter 5)
Objects in motion
An object in motion will tend to stay in motion unless acted upon by an external force.
Chapter 5
Silk.
That was all Hermione could feel, the silky material of her husbands suit brushing over her bare skin and pushing through the sheer material of her wedding gown. So it wasn't the most romantic place to consummate a marriage, in the bathroom, no less, of the wedding venue. Still, Hermione thought, barely coherently to herself, it didn't matter, not with the things his hands were doing to her.
Beautiful. She was always beautiful.
Third year, her cheeks rosy from adrenaline and her hair whipping around, floating. He was left with a hand shaped mark on his face for the better part of a week from that incident, a perfect impression of her hand. He layered on masking spells, and donned the mask of hatred.
Fourth year, the Yule Ball, he knew he was lost forever when he looked at her, and her now perfect smile.
Seventh year – the memories rushed past his head as Hermione pulled him towards her. He lowered his lips gently, gently onto hers, and she could almost feel the texture of his suit through her dress. The fabric of her pure white wedding dress whispered as it compacted between their bodies. Outside, their relatives must surely be waiting – but it doesn't matter.
They separate for air, and she opens her eyes, smiles at him. He feels his heart break, one piece after another, a porcelain heart cracking and warping.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip. The tap in the bathroom of the church seems to be broken. Draco reflects on how preposterous it seems, when such a well-to-do church has a broken tap. It then occurs to him that it is as if the whole world is crying for her. He could almost hear his heart been stamped and ground, and remembers part of a story that Hermione once taught him.
Fee! Fie! Foe! Fum!
I smell the blood of an Englishman.
Be he 'live, or be he dead,
I'll grind his bones to make my bread.
That moment felt an eternity away. He tensed. Hermione looks up at him, her eyes widening with worry. She reaches her hand up to touch him gently on the cheek.
She was the most beautiful woman in the world.
She kisses him, and in return, he draws out his wand.
"Avada Kevra" He whispered. There, it's done. No need to cry over spilt milk. He catches her as her body falls.