"my twisted knife; my sleepless night." - hoax
"you told her that," parkinson deadpanned, a cigarette dangling from her ruby lips, her perfectly arched brow directed at him. if draco knew anything, it was that pansy almost always meant well. almost, save for her brutal honesty that he never knew he needed, hitting him square in the jaw and leaving him winded.
perhaps pansy never doubted his idiocy, particularly with words of reassurance and warmth. she herself experienced that, in their younger years – draco wished he had been less callous to her, to anyone, truthfully. it was better to have been hit by a curse, he mused, rather than hear and realize his own faults – too late at that.
he didn't gratify her with a response. he already knew that she thought he was stupid.
looking away towards the crackling fireplace, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, he took a sip of his delicately aged brandy. it should have burned his tongue, but it seemed like fire and ashes was all he knew now.
"and she…?" the witch gestured to the empty drawing room.
is gone. one week ago.
draco nodded, as it was the only response he could afford to give. he was devoid of life. (he tried to ignore his shaking hands as he drank.) the raven-haired witch softly clicked her tongue, lighting her cigarette.
"potter and the others?" pansy offered, knowing that he may have already looked for her there. somehow, draco felt that she knew she wouldn't be there in the first place if hermione granger hadn't left the manor and if he knew where to find her.
perhaps she was trying to get him to talk, to breathe, to get something out of him. draco shook his head with a soft sigh. he had already gone to see his colleagues at the ministry on the first day of her being gone. though he was shunned by the majority due to his family's history and his own crimes, these sins also resulted in him being bound to a lifetime of servitude to the ministry with no other choice.
(a cruel twist of fate, hermione, and both her meddling friends were stuck with him, or he, them, which, he thought, somehow worked in his favor as being an auror was one of his more redeemable suits. although, again, he repeated to himself, it was infinitely better than sleeping in a cold cell in the middle of the ocean.)
granted, years had passed and he still cannot stand the presence and the apparent boisterousness of the two men his hermione – he choked, was it still right to call her that? – called her friends. somehow, he felt a certain civility, and somehow, calm, from potter, in particular. perhaps the ever-irritating bespectacled boy thought, somehow, that he chose the right path. (did he?) draco was not sure if he appreciated it, or if he should be worried about it.
he pushed his luck in falling for her, he knew. he did, despite the stares. despite the judgment, the prying eyes. he did his best to love her. to show her, and everyone, that he was also worth loving despite his past. to be forgiven. to be seen in a different light.
she gave her that chance. one chance. still, he pushed his luck, yet he also knew that the time would come that he will run out of it.
"hermione… she's gone. i can't… find her," he crumbled, forgetting for once how to be ashamed to show weakness.
they searched for her.
(but then, someone who would not want to be found may just as well be lost forever.)
days had passed. with little to no options left except the muggle world, which was beyond vast than he could ever imagine, draco only received the same devastated stares, potter and weasley distraught.
and he thought he was the only one.
he tried not to think back how crushed he was finding her solitary space emptied, pillows neatly stacked together, the pure, regal duvet folded. it was resounding memory in his mind, the silence. the manor was as barren as ever, even more so than the time that she has yet to set foot within its walls. sometimes, he wished she never did, but he knew himself well enough that he didn't mean that.
he loved her too much.
it was too much to remember. to be left behind.
he didn't understand. he tried the best that he could, but perhaps the way he knew how was wrong. maybe the was wrong. maybe he was.
maybe if he hadn't said that. maybe if he hadn't left her in isolation for so long. maybe. maybe she would still be there, brown eyes smiling at him. maybe he should have tried harder to be there for her.
he hadn't had a lot of time with her if he admitted it to himself. it scared him when her smiles turned into blank stares onto open space, and that she spent a lot of her time away from work. she needed to rest, she said, she needed some time, to be quiet. she never read again, never wrote anything, she rested, on that cage she called the bed of hers, past what draco felt like the point of no return. he thought there was a lot that she didn't say to him, and it made him think if that was his own fault.
too many questions.
"you fucked up," pansy said simply, her voice taking him back to his present misery, his body aching in too many places. he was exhausted. he has not slept. he was tired. draco ran his tired fingers over his pale hair. he knows. he almost scoffed. of course he knew.
at least that took something out of him. "you're gonna keep looking?" she pressed on, smoke billowing from her parted lips.
he doesn't know.