o0o
Saturday, May 7th 2005
"Why do you stay?" he screamed at her. The carpetbag into which he had been shoving robes dropped from his hand.
"For you, Draco. I stay in this dreadful manor for you!" she said, tears were brimming her lashes.
"Get out!" He kicked the bag at her. "Get your sodding belongings and get the fuck out. You stupid, stupid woman." He just wanted her to leave. To disappear before the Dark Lord's punishment for traitors was carried out.
She stood before him, not wavering, back straight, hands curled into fists at her sides. Narcissa Malfoy did not fear her son. Feared for him, but did not fear him.
He bared his teeth, and grabbed her arms. "I hate you. I want nothing to do with you. So leave," he hissed at her, hoping his unadulterated meanness would break her soul and force her to run away.
Her irises flexed as she stared into his soul. "That's okay, darling, because I love you enough for both of us." Her voice was calm as it always was, breaking only a bit.
His mother was the bravest woman he'd ever known.
"Don't say that. Don't. Fucking. Say. That!" Draco spun from her, pushing his hands through his hair. He didn't want to believe that his mother had betrayed them. There had to be an alternative explanation for her meeting with Severus Snape. She wouldn't work with the Order. She wanted nothing to do with the War.
"But I do love you."
He pivoted to retort to her, but his eyes widened dangerously.
She closed her eyes, the tears overflowed down her flushed cheeks. As she let her lashes rise, she smiled that perfect motherly smile at him. "And I know you love me too. Because when I look into your eyes, I see the dashing prince off to save his princess. I see the goodness that you've chosen to ignore. I see you, Draco. I always see you."
He reached out his hand, wanting to stop it, but it all happened just too fast.
The curse never left Lucius' mouth, but an eerie red light flashed through the room, and then Draco was forced to watch his mother suffer into death.
He could only hold her face and tell her over and over again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
o0o
Saturday, December 24th 2005Hermione wasn't speaking to him.
This was a welcomed silence because he did not know what to say to her.
He had gone to bed without dinner last night, tucking his head under his pillow and pulling his quilt tightly around him.
He had heard her cry though, but didn't understand why. He was never good with a woman's tears; they made him feel weak and that was more than he could comprehend.
He had never felt it before, but he recognized the magnetic pull when their aura's had fused. It was more than magic, more than a spark, it was …disgusting and wrong.
But it hadn't felt sordid or immoral. It had felt good. Bloody good, and Morgana's knickers, he had felt. He had felt a powerful attraction to her. One that had left him dizzy and confused. Left his body strung taught, each nerve frazzled and frayed, pulsing with each reverberating batter of his wakening heart.
He hadn't even laid a finger on her either, because really, that would have been just too much to handle.
A lukewarm bath after two hours of cracking at rounds in the yard at dawn had quelled his intensified awareness.
It was a lot to deal with all at once and truthfully, he was afraid. He knew he wanted her in all the ways a man wants a woman. But he couldn't seem to jump that huge, ugly hurdle. She was muggleborn. Her blood was as blue as his, but the magic was dirty. She was supposed to be lower than filth to him, no better than a house elf. He shouldn't want to soil his consanguineous purity with the likes of her.
But oh, that pull, that feeling, that unseen force of chemistry that was like a direct injection to his still heart.
Draco glanced up at Hermione then, through the haze of tension that had been heavy and static since the night prior. It made him very sensitive to her. When she moved he felt it in his being, and he could feel her pulsing breath, smell her delectable scent. Hermione was all around him. It was nearly spiritual. Especially since she currently sat across the room from him. She was reading a book, her chin resting on her knuckles, and a million miles away on some fictional adventure where the Byronic Hero was ideal and went after what he wanted most; the beautiful precocious Heroine who was sensationally out of his league.
o0o
Saturday, April 6th 1996
Draco was heavily drowsed under a pain potion, his vision blurry, head groggy, but there was no pain to be felt. He didn't even have the gumption to think of evil ways to get Potter back for that brilliant curse. Lethal and malicious, but brilliant, nonetheless.
There were also pink limes dancing at his feet and he found them immensely amusing. He named them Verne and Jules.
He was just about to catch a dose when he heard voices. A clipped, officious timbre explained its presence quickly and Madam Pomfrey gave an annoyed huff before the click of her square-toed shoes faded into her office.
Suddenly, his curtains parted and a chocolate cloud of feral curls made its way into Draco's fuzzy view.
Large topaz eyes were full of concern and mischief. "How are you feeling?" The girl whispered urgently.
Draco let a lazy smirk lift his cheek, "I'm sensational, thanks for asking." His posh drawl was equally lethargic. "And how are you?"
A cupid's bow mouth pouted forward in mistrust. "I-I'm fine, thanks."
"Lovely weather we are having, yeah? I see the pigs found it tremendously ideal for taking to the sky." He motioned to the ceiling nonchalantly.
The witch's eyes widened with disbelief, and her mouth thinned across her smooth face, obviously trying to keep her hilarity at bay. "Yes indeed, Malfoy, pigs are certainly flying today."
o0o
Saturday, December 24th 2005
Evening had torn down the sun in the west, but they still had not spoken a word. Hermione had made herself a sandwich using the peanut butter and Draco had not warned her of the consequences. His validation was that she had purchased the substance and therefore knew its effects.
However, the blue fir was dressed only in unused fairy-lights and Hermione's melancholia was thick. It relentlessly clawed at her lungs. He only knew this because he felt it too.
So then he forced his body through the invisible, stagnant cloud of apprehension and yanked the book from her hands, "Hermione, talk to me! You are making me feel…weird." He winced and lowered his voice. "Bad weird."
Her small hands gripped the chair, but her body moved forward and she took a deep breath. "It's called guilt, darling." Her nose scrunched up and her eyes were hard. "It's a magical emotion. One that festers and eats at your soul, but congratulations, Draco, seems your conscience decided to finally make a home in your black heart." Then with a quickness, her hands tore the book from his fingers and she settled back into her chair.
He sighed. "If this is guilt, then it's unfounded, as it is I do not know how I've wronged you today." Because he truly did not know what he had done to sadden her so. "Was it the note?"
"No, the note was…strangely…lovely." She crossed her arms and focused on the fire.
"Are you still upset because I was gone for so long yesterday?" he questioned lightly.
Another deep sigh. "No, that's not it. I think I know what really took you so long."
"Do you?" He raised a weary brow; she couldn't possibly know that it had taken him hours to select such a perfect specimen.
A faint smile and a flash of her eyes told him that she did, in fact, know.
"You do," he stated. "Well, shouldn't we decorate it then? I reckon, that's why you had me fetch it, right?"
Hermione raised her eyes to him, and there was brightness in those dismayed jewels. She smiled feebly and rose from the chair. "I just have to get the box" she whispered.
When she returned, he noticed a bounce in her step and excitement on her face. As if she was a small child, she quickly tore off the lid. "Come pick one."
So he knelt beside her carefully, and perused the box until at last he found a large round ornament of blue spun glass. He reached his eager fingers at it when they briefly brushed against her tiny knuckles. An electric shock rippling with hormones and interweaving neurons bit at his fingertips and tore quickly at his arm to stab at his gut. He jerked back and stumbled onto his bum in a very unflattering manner. His eyes were wide as he stared at her, his body scrambling to the safety of the sofa and he was unable to comprehend how such exquisite pleasure could manifest from one little brush of skin. The soft, silky smoothness of alabaster mud. Before he could recover from the phenomenal majesty of the briefest contact, his brain was assaulted by a malevolent hiss that suffocated him, reminded him: don't touch, don't touch, don't touch.
Just as suddenly her cheerfulness was replaced with cutting anger; her skin was flushed red with it, eyes glowing dangerously, and her mouth –gods, that mouth-- was set in a fierce pout, and a slight tremble was all it could allow.
She stood fast, and the fire place roared, flames jumping from the hearth. Her book flew into the wall and random objects lifted, swirling amidst the intensely charged air.
Draco quickly twisted to his feet, his hand itching for his wand, for the vision before him was dangerous.
"I'm just like you!" she screamed unexpectedly. Her hands were balled into fist at her side, her aura brightened visibly and her lovely hair coiled against the feral static.
He couldn't think or move. But felt his head shake, telling her she was nothing like him. It was as if he was suspended in time and space without gravity or sense. Programmed to react in accordance with old prejudices.
With quick steps she was in front of him. "Can't you see that?" She held out an open palm and pieces of iridescent glass were imbedded in her palm and her blood was bright and crimson, swimming around the broken ornament, her skin demanding to heal.
No he couldn't. He only saw her and the untamed magic swirling through the shack. It was foul and wild, chipping at his bones with uncultivated newness. It frightened him considerably and hindered his attraction towards her until he no longer could recognize it.
Dirty magic. She was filthy magic. It was new and undomesticated. Out of control. Nothing like the millenniums of curbed magic fused with his blood. His magic was old, tamed, perfected by years of pure wizardry. Didn't she recognize that?
Blinding whiteness flashed and his glass on the harvest table exploded, raining drops of water everywhere. Her rocking chair made loud creaking complaints as it moved in an erratic rhythm.
Then she sucked in a wrecked breath, her gaze lowered. "Touch me and see. Just once."
"No," he protested weakly, "no." He backed away from her, his eyes dark, his heart thrashing wildly.
Hermione stalked forward, relentless. "My heart beats just like yours, my bones ache, my brain learns, my tongue tastes, my eyes see, my skin feels, Draco. Just. Like. You."
He knew that, but she was so close and it blurred the lines and the lump in his throat represented so much of the past that he couldn't swallow it.
His legs bumped the table and he stumbled against it, but she was still there, and his wand was just too far away.
"Draco." He flexed his jaw and let his burning eyes meet hers. "Touch me."
"I don't want too, you're…you are…" He gulped for a breath he couldn't catch and couldn't fathom what precisely she was.
"Yes you do, I've seen the way you look at me." She smiled then, but it was sad. "Don't you feel this…this thing between us?"
He nodded because it was there again. That increasingly familiar awareness burst forth from it's restraints. The spark of chemistry that shocks the brain making his whole body hum with adrenaline. It dizzied him, made him forget that she was muddy and dirty and that she wanted to get it all over him. It made him feel delightful and anxious.
Her chest rose and she took a shaky breath, her eyes glistened with calming tears. "Then touch me," she whispered, her voice busted, perhaps afraid.
He nearly did. His hand lifted without any reservation, and he felt the anticipation swirl in his gut. Immediately he let a strangled groan and rubbed his face roughly. "Get away from me," he said lowly from behind his hand.
"Touch me."
"I. Can't!" Because it would mean too much. It would be the turning of a leaf, choosing a new road and he could never look back. His life would change, forever connected to that touch. His brain was chaotic and absurd, trying to take in all that was around him. Keep his wits in order and be logical. But she smelled so bloody nice.
"You can do anything, Draco. Touch me," she encouraged, breathlessly.
"No!" he screamed at her.
"Touch me!"
"NO!"
"TOUCH ME!"
His lip curled and a ferocious growl erupted from his throat, but his palm pushed roughly at her collar-bone. She gasped as his cold fingertips smoothed over her skin, his eyes flickered to hers and he clenched his teeth as her searing heat waved over his hand. As he pushed his palm over her pulsing jugular to her nape, his body constricted desperately, as electrons prepared to move between them. Draco released a terrified breath; his eyes crushed shut, his teeth clenched, and his fingers tangled into her silky curls.
"So soft," he whispered, drawing a faint breath, marveling at the texture. He knitted his fingers through and pulled hard.
Hermione whimpered and stumbled, but Draco snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her tiny frame flush against him. He let out a desperate sob, his still lids painfully closed, and he tried to focus, but the rush of adrenaline pounded in his eardrums. His nerves throbbed erratically, giving his flesh a race of goose-pimples.
As he pressed his palms into her pliable flesh, his mouth became dry and his legs became shaky and great shivers of delight racked his bones.
They seemed to move on their own accord, his hands. Pulling hard along the curve of her spine, clenching tightly at the luxury of her buttocks, squeezing urgently at the suppleness of her breasts. All the while, feeling the blood boil hot with desire, marveling at the sound of his beating heart. She just felt so good against him. Like her body was designed to correspond with his.
It was overwhelming, the rush of ambivalence, because although he was joyful for his choice and the wonderful consequences of it, he felt all the emotions he had filed away and forgot about.
He grieved for his mother, hated his father, and missed his friends. For the first time in a decade, his carefully constructed walls crumbled to his feet and he sobbed pathetically against the warm comforting flesh and blood in his arms.
Hermione.
Who, as he opened his tearful eyes, he saw was nothing more than molecules and atoms, neutrons and protons, curves and planes, fresh scents and soothing words. She was simply a woman.
She clutched at him and smoothed her hands through his hair and wrapped her body around him, all the while praising him.
With a gentle tug at her curls, her head tilted and brown-gold met silver. Her cheeks were rosy and streaked with tears, her mouth red, but she gave him a smile.
In the quiet, calm shack, his throaty words bounced off the walls with an echo. "I'm sorry, Hermione." Because he was, for everything. For being a coward, for being a horrid son, for hurting people. For not seeing her, as she always wanted to be seen, as she worked so hard to be recognized as, a woman.
Her lashes fell and she nodded in acknowledgement, "I forgive you, Draco."
He raised a finger and pushed a stray curl from her cheek, his eyes on her mouth. "I'm going to kiss you," he whispered.
Her eyes widened. "You are?"
"Yes. Because I want to." As he lowered his mouth to hers, he hesitated as a last protest gasped against his mind, but he pushed it down and swallowed it before his lips met hers.
Her lovely mouth was pliant and eager, full of discovery and nectar. She opened immediately to him and Draco felt as if he had kissed her for a thousand years, and yet each swipe of her tongue was brand new.
To Draco, it was a preview of his life to come, where he was the ideal Byronic Hero and she was the beautiful precocious Heroine who was sensationally out of his league.
o0o
Saturday, August 14th 1982
"Now listen carefully, Draco." Lucius said sternly, before handing his son the dripping ice-cream. "A Malfoy never cries for what he wants, he simply asks, and if that doesn't work he then bargains. Never cries. Understand?"
The young boy nodded and reached for his hearts desire. A sweet, refreshing confection on a hot summer's day. He didn't really care what his father was sprouting. After all at that age, life is simple, and he was happy as a lark. To him life would always be that way.