TW : Suicide/SA thoughts
One Month Later
Hermione was lying on a large stone, on the edge of the stream that ran alongside her property. She had just bathed and was drying quietly in the late afternoon sun, a cigarette between her lips, her right hand buried in Albert's soaked white coat.
In the middle of a weekend, she had the opportunity to take some time for herself outside the bookshop. She liked her routine there, but was getting tired, as she did every weekend. So she welcomed Sundays with open arms.
She had worked herself to death, extending her work days until much later and leaving her house before the sun even rose. She wanted to spend as much time away from home as possible. She no longer felt at home there.
Ever since Blaise had waited for her in her living room and threatened her with his wand, she hardly dared to set foot there. It was a traumatic memory. She managed to spend as little time as possible in the kitchen, preparing just the basics for her animals, tending to her vegetable garden, and then climbing up the stairs to swallow nutrition and dreamless sleep potions.
This way she didn't feel she was spending too much time there. She only used the house for sleeping, like a room she would borrow for a night. She was no longer at home.
During the weekends she went out, looked after her horses, Albert, went shopping in the village, or spent her days in the forest and at the stream.
Hermione had not heard from her friends for nearly a month. Since she hadn't answered Harry's letter, she assumed that he hadn't wanted to send any back unnecessarily. She had hardly ever replied to Ginny, so she had stopped sending any, too. As for the Zabinis, she hadn't run into them once.
Well...
Pansy had tried several times to approach her to talk, but Hermione had steadfastly refused, threatening her with her wand like the Slytherin's husband had done to her. She wanted nothing more to do with them. She was so angry.
They had ruined her life.
Blaise hadn't shown his face, and thankfully so. Hermione was well aware that he was still visiting Malfoy, but did her best to ignore it. She tried to convince herself that she lived alone and that the spare room closest to the bathroom was locked and unusable. It was for the best.
She turned a blind eye. She didn't want to know.
She had no control over what happened there anyway. She had been told so enough that it was now clear. She couldn't do anything and didn't want to do anything.
So she imagined herself living alone, in too big a house, as she had done for nearly six years.
It was Albert's grumbling to her right that reminded her that she was not totally alone. She turned her head towards him and smiled as she stroked his muzzle.
"I'm planning on brewing some potions this afternoon," she told him as she turned her gaze to the sky and blew a long white smoke plume towards it.
She watched the smoke escape into the forest and dissolve into the air, before continuing.
"I know you can't really stand the vapours from it so I'll let you go for a walk at the end of the day, okay?"
She received a bark in response.
"I'll take that as a yes," she added with a smile. "With what I've more or less managed to grow in the vegetable garden, I should have enough to make some good dreamless sleep potions this time. I've figured out why the vervain leaves haven't been looking so good lately: I didn't use enough magic fertiliser. Now that they're nice and green, the potions should be more effective."
She was silent for a few seconds and bit her lip.
"Even though I've lost my touch, I still have a good deal of botanic talent. I don't deserve an O for my vegetable garden, but I'm getting by," she said sarcastically.
Albert was her best adviser, despite his silence. He listened to her, he accompanied her, and Hermione was able to talk about her daily life. She even managed to draw the right conclusions to different situations, just by talking to him.
He was her best friend.
When she finished her cigarette, Hermione decided to act at last. She stubbed it out and stood up, taking care not to slip on the stone.
She quickly put her clothes back on and, still accompanied by Albert, set off towards her house. The June sun was still mild and the altitude of the mountains offered them a pleasant temperature, but Hermione knew that the summer was likely to be hotter than the previous year. She hoped that this would at least be beneficial for some of her plantings which lacked light.
She made a quick stop at the stables on her way back, to check that the horses had enough food for the day and to clean their stalls. Once that was done, she headed for the door to the kitchen to get some potions brewing.
However, on the way she felt herself being watched again. It was a strange feeling, as if the back of her neck was tickling and a weight was resting on her skull.
For the second time, she froze and slowly raised her head. She met Draco Malfoy's lost, grey gaze as he watched her from his window. She swallowed uncontrollably.
He looked exhausted, even paler and sicklier than the last time she had seen him. That had been over a month ago. He seemed to have recovered from his injuries, but was not in good health.
His cheeks were sunken, as if he was barely eating. Large dark circles surrounded his eyes, as if he was not sleeping. His lips were pale. His eyes were exhausted.
But what struck her most was that his hair had been cut short. It was not as long as when he arrived in France. He wore it the same length as during the war. Rather short, uncombed, but still an almost white blond.
Despite his sickly appearance, Hermione found him more human than he had ever been since his arrival.
His eyes were expressive, inhabited, but above all– alive.
oOo
Blaise was sitting at his desk in the new building his law firm had bought. A brand new measure, copied from the muggles, that the Ministry had decided to take. According to them, lawyers were using up too much space at the Ministry.
Although Blaise had initially been against it, preferring the simplified and quick access he had to the offices of the Wizengamot members and the Minister, he had quickly changed his mind. This office offered him a calm that he hadn't had access to in the open space of the Ministry's Department of Magical Law.
The firm to which he belonged had only three other lawyers, with whom he had a rather cordial relationship. They were all specialists in different fields, so there was no competition. They had no superiors, were all self-employed, and were content to pay a monthly rent as well as the firm's expenses.
This meant that costs were lower for Blaise, who did not spend that much time in his office. He still went back and forth between the Ministry, the office, and his flat for the various missions he was given.
He often went home to help his wife in her new fight for the equal life of former prisoners. Although their struggles were similar, their fields of action were quite different. Pansy—now that she had been able to sell her shop—found herself having to ask for contributions from the wealthiest wizarding families in order to properly set up her foundation.
She had already started to organise her first reception in honour of the opening. The preparations were proving to be more meticulous than she had imagined, especially as the authorisations required for its proper functioning were numerous.
Thus, each day Blaise took an hour out of his schedule to discuss the matter with his wife and inform her of the laws and amendments concerning each of the authorisations she had to deal with.
The time to receive her in his office was not long in coming, as eleven o'clock struck the little magic clock hanging above his fireplace.
Indeed, a second later, there was a knock on the door.
"Come in," he said, putting his quill in his inkwell.
He had just signed a contract with a new client: Thomas Rocade, the father of Azkaban inmate Stan Rocade. He would help him defend his son, although Blaise was well aware that it would probably come to nothing.
"Hi," Pansy smiled as she closed the door behind her.
Blaise smiled back and leaned in his seat to observe his wife from head to toe. As always, he found her simply beautiful.
She was wearing a long, champagne-coloured satin summer dress that reached well below her knees, and an elegant pair of white pumps. As she walked past the door, she removed the white and champagne scarf—which matched the rest of her outfit—that she had tied around her hair, along with her sunglasses. She placed it, as well as her black handbag, on the office coat rack and ran up to her husband, a big smile on her face.
"How's my beautiful wife doing?" he asked as he welcomed her into his lap.
"Flatterer," she laughed, shaking her head.
"She's not my type," he replied with a wink as she settled on him, kissing his jaw tenderly.
She caressed his cheek with a giggle and leaned in to place her lips on his as he stroked her bare thighs.
"Good day?" she inquired, putting an arm around his neck.
"Effective," he nodded. "I've signed the contract with Rocade and Weasley number three has agreed to meet me for a drink to discuss the laws."
"Perfect! And did you send a letter to Granger to let her know we're leaving next week?"
"Yes, yes," he lied, pretending to look at the time on his watch.
"Are you sure she'll agree to make food for Draco? I'm afraid she'll be afraid to approach him since he knows about his mother. Besides, she's been so defensive lately."
"Yeah, I guess so," he muttered, clearing his throat.
He clenched his jaw as he felt Pansy pull away from his lap.
There it was.
"What? What's going on?" she asked with a hint of concern as she lifted his chin with her perfectly manicured hand.
"Nothing, Pans', everything's fine," he lied as he met her gaze with a blank stare.
She dropped his face and hers turned into a disappointed, almost disgusted look.
"I know you. You're lying to me, Blaise Zabini. And you know I hate it when you do."
She frowned and it only made his heart beat faster. Blaise had been dreading this moment for a month. He swallowed and looked away as he stood up. He walked over to his minibar and poured himself a glass of whisky, which he swallowed whole.
His promises of sobriety were gone.
"Blaise! Tell me what's going on!" she exclaimed, concern floating around her like an oppressive aura.
He lowered his head and closed his eyes.
"I never asked Granger. In fact, I haven't spoken to her since- since your and Draco's crisis," he announced faintly.
There was a long silence, before Pansy replied, her voice trembling.
"You told me you were going to talk to her every time you saw Draco!" she accused him.
"Because I didn't want you to do it and for her to tell you–for her to tell you what I did."
"What did you do?"
He didn't answer. He was frozen with apprehension. She would hate him.
"What have you done, Blaise?" she exclaimed hysterically, sobbing silently.
Since the end of the war, she had become much more emotional than in their years at Hogwarts, letting out her anger and sadness whenever it appeared. While this was in no way negative in Blaise's eyes, who advocated for communication and not her habit of hiding her emotions, he had to admit that he was still particularly touched to hear her cry.
"I'm sorry, Pans', I–"
"What have you done?" she repeated in a harsh voice, as she stood before him.
And he told her everything. How he had waited for Granger all evening, how he had threatened her and how he had immobilised Albert.
She was speechless. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. He tried to approach her, but she backed away, shaking her head.
"Things would have been quicker," she sobbed. "So much quicker. All we've been through with Draco these past few weeks! We've had to be there every day, when Granger herself could have come by to check on him! You–you ruined everything!"
"Pans', I–"
She shook her head to cut him off.
"I–I think I need to think," she said as she retrieved her scarf and bag, her hands shaking. "I'm going home."
A second later, she had disapparated and Blaise dropped to his knees.
oOo
"Careful, Draco! Don't run too fast, dear, you might fall off!"
"You haven't fixed your collar properly, dear. Here, let me."
"You'll see, you'll love Hogwarts. You'll have the best memories of it."
"Don't go too far away, dear, Aunt Bella will be here soon."
"My mother used to read me this tale. She said it was written by one of our ancestors and told the story of the wizards, wonderfully. When you're old enough to understand it, you'll see that it's not only about the first wizards of our world, but it explains perfectly how superior we are. You'll love it, sweetheart."
"Avada Kedavra!"
Draco woke with a start, his body sweating, his breathing ragged and his throat on fire.
He realised that he had been screaming in his sleep and brought a hand to his neck to massage it lightly. His cheeks were wet with tears and his heart was racing. He was still completely lost between dream and reality.
He could see his mother's dead, bloody body lying in the middle of the dining room table, surrounded by a dozen Death Eaters, Nagini snaking around her corpse. A horror. A most macabre sight that he had been repeating to himself almost every night for the past month.
Except that they were never the same.
Of course he knew the reason for his mother's death, he knew it by heart, but that didn't stop his mind from playing tricks on him. Every night, it invented a new death for his mother and it became further unbearable for Draco.
He was afraid to sleep, much more so than when he was in Azkaban. He was afraid to close his eyes and see Narcissa's dead body again, sometimes drowned, sometimes burned or bloodied.
He struggled with sleep, trying to pull all-nighters to counteract his dark thoughts, but nothing helped. He always ended up falling asleep, then waking up with his heart in his throat.
He had torn his hair out several times, until one day he asked Pansy to cut it off like in the past. Well, she had suggested the idea several times when she had seen the bald patches that had formed on his head and the wounds around his forehead. He had eventually given in.
Since his return from prison, he hadn't given it a single thought, putting off any concern about his hair. He trimmed his beard, or at least Blaise cast a spell on him every time he came in, so he wouldn't have to do it with a razor blade, but that was the only attention he paid to his appearance.
Otherwise, he continued to borrow clothes from his friend, whom he suspected had bought them especially for him, and washed himself with the spells Pansy would cast on him. He had never asked for a shower. He didn't feel the need or the desire, it reminded him of the last day he'd spent in Azkaban. Terrible, terrible memory.
However, for the first time since his arrival in France, he thought about that horrific day he had spent. He recalled every detail of the hell he had been through, as he tried—unsuccessfully—to calm his breathing.
There, his nightmares had become less violent and less frequent. But now, this time, he had the impression that he would never get out of it, that they would never go away. He couldn't take it anymore. It was the worst torture that could be inflicted on him.
He had begged the wizarding deities to leave him in peace, to no avail. Nothing worked. He was still haunted by the memory of his mother.
The memory of his one and only shower in Azkaban crept into his mind as he stood up and began pacing in front of the bedroom window. He felt like tearing his head off. It was unbearable.
It was as if the sound of his thoughts had been turned up to the max and the speed increased. He saw himself on the wooden chair watching the razor blade the prison guards had provided. He saw himself fighting the urge to end it all.
End it all.
End it all.
He could stop those thoughts, those memories from eating away at his mind. He could do it.
Although he couldn't use his wand without making a disaster of it, or even without it working, Draco wasn't stupid. He still had some rationality left. He was in a house. A large house by his reckoning. And a big house, whether Muggle or witch, was bound to have something–to end it all.
So, for the first time since Pansy had told him his mother had died, Draco was attracted to his bedroom door. He could think of nothing else, not even the anguish of what he might find behind it.
With a sudden impulse, he rushed to it, pulled the handle and left the room.
His heart was pounding and his desire to end it all was pulsing through his veins. He was someone else. His gaze was wild, roaming the hallway he had never seen, not holding back a single piece of the scenery.
He didn't count anything, didn't analyse colours or shapes. He was looking for the first door he could get through.
There was one on his right, and as soon as he noticed it, he strode towards it.
It was as if all the anguish that had prevented him from leaving his room had disappeared. He had nothing left in his mind but the hope of finding something to put an end to his torment, which had been going on for weeks. For months. For years.
The room he arrived in turned out to be the upstairs bathroom.
Draco was shaking. He was unable to control his own movements, as if his conscience, mad with the idea of finding something to ease his suffering, was guiding him.
So he began to open the drawers of the first piece of furniture he found. His movements were frantic.
There was nothing but towels, cotton buds, flannels, new bars of soap... Nothing useful. Nothing that would soothe his inner ache.
Despite the much shorter length of his hair, he took his head in his hands and pulled at it, panicking at the thought of finding nothing. The other drawers were no more conclusive.
He felt tears of anguish running down his cheeks and his blood pounding in his ears, preventing him from hearing the sound of his own steps.
He almost fell as he slipped on the bath mat, which turned out to be a simple towel. He had to hold on to the fitted washbasin and bumped into the cabinet surrounding it. He caught himself as best he could, but tripped the water tap in the process.
Soon the sleeve ends of the top Blaise had lent him were soaked, as were his hands and elbows. The sink was obviously blocked, so he tried to turn off the water, but to no avail. He was starting to get soaked and his sobs grew louder.
He was panicking. He could no longer control his movements. He was shaking, breathing hard.
He began to feel everything he could reach: the sink, the tap, the plastic glass that held a purple toothbrush and aniseed toothpaste, the half-used block of soap, a midnight blue vial and–and–
A razor.
A razor.
A razor.
He froze completely, dazed. He had found it. He had succeeded.
He could end it all.
And that's it! See you on Wednesday 12/21 for the next chapter! Thanks to Acciobraincells, DontStopHerNow, habon and kreimal for their support. Don't forget to leave comments and follow the story to support me ;)