This story stole my whole brain, and it completely took me by surprise. It wasn't written like a fever dream, but it poured out of me.
House: Slytherin, Class: Charms, Category: Standard, Prompts: 1) Frenemies, 2) Purple [royalty], 3) As I looked across the table, I knew this was forever., WC: 2606
Notes and warnings: Royalty AU, so the situation is different. Hermione and Draco are from two different families of royalty, and have long-since been in competition for validation from their family. Mention and reference to suicide and depression.
0-0-0-0
Hermione Granger has been in my life for as long as I can remember. Despite our families living on opposite corners of the realm – the Grangers occupy the golden East coast of Lionheart, whilst my family live in the Westerly regions near Serpentis – we have always been frighteningly entangled. I have been to their castle many times, walked through those glittering ballrooms, and watched as Hermione lit up every room like no chandelier ever could.
She has always been a better royal than me. Her handwriting is impeccable, her intelligence is unforgiving, and her wit is unmatched. The only thing I perhaps best her in is wearing the royal robes; purple is not so much her colour, and neither is the rich satin fabric that the robes are made from. Her kingdom has always been poorer than ours anyway.
"Malfoy," she would say, "you've got a piece of gunk on your chin." And then she would proceed to tell me all the reasons why I am a worse off person than she is, despite my wealth, status, and impressively landscaped lawns.
I know she doesn't like me. She has every reason not to; I am not friendly or courteous; I am not pleasant to be around, or even especially interesting; I am only marginally good-looking, which is enough for most people but certainly not for a princess.
Even my homeland is sparse in comparison to Lionheart. Serpentis is a harsh landscape of boldly cut purple-mist mountains, rough greenery, and cold wind. As a kingdom, we are recognised for our trades, our armies, and our infrastructure.
Of course, that never stops Hermione from dancing in our empty ballrooms, almost as if just to get a rise out of me.
"You're a beautiful dancer," I would say, aiming to compliment. The words always come out as a sneer.
"You have delightful music," she would reply, raising her eyebrows at the echoing silence. We have never once had such music in any of our ballrooms. "Good thing I prefer the quiet when you're around."
I'd laugh, and it would begin. "Nice dress."
"Love the hair."
"Buck-teeth."
"Prissy."
"You think you're so special, Granger."
"You certainly look at me like I am."
Sometimes I want to kiss her. Other times I want to throw something. Most of the time, my life feels as though it is gently and psychotically ripping itself apart. I am eternally frustrated by this endless loop that Hermione and I are in. We're so close, and yet she keeps me at this impossible distance, fighting me.
There has always been an element of competition between us, starting from a very young age. Our mothers are friends, but our fathers are often in disagreement, each trying to better the other in varying ways.
My mother, though, often says things like, "You've always been such good friends."
To which I reply, "Not sure I would call us friends. More like enemies."
"Love and hate are one and the same, most often."
"Love?"
She'd usually walk away after a comment like that, leaving me to stew in my own thoughts about love, fantasy, and romance. There is not very much romance in the world that Hermione and I reside in. It is just gain after personal gain. There is wealth, there is power, and very little else.
So, three days after my birthday, when our two families sat down to dinner at Lionheart - not an unusual affair, but unusually elaborate, with the royal purple satin adorning every window dressing - I realise that I should have expected something like this. Given our family's entangled nature, it was almost inevitable.
"Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are to be wed," my father announces after dessert has been cleared up. My goblet falls out of my hand.
"Well, I suppose that not much will really change," Hermione mutters, and exits the rooms swiftly, brushing at her eyes. It is the only time I have not seen her be the perfect princess that I know she is.
I turn to my father. "May I be excused?" I ask. He nods once and I chase Hermione out of the room. "Hermione, wait!"
It's hardly any use shouting after her; all our empty castle does is echo. I switch between jogging and walking, making my way to the library where I know she'll be hiding. We may not like each other very much, but we do know each other very well.
I discover her standing behind a bookshelf, a mauve theorem lying at her feet that she clearly has no intention of reading.
"I do not want to marry you," she says, looking up at the sound of my footsteps. "Though I am pretty convinced that I don't get to choose now."
I sigh. "I'm not sure you ever really could."
"Malfoy, I detest you."
I try a smile, but it comes out like a grimace. "I'm sure most wives feel that way about their husbands."
She does not crack a smile, but I see her splintering features. I have seen it before, in the dim dark of her castle dungeons. Her father had chastised her for not being enough of a lady, for being too strong, for being too…
Unruly might be the right word.
The last time it had happened, I told her that she was beautiful and that it was good to be strong and clever. Now, I don't really know what to say. So, instead of talking, I move to stand beside her. Slowly, together, we slide down to sit upon the wooden flooring. Her head hangs in misery.
"It's not as bad as it could be," she tried. "I could be marrying a Weasley."
I fake a shudder. The Weasleys are a family that reside in the southern countryside, and they are as rambunctious as they are large. "Don't even talk about it."
"Why do you think they're doing this?" she asks suddenly. I'm struck for a moment; her brown eyes are filled with tears, and tendrils of hair fall into her face. She is a tragic sort of beautiful. I've always known her to be pretty, but I have always laughed at her for small follies like her teeth, her bushy hair, and a few other annoying facial features. "I've never really… I don't want this."
"I thought you wanted to get married," I say, trying to steer the conversation back to the marriage.
She stares at me. "Not like this. I wanted to choose."
My heartstrings tug in every direction, stuck between family, loyalty, and duty. If there is a chance for this to work, I have to make it work. I don't want her to be miserable, but I know that neither of us have much choice in the matter.
"I can make it easier for you. We don't have to…" I pause. "We don't have to be a married couple. We can do separate things and keep up appearances. I'm not expecting you to love me, or even really tolerate me. But this is what's been decided, and I think they've been planning it for a long time."
"Okay," she replies, cracked. Broken. "Fine."
So, it's agreed. We are to get married, to live this false life together, and I am doomed to destroy myself for a woman who will never love me. It's sad, really. Depressing, certainly. But I can do this; I can put up with this. I have no doubt that I will love her, and that almost hurts a little bit more – to think about the fact that my life will be stuck in this endless cycle. Because, in all honesty, I'm happy enough with this arrangement.
I'm perfectly happy to marry Hermione Granger.
As we sit there together, on the cold wooden floor of the library, I think that I can probably be perfectly happy with this future: loving someone who doesn't love me and pretending otherwise in every possible way. I was never born to be a romantic.
Perhaps I was never really born to fall in love.
Several long minutes later, the call for celebration drinks is announced, and we move off the floor together. I offer her my hand, but she doesn't take it until we enter the next room. She pastes a smile onto her face, and brightness in her eyes, even though just the thought of marrying me has doused her bright flame. She grips my hand as we enter the room, but then drops it as soon as we are sat down. When the talks of nuptials begin, she is – as always – the perfect princess.
"Yes, I think inviting the Potters would be a good idea, Mother," she says, smiling amiably. "I agree, a wedding dress made by Madam Malkin would suit wonderfully. Flowers, of course. Roses, no. Lilac lilies, perhaps. Draco, darling, what do you think?"
My heart almost stops.
"I like daisies," I reply stupidly.
Hermione looks for a moment as though she is about to tease me for being overly boyish, for not being comfortable enough in my own skin to know types of flowers, or for some other unfathomable and unreasonable reason. But then she replies, in a sickly-sweet cadence that fools everyone but me, "Those would be lovely for the decoration of the grand hall. My future husband - wanting such a simple flower. So sweet."
I go to bed that night deeply unsettled.
The rest of our engagement is not much better. Hermione sinks deep into a falsified version of herself. When we're alone, left to decide which place cards we want, I ask her about it, just this once.
"Why are you behaving like this? You don't have to pretend you love me, or even like me. What's going on with you? I miss…"
Her eyes are sharp, though bruised purple from lack of sleep. "Miss what? My friendship?"
"Well, yes."
"We're engaged Draco. We're not friends. We never were."
I feel my oesophagus become tight at her words.
"Okay," I reply and turn away.
"What were you expecting?" she asks. "For me to fall deeply in love with you?"
I start to walk away. I can't hear this right now. I don't want to. I don't want to fall apart. Believe it or not, I have affection for her. I regret our situation, but not her. I wish things were easier. I wish I could kiss her sweetly, and it not have to be for show, or met with cruel and cold lips that only kiss me for the sake of an audience.
Believe it or not, I'm starting to fall. I wonder if I have always been falling for Hermione Granger.
The tragedy of the situation is frightening.
There are moments, of course, where the world is brightly lit. There are moments when she is herself around me, and I take joy in those. She dances very occasionally. She tells me of the fittings of her dress. She speaks to me about our castle – one is being bought for us with the dowry. Supposedly it will be our new home together, and a symbol of the union between our two families. I've heard that our new crest will be the royal purple colours. She tells me of how the flowers make her sneeze, how her mother makes her crazy, and how much she hates that she cannot escape this life.
I don't know that I want to escape it in the same way that she does. In fact, being with her is a torturous sort of pleasure. I have the pleasantries of being engaged to Hermione Granger, with the cruelty of her detest. I know I will not win her over, and nor do I try. It is not my place to force a woman to love me.
The closer we get to the wedding, the easier things become. We dance together and sparks glimmer between us. I feel electric when I take her hand. It is maybe the first time I have danced with her without her forcefully stepping on every one of my toes between each sweeping movement. She kisses me one night, in the dim lamplight after dinner. It is a warm, desperate kiss; it is a kiss that speaks volumes, though I do not know of what.
Mid-July, we marry.
It is a bright, bold affair. Silver platters, chilled wine, and delicate starters for Serpentis, and roast lamb, rowdy music, and plum-coloured tulips for Lionheart. Then, when the night is over, we lay down in bed together for the first time. Hermione kisses me, pushes me back onto the bed, and everything is over all too soon. I don't think she even takes off her dress.
"Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy," I say as dawn breaks on the following day.
"Good morning," she replies, a soft smile gracing her features.
All is right in the world.
It lasts for two weeks. We encounter our first lifetime of bliss. Sweet mornings, soft sunsets, dinners, kisses, gentle walks around our new grounds. She tells me about the flowers, rather than scolding me for not knowing them. She invites our mothers around for tea but vows that we should never leave our fathers alone together, despite our now unified families. I agree, holding onto her hand, promising forever.
I promise myself that this will bring me happiness. That I can finally drink it in, slow down, and enjoy my life.
On the first day of the third week, I enter the bathroom with a cup of tea for her, only to find that she is asleep in the bathtub. I call her name, squeeze her hand, but the result is the same: she does not wake.
The doctors discover no concrete cause, but tell me that there is no sign of foul play.
I don't leave our – my – room for the rest of that week. I take all of my meals in bed, read the books she left on the nightstand, and wish for my wife to come back into the room with a withering look. Several times I swear that she is haunting me, knocking on the walls, blaming me for her untimely demise, though the suspect is suicide. I would almost be happier if she were a ghost, because then at least I could try to understand her way of thinking.
Instead, all I feel, and think, is that perhaps I didn't know her very well at all. I could not possibly think to understand why she would do this.
On the fourth week of our cursed marriage, I step down to dinner by myself. I sit at the head of the table and am confronted with Hermione's empty chair. I know that she is not coming back. Ghosts are not real in this world. I know that I will not even attempt to replace her. It would be ill-timed, and I don't really want to.
I look down at my plate. Roast lamb and red wine, on the golden plates that royalty has bought us. Perhaps I should employ a musician to pour out Hermione's favourite tunes, in order to not feel quite so alone.
It strikes me then. I have always been alone, even throughout our engagement and brief stint of marriage. My wife was not mine; she was thinking other things, plotting her way out of this. She is gone now, and the chair that was meant to be hers will always be empty. I am destined to be alone and lonely for the rest of my life.
I raise my head. As I look across the table, I know this is forever.
0-0-0-0
Thanks for reading! And thanks for the competition - it was really nice to get into the flow of things!