" let these words speak
let our eyes never meet
cause even if you love me
what would the people think? "
-'dragon' by breathe owl breathe (2010)
It was towards the middle of the night when Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger found themselves on the shore of a small pond. They observed the serene atmosphere together, their hands finding one another in the air that lingered between them. A full moon illuminated the dark water, the tops of the massive trees, and the whole of Hermione's face. Draco couldn't help but stare at her, thinking that she looked absolutely divine in the thin white garment that hit just below the knee. She turned to face him, her eyes lifting to peek at the glowing mess of white-blonde hair atop his head. His heart lurched when the witch examined him with a kind gaze, as though he were just a normal person rather than a demon, a traitor. Then suddenly, her hand was in his hair. Her thin fingers combed through the mop, her wrist occasionally caressing his cheek. Daringly, Draco brought his own hand up to lightly wrap his fingers around her arm and pull her closer to him. Her chest gently collided with his. Then, beneath the moonlight, they giggled and embraced.
her, her, her.
He swore he had seen her in his dreams again. He would've bet what minimal inheritance he had on it. She had been standing tall in a flowing gown, a widespread grin on her face as a gentle breeze blew through her tangle of curls. She had offered her hand to him with her palm to the sky, asked if she could take him to her favorite spot before the scene around them fell apart, and was replaced with the shore of a lily pad covered pond. They had stripped down and waded into the least murky bit of water together. Her hand had been so soft within his grasp, her fingers linked around him in a way that convinced him she would never be letting go. They had been there together, interconnected and safe.
But now he was alone in bed, flat on his back and staring up at the old wooden ceiling. Outside his curtained window, the sea crashed gently against the large boulders and sandy shoreline. There was a gray tint to the natural light that slipped through, filling the room with a dull sort of energy. Dramatically, he flopped over onto his stomach and buried his face into the plush pillow, holding onto the fuzzy feeling her gaze had bestowed upon him.
He had begun to dream of the Gryffindor girl in fourth year, when he was actually able to find interest in girls. At least twice a week, he was infiltrated by visions of him hand in hand with her - visions of them smiling and existing unabashedly. She was painted onto the inside of his eyelids - some days, all he could see was her. The dreams were always vivid, always lingering in the back of his conscious mind throughout the day. Daydreams of the muggle-born were hard to avoid, and before long, they began to take up entire days; she had infected him like the plague, nestled herself into every empty space within his body. He would wake up from a night filled with her and stare at the ceiling of his four-poster bed, his chest sometimes heaving. At breakfast, he would sneak glances at her through the space between Crabbe and Goyle's heads to see if she was eating eggs like she normally did. In class, he almost always sat in the back of the room with the other Slytherins, while she sat in front, her hair billowing out over her shoulders. She had always seemed so busy and preoccupied by ten things at once, never stuck pondering upon trivial things such as the bigoted boy.
She had nearly killed him at the Yule Ball — curls tamed and cascading down her back to kiss the dusty-rose colored gown. Then again whenever he saw her leaning against the wall near the Astronomy Tower, then again and again in the middle of every Potions lesson.
It had been around this time that the dreams began to spiral out of control.
He had tried to hate her, he really did. Draco had spent years trying to convince himself that he detested her, but she was everywhere: in his classes, in his sleep, situated directly in the forefront of his brain. It didn't matter how many times he mulled over her blood status, her academic superiority, or her relation to Potter. Deep down, he knew that she was it, that no one else would ever compare to her — the girl who was so tightly woven into his dreams, the one who looked at him with kindness overflowing from her eyes.
But despite all of this, there was a rather large pill for Draco to swallow. His Hermione was merely a fantasy, a fictional fixation that he had somehow conjured up during adolescence. Inadvertently, this version of Hermione Granger had infiltrated Draco's mind with ease, ushering in real world pain and bliss within the dreamscape.
Draco had done all he could to suppress the concurrent dreams. He had tried Dreamless Sleep draughts, but to no avail. Staying up for over forty-eight hours did nothing but enhance the realistic nature of the dreams - as though the more dazed he was before bed, the more immersed he would be throughout the night. He had tried to go to sleep starving, then overly full when that didn't work. Not even drinking copious amounts kept his mind void of visions, no matter the type of liquor.
Often, he had wondered if his infatuation with the muggle-born was some sort of coping mechanism, as though he needed someone good in his life to idolize. But as time passed and he was able to examine the situation from every angle, he conceded to his emotions - something that he had never really done before, nor desired to do - and allowed himself to silently crush on Hermione Granger.
He had been so enamored at the very beginning of fifth year, he noticed when she shortened her skirt by an inch or so. She had been crouched along the side of the hallway, rifling through her book bag in a huff. Draco watched as she evidently couldn't find what she had been searching for, watched as she stood straight up and accidentally allowed a book to slip from her grasp, watched as she collected the paperback from the floor by bending at the waist, bottom turned his direction. An immense wave of guilt had crashed down upon him just moments after she had walked away at a brisk pace. He swore to himself that he would never think about that image again - that he would never picture her bending over, just for him.
Everything had technically been fine before sixth year, before the Dark Mark was forced upon Draco's pale forearm, the dark contrast causing his surrounding skin to turn green. Though his father was a prominent figure in Voldemort's army of violent purebloods, and had done everything in his power to instill the same beliefs into his son, Draco had never intended on actually becoming one of them. However, Lucius had royally fucked up, and desperately needed a way to cling onto his position. Evidently, Voldemort had been waiting for an opportunity of the sort to welcome the boy into his ranks. So, on his sixteenth birthday, Draco was bestowed with what many around him referred to as 'the greatest honor one can receive.'
That night, he had sat on the bathroom floor beside the toilet and examined the mark while his stomach tossed and turned. He retched into the bowl three times before dawn, his ruminations causing anxious nausea to consume him whole. He knew he was going to have to play the part of a Death Eater; he was going to have to go on missions and cast horrible curses on innocent people. But beyond that, he now had a task to complete at the behest of the Dark Lord, to repair an enchanted vanishing cabinet as a way to give the Death Eaters access to Hogwarts. It was either that, or the inevitable death of him and his parents.
Throughout his sixth year at Hogwarts, Severus Snape taught Draco the art of Occlumency. Within their first session, he located Draco's biggest secret.
"If he finds out, he will kill her, and perhaps you." Snape had said with his brow furrowed.
Draco had cringed, clenching his fists immediately at the thought. "I am more than aware."
The concept of him potentially being the cause of Hermione's demise was really what had done it for him - he outright rebuked the reality in which that was a possibility. Perhaps if things had been different, Draco would not have taken the study as seriously as he did, spending hours and hours fortifying the walls around the parts of his mind in which he had to keep secure. Perhaps if he hadn't been terrified of his attraction to the muggle born, he would have disregarded most of Snape's teachings. But unfortunately for him - and by extension, Hermione - his dreams were still persistent, each creating a new blasphemous memory that had to be buried deep within his subconscious in preparation for what was to come.
Initially, Draco had not assumed that repairing the ancient cabinet would give him much trouble, if any. Piecing something together and mending it whole could only give him so much trouble, right ? Completing the task, creating a direct entry point for the Death Eaters to infiltrate Hogwarts Castle, now that had given Draco pause. He had waited until November to begin his late night work on it, hidden away in the Room of Requirement surrounded by piles upon piles of scrap materials. There had been more to the cabinet than what Draco first believed; he had assumed its magic to be both highly advanced and almost entirely undocumented - a far too prominent phenomenon in the wizarding world - but there had been something more to it than that. There had been a buzzing sort of energy, coiled tightly in wait, that seemed to amplify whenever Draco approached the wooden structure.
Problems had arisen almost immediately. He had been capable of enduring the pain of a wooden splinter between the fingers here, and the frustration of a newly fastened and refurbished hinge snapping there, but his pride had begun to falter once the backfiring spells commenced. He tried to convince himself that he had absolutely no idea why the vanishing cabinet refused to work with him, as though it couldn't sense his dissonance. When he thought of his mother, he knew that some part of himself did yearn to repair the cabinet and complete his task, but the pit that had formed in the center of his stomach whenever he thought of the fate of the rest of the world had swallowed the notion of success time and time again. Draco knew that the vanishing cabinet would be his downfall. He hated the damn thing, and was almost entirely convinced that it shared similar feelings about himself.
To make an impossibly long story short, the cabinet had discerned Draco's faltering allegiance and refused to work with him. Mending the thing had required pure intention from the wizard, something that Draco had not been able to conjure. He had failed the task.
The loud caw of some sort of seagull pulled Draco back to his bed. He hadn't meant to fall down the rabbit hole that was his fuck-up of a life, but it was hard to avoid when his past seemed to be all he had left. Humidity pooled beneath his shirt, memories seeping out of him with a salty tint. Without opening his eyes, Draco brought his left hand up to his mouth and began to gnaw on the edge of his thumb nail. He had stopped resisting the ruminations long ago; there was no motive to remain unfeeling any longer. For a moment, he allowed himself to compare and contrast the feeling of his current bedroom to that of his childhood one back at the manor. It was undoubtedly louder in his shotty cottage, and far less sterile. He had memories of waking up happily in the manor, of feeling something other than dread first thing upon reaching consciousness, but like many other things about his youth, those memories had transformed into echoes of what once was. Draco wasn't sure if he had ever felt content - let alone happy - in his new home, but he had never seen anyone die in his cottage. No one had ever been tortured in or around his new abode, that he was sure of.
Lucius had not told him that the Dark Lord was making Malfoy Manor his home. Draco had been having tea with his mother when everything went to shit. Narcissa had been just as clueless as her son, her demeanor plummeting mid-conversation as her quick glance at the outside world became a petrified gaze through the parlor windows, her eyes threatening to shatter the glass pane.
"What is it?" Draco had asked, his back turned to the large window. He took his time looking over his shoulder, not really wanting to see what was causing his mother such distress. The second he saw him, a pale figure in a sea of black, his throat began to close.
no, no, no.
His father had welcomed Voldemort with open arms, literally. The two embraced in a strangely intentional way, lingering for a second as Lucius' boss began to croak in his ear.
"You, Lucius, are too kind." It was spoken as if Lucius had any sort of choice in the matter. No, after his own failure to get the prophecy, followed by his son's failure to kill Dumbledore himself, there was no choice to be had for the head of house.
"I-It is an honor my Lord, to have you as a guest in my-"
"Ah," Voldemort lightly exclaimed, his head bouncing back in a slow nod. "Guest for now, yes? But later on, we will see." Draco had internally shuttered at the sight of the man's conniving smirk, his eyes seemingly peeled his father apart layer by layer, and by the looks of it, Lucius was not well studied in Occlumency. He had nearly become cross-eyed when Voldemort finally freed the man's mind.
"M-my Lord," Lucius stumbled over his words, his consciousness most likely foggy.
Draco had tuned out the rest of the interaction, his eyes moving to the small table that sat between him and Narcissa. It had been set up quite nicely by one of their elves, who had presented them with a spread of pastries and ever flowing tea. Of course, it had been spoiled after the arrival of the Dark Lord. Yet, Draco could not help but notice the extreme contrast between the lace fringed, pastel-green tablecloth and the hoard of dark wizards, all adorned in black. He focused on the same spot between the tea cups until his father led the party away from the front of the Manor. Neither he nor his mother spoke a word.
Though Malfoy Manor didn't exactly house the cheeriest atmosphere to begin with, the energy of the estate had shifted to something sinister. Dark magic had been palpable in the air, lingering in every room and corridor. Despite Draco having his own private wing of the manor, he could never seem to get far enough away to find an escape from it all. Voldemort was everywhere within the dark walls, waiting behind every corner in search of something to thrash at. Thankfully, the Dark Lord had only called upon Draco so many times over the course of his stay at Malfoy Manor. He no longer trusted the boy with any missions of great proportion or influence, yet for whatever reason, did not appear to be suspicious of him in the slightest. He was ordered to do small things, like keep watch at the doors during meetings with high ranking Death Eaters, or find various dark items from various peoples' Gringotts vaults, or stake out the homes of muggle-borns.
For the first time in his life, Draco had felt truly insane.
Shutting down was not optional after the Dark Lord moved in. Immediately upon his arrival, Draco began excusing his inflamed attraction to the muggle born on pure desperation, stemming from solitude and nothing more; he did everything he could to bury her away in his mind. Leading up to the notorious close call featuring his aunt, he had been isolated at the manor for quite some time. A wandering mind only made sense. Regardless of Draco's internal excuses, Snape's words had still felt sharp in his psyche, acting as a prodding reminder to stay in line, to stay vigilant. His godfather's words reverberated endlessly around Draco's mind: " He will kill her, and perhaps you."
The dreams had continued throughout his slumber regardless.
It was only so long until the inevitable happened. By the grace of some sort of higher power, the Dark Lord had not been there when Fenrir Greyback and crew dragged in England's most wanted wizard.
When the Golden Trio had shown up at the manor in the clutches of snatchers - their appearances mildly deformed - Draco had simply wanted to scream. those idiots. Every emotion he had ever felt towards Hermione came rushing back the moment he had seen her - loathing, euphoria, rage, jealousy, wonder, confliction. He had peered at her directly, daring her to make eye contact, but she refused. She and, who Draco assumed to be, Harry looked absolutely miffed. In opposition to this, the third - presumably the red headed weasel - had worn a muddled expression of both guilt and terror. Draco had pressed his lips into a line and did everything in his power not to shout at the idiotic Gryffindor. of course it's his fault.
After being asked to identify the three of them, and in turn, intentionally failing to do so, Draco had done all he could to remain calm as the adults bickered amongst themselves. They had eventually settled on not yet calling the Dark Lord - being uncertain was never worth the risk with a boss like him - and instead turned to their own means of cruelty.
"Well, that's the mudblood." Bellatrix had sneered, pointing her wand at Hermione. "There's no doubt about that. I can smell her from here."
The snatchers had chuckled at the snide remark, their laughs a bit too overdrawn, but their amusement quickly faded as she spotted the sword. They watched her, frozen in horror as rage began to visibly consume Bellatrix. Draco's stomach had dropped at the sight of her wild eyes. His aunt's unhinged demeanor was intimidating enough on a good day, and before that moment, he had never seen her appear so completely untamed. She barked a series of orders, commanding that the two boys be sent to the cellar so her and Hermione could have some, as she put it, 'girl talk.'
But there were only so many questions to ask the muggle born before the purposeful interrogation shifted into an excuse to torture.
"Such a beautiful wand," Bellatrix said, her tone dripping with cruel sarcasm. She had forced the snatchers to hand over the girl's wand alongside the sword, and now held it in her manicured hands as she sat atop the muggle born. Maniacally, she began dangling it over Hermione's face and had acted as though she were going to snap it in half at any moment. Her screams had slipped into desperate wails - the insane witch cackling as she straddled her middle, the teenager's wand taut between both hands as Hermione continuously begged and pleaded. The Cruciatus Curse had been nothing compared to the threat of losing her magic
Draco hadn't known how much longer he could hold out.
"Pushed a button, have I?" Bellatrix whined back, an awful grin spreading across her face. "Let's make a deal, shall we? Perhaps I'll spare your precious wand if you cooperate nicely throughout our next… activity." She reached beneath the hem of her dress to access a leather holster, her fingers removing the black dagger and sheath. "Be still, my dear! We must be mindful of the linework."
As Bellatrix lay flat across Hermione's body and carved hate into her soft skin, Draco had stood stoically beside his mother at the perimeter of the room, her hand perched upon his shoulder. The girl was shaking, practically vibrating against the ballroom floor as her mess of honey-brown curls were drowned out by Bellatrix's heap of black, like a cloud of smoke enveloping her soul. Draco hadn't needed to see Hermione's face to internalize her level of pain as her throat released each scream after blood curdling scream. Narcissa's fingers had tensed over his black suit jacket, not keeping him back, but rather pressing him down towards the ground. His mind had been in a constant state of push and pull, anger overtaking rationality, then vise versa. Draco had tried to make a noble attempt at properly breathing, but couldn't manage to stay steady and do so at the same time.
Then, Dobby had appeared out of thin air - the miracle of all miracles. He sat above the rest on the room's grand chandelier, his thin fingers nimbly dissembling the bottom portion of the fixture from its top. None of the others besides Draco and his mom had noticed his presence.
"Go," Narcissa's voice had barely been a whisper, but her message was easily translated by her only son. Draco sharply exhaled, then gave the slightest of nods. In a spectacular act of wandless magic, the pureblood witch had muttered a body binding curse and sent it sailing over the stone, hitting her spouse directly in the chest. Draco's eyes widened in disbelief as he watched his father tumble to the ground. Bellatrix had foolishly taken the bait and dropped the bloodied dagger, standing from her prisoner's writhing body to stalk towards her fallen brother-in-law, her wand quickly drawn.
"What in-" The evil witch's screech began in the back of her throat, then erupted. " WHERE did that spell COME FROM ?" Lucius wriggled against the floor like a worm, unable to pry his limbs from his torso. Bellatrix had towered over the elder Malfoy, her voice shrill and enraged as she demanded answers, her wand pointing wildly at the snatchers. From her place along the wall, Narcissa had stood tall - no one ever paid her much mind, keeping her conveniently removed from conflict. As soon as his mother's grip on his shoulder had loosened, Draco had bolted straight towards the center of the room.
The faster he moved, the slower time seemed to pass. Draco had given the situation a fleeting glance just before he reached Hermione with nervousness panging in the center of his chest - Bellatrix had the remaining snatchers up against the wall, screaming at them to speak without actually giving them a chance to do so. He couldn't think, didn't have time to think. He swallowed harshly, his tongue dry against the roof of his mouth, eyes peering over the girl's head at her wand and the dagger his aunt had let clatter to the floor, along with its scabbard. The words counter-curse had raged through his mind like wildfire, the flames violent enough to coax his hand forward and nab the dark item, its cover, and her prized possession. Desperately, one hand clutched onto Hermione's bicep - making sure to keep the knife away from her skin - while the other had impulsively cradled her face, his fingers accidentally threading through some of her hair in the process.
The chandelier dropped. Horrified doe eyes met his uncertain slits, then they were gone.
It was a miracle they didn't get splinched, really. Draco's focus towards the end of the chaos had faltered beyond belief - overshadowed by a fear he normally did not allow himself to experience - only thinking of their destination at the very last second. But somehow he had gotten them to a grove of trees outside the warded property - he had actually helped her escape. Hermione lay flat in the snow, sobs still heaving from her chest as Draco crouched forward on the balls of his feet, nose touching his knees. He closed into himself, bending his head further towards the ground and removing his hands from Hermione's bicep and face. He had to have been seen; someone besides his mother ought to have witnessed his betrayal. In an attempt to pry himself away from the panic, Draco frantically patted the ground around him, his hand nearly stabbing itself on the stolen dagger. Its sheath sat in the snow directly behind him, the weapon located to his left. He collected the pair, carefully sliding the dagger into its pouch.
where the fuck is her wand?
They sat in silence for a moment, both trying to regulate their breathing and calm their pounding hearts. It had seemed as though Hermione wasn't able to stop crying, stuck in a state of overwhelming shock. The forest around them had remained void of sentient life, their only company being the rustling branches and wind. After a while, she had looked up from her spot in the snow, awkwardly craning her neck to gaze at Draco. In an instant, both the sleeve of her shirt and jacket were pulled down to meet her wrist. Her eyes dodged from left to right, blinking rapidly as though to clear her vision. Frantically, she sat up and scooted away from Draco in a single motion, clutching her bleeding arm close to her body.
"Malfoy-" Hermione sounded weak, her body exhausted.
"Easy, Granger." He had tried to collect himself for her benefit, standing slowly then nonchalantly slipping the dagger into the top of his boot. "I'm not… I'm not going to hurt you-"
"Where did you bring me?" She demanded, digging her heels into the snow to push herself further back. Her hand had been splayed across her forearm so tightly. "Where are Harry and-"
"We left the manor." He replied stoically. "We had to leave. You had to get out of there."
She stared at him blankly, then continued to rapidly blink. Nervously, she raised a hand and rubbed the skin along her hairline before resting her forehead against her palm. "Malfoy, I don't understand."
"You were being tortured, Hermione." fuck.
Once more, she brought her opposite hand down to clamp onto the wound. "I-I'm well aware." Her voice had been bitter, almost spiteful. "Where are we?"
"The woods," He said carefully.
"Oh, thank you!" She let out a sarcastic chortle, finally willing herself to stand. "I couldn't tell."
Draco had stared at her as she brushed the snow from her pants. She was being combative, and though he knew not to expect much else from his long term foe, it had frustrated him - perhaps even bruised his ego.
"We're in the Savernake Forest, if you're so hellbent on specifics." He glared at her arm, itching to see the damage inflicted by the dagger. "Is your arm alright?"
Hermione sucked in her cheeks and looked down, like she was trying to fight off the words that lingered on the back of her tongue. She took a deep breath. "It stings."
Draco frowned then took a step forward, not quite noticing her hesitation. "Maybe I could try to-"
"No," She stated firmly, taking a step back to regain the distance. "No, I don't think-"
"Why?" He had questioned, annoyance expanding in his chest. Without giving it much thought, he stepped closer to her yet again. "I just want to see-"
"Merlin, Malfoy! Stop ." Hermione yelled as she finally looked at him. Her eyes had gone narrow - an attempt to conceal the emotions typically worn as a badge of courage - her arms crossed and torso turned away.
Draco hadn't liked the look she gave him one bit. It was one of distaste, filled with defensive action and self preservation - one that she had often thrown his way throughout their years at Hogwarts. He hated having to see that expression yet another time in his life, for all it did was remind him of past blunders and unforgivable deeds. His chest felt too full as he reminisced on his past, on their past, and before long, he encroached on Hermione's space yet again.
"You're scared of me." He had impulsively hissed into her face - an attempt to stay sinister. For once, Hermione remained silent. She didn't move, her swollen eyes trained on the boy who had wronged her so many times. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco could see dark red seeping through the fabric of her pathetically filthy coat. His stoic front wavered. Panic arose. "J-Just let me help you!" He reached for her arm, his fingers faltering at the edge of her skin.
Ever so slightly, she pulled back from the boy again.
"Why would you be willing to help me?" Quietly, the words passed through Hermione's lips. "Am I not exactly what stands in your way?"
The gentle wind blew through the tops of the ancient trees, causing leftover leaves to fall from the branches and collect on the pristine snow below. Draco had pondered upon her words for a few moments, his gaze fixed on a far-off point. There was no use in trying to maintain the snide persona that had haunted Draco as he grew older, so he pushed down the resurfaced memories and remained civil. "Things have changed since we saw each other last, Granger."
He had forced himself to look back at her. Her expression was still undetectable, but in a different sort of way. For some reason, they couldn't stop holding one another's gaze. It was intense, but comfortable - overwhelming, yet safe. Hermione had somewhat softened at his words, the grip on her wound loosened. But then she broke their eye contact to glance at Draco's covered forearm, the one she knew sported the ugly snake and skull tattoo.
"You're a proper Death Eater now, aren't you?" She had asked recklessly, perhaps to provoke him. Draco pressed his lips together in a tight line and forced his hands deep into the pockets of his pants.
"Sure." The word had been stiff, guarded.
Hermione raised a brow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Can I just see your arm?" Draco sighed.
"No! I-Y-You can't just expect me to… to trust you!" She had exclaimed with a hint of reluctance woven into her voice. "And why on Earth are you so persistent?"
"I'm not a sodding Death Eater, alright?" He grimaced, the truth flashing through his mind. "I, technically speaking, have been initiated into their little club and am, by definition, a member. But I didn't do this willingly." He removed both hands from the pockets of his pants and held them near his head in surrender, backing further away from Hermione. "I was a bit of an offering, or even a bid, if you will. My father wasn't on good terms with You-Know-Who after royally fucking up a few years ago, and he needed a way back in his good graces." Draco chuckled darkly, his mouth turned down. "It's just like Lucius to have someone else do his bidding for him, isn't it? Offering me up for a task of servitude, telling the Dark Lord that I was willing to do whatever it took to preserve the Malfoy name and legacy. So, on my sixteenth birthday, I was branded by that… that lunatic." He shook his head. "I didn't ask for this. And neither did you - all you've done is exist."
Draco didn't dare look up at her. Almost immediately, he regretted letting her in. He had never allowed himself to exude such clear, vibrant emotions in front of others before - characteristically, it just wasn't a part of him. Except he had before, to her , just not in real life. He stood there in an uncomfortable silent shame, about ready to beg the girl to speak.
"I swear, Malfoy, if you try anything, I will end you ." Her words had some bite, but Hermione's voice had been a bit feeble as she caved. A huge part of her was reluctant to outstretch her clothed arm to him, but the smaller part of her was certain it would be alright. Taking a deep breath, she untucked her arm from her chest and held it out in his direction. Draco had released a thankful sigh, then motioned for them to take a seat in the already compressed snow.
"I haven't even looked at it myself." She grimaced as they sat and shook her head. "Didn't have enough time, I suppose."
Draco clenched his jaw, grateful that she had finally given in, but agitated over the state of her wound. "We need to see how deep the cut is." He had said, still staring at her arm. Blood continued to soak through her shirt and jacket, creating blossoms of red upon the fabric.
"I don't fancy looking at it."
He nodded. "I'll just tend to it. Turn your head away."
She did as he instructed, looking up to the treetops. "I have supplies in my bag." She said, turning her head more and using her other arm to retrieve the purple pouch from the inside of her jacket. "Here, it might take you a second to find what you're looking for, but I most likely have whatever we need."
Draco raised an eyebrow as he took the bag from her. "In this?"
She nodded. "Undetectable extension charm."
"Oh," He breathed, impressed by the highly advanced magic. "I see."
After locating the items and placing them in his lap, Draco had gingerly grabbed hold of Hermione's forearm. He really hoped she didn't notice the slight shake to his hands, or the subtle way in which his breath caught. His fingers fumbled for the scissors in his lap.
"I think it may be best to cut this off you," He cleared his throat, motioning towards the sleeve of her coat.
"That's fine, let's just get on with it." She said curtly.
He dealt with the wool coat first, starting at the cuff and cutting directly up to create a slit in order to easily fold back the rest of the sleeve. It had been quite saturated with blood, but had been nothing compared to the sopping wet material of her sweater. Carefully, Draco stuck his fingers under the garment to separate the textile from Hermione's gaping wounds, her blood causing everything to stick together, then slid the scissors to cut a line identical to the first. He peeled back the material, then felt his stomach drop as the wound became fully exposed.
Mudblood .
"Fucking bitch," Draco had exhaled harshly, mindlessly running a blood-soaked hand through his unkept hair. Hermione flinched, assuming that his language was directed towards her. "Not you, Granger." He sighed, afraid to lose her feeble trust. Thankfully she had kept her head turned away, quietly sniffling every once and a while.
"How deep is it?" She asked, beginning to turn her head. Intentionally, Draco had shielded the wound from view with his own arm.
"Rather," He locked eyes with her. "It's still alright if I use the supplies from your bag, yeah?"
She wrinkled her brows. "I don't think I would have let you grab them if I was opposed to you doing so."
Draco couldn't help but feel a bit embarrassed, his ego had once again been bruised; he had only been trying to be courteous - as far as he saw, there had merely been the single roll of gauze in the pouch and wanted to make sure that it was fine to utilize. Slytherin spite caused him to go mute as he worked on disinfecting the wound, taking his time to cause the least amount of pain. The forest around them had still been quite quiet, the snow muffling any animal calls or falling branches. The blanket of clouds above them kept the lighting even, and had given what could be considered a warm tint to the cold world. Hermione glanced around as Draco worked on the sterilization, curiosity blooming in her chest.
"Actually," She said abruptly, just as Draco was unrolling the cotton bandage. "I think I want to see-"
"Please don't look at it," He had said as he began wrapping the gauze, his fingers gently gripping her wrist. "You didn't want to see it before."
"I want to know what it says." Hermione declared, making a one-hundred-and-eighty degree turn around from her earlier statement. She had begun to collect her arm into her chest, but Draco kept it steady in his lap.
"Please," He sighed again, continuing to circle her forearm with the cloth. But after a moment of deliberation, he paused - realizing that if the witch wanted to see her wound, she was going to see it. The word was carved into her skin like a handprint in freshly poured pavement.
"It's my arm, Malfoy." She had spoken his mind. Draco nodded and sighed again, this time in defeat. He undid his work, unwinding the strip of fabric around her arm and making sure that, for the moment, her forearm was pointed towards the ground. He didn't want it to sting more than he knew it already did and would; he didn't want it to be revealed to her letter by letter as he removed the first layer of bandaging, like some sort of twisted guessing game. When it was completely off, Draco stared down at the blank side of her forearm then released her.
Hermione wasted no time flipping over her arm, and in an instant, Draco watched her heart break. He had promised himself he wasn't going to watch her reaction, but had betrayed his word in an instant. Her eyes were wide and filled with more horror than they had been when Draco got them out of the manor. Her mouth had quivered in a similar sort of way.
"F-Fucking…" She breathed, then flinched as she ran her fingers beside the hateful slashes. "Fucking bitch,"
Draco had continued to stare at her, completely at a loss for words. Silence enveloped them again.
"It's deep, too." Hermione frowned, speaking clearly then. "I understand why you didn't want me to see it now."
yeah, that's why.
He nodded, staring at her for a few seconds more until he found a gust of courage. Almost tenderly, he had reached his hands out and had pulled her arm back into his lap - a gesture she did not reject. She laid back beside him that time, the shoulder of her injured arm perched upon his knee. Repeating the process from before, Draco wrapped and sterilized her arm with care. He had made sure the bandage was as secure as possible, then applied an extra layer in case the bleeding continued on due to the inevitable curse.
"That should do it." He said, releasing her arm with a hint of reluctance.
Hermione sat up slowly. "This should hold me over for some time." She had said while rotating her arm to get a good look at his work. "It looks good. Thank you, Malfoy."
They had stood from the snow together, Draco nearly reaching out to help her up. He didn't respond to her gratitude, simply because he hadn't known how to. He had not wanted to be the one to tell her about the dark magic that now resided in her forearm, and if he began to speak, that would be the first thing that came out of his mouth. Instead, a thick silence invaded the space surrounding them. Hermione, who had seemed desperate for some kind of distraction, bent down to collect the supplies and shove them back into her bag. For a moment, Draco allowed himself to watch her motions - how she bent at the waist, which fingers she used to retrieve the items, the way her hair fell across her face - but afterwards had quickly shut his eyes. this is not the time.
Looking for his own distraction, Draco peered around the ancient forest. The nearby trees were quite thick, indicating centuries of growth. Many of them were beech and oak trees, with a few skinnier birches peppered in between. All of them towered over the pair's small spot in the snow, sky-high branches swaying in the light breeze. Draco had fixated his gaze on one particular oak in front of him, its branches crawling across the clouded sky like lightning on a summer night. The bit of the tree where all of the branches met was quite wide, creating somewhat of a platform that looked rather sittable. His eyes traveled down the trunk, quickly inspecting the bark, then followed the massive surface roots until…
holy fuck.
Just then, Hermione's voice had cut through the air.
"I really didn't want to ask this," She had said, her good arm elbow deep in the bag as she searched for a clean shirt and coat. "But do you know what happened to my wand?"
Draco turned to look at her, an unmasked expression of disbelief on his face. "Yeah, actually. I do." He stepped through the snow in the direction of the aforementioned oak, stopping beside one of the gargantuan roots. Sticking perfectly upright in the snow, its tip pointed to the crawling tree limbs, had been Hermione's wand. "Unbelievable," He had breathed out in a sigh, only audible to himself.
She was quickly beside him, having dropped her bag the instant he turned to move. Once she spotted her wand, a girlish squeal had erupted from her throat. "There's no way! Draco!" She was absolutely overjoyed, nearly bouncing in place as she reached down to reunite with her magic. "I was so sure it was gone for good!" Draco hadn't been able to keep his mouth from turning up at both her elation and the way she had said his name; it sounded so much like the way she spoke to him in his dreams.
"A lovely little miracle," Draco said softly, tilting his head up. "I thought I had lost it when we apparated." The silence between them grew thick once more.
After a pause, Hermione spoke. "You grabbed this from the manor?"
He simply nodded in response - each bob of his head lowered his gaze to hers.
"Intentionally?" She had asked, their eyes deadlocked on one another. Her head had been slightly cocked to the right, causing a few stray curls to fall across her face.
"You deserve your magic, Hermione."
Immediately after the words had left his mouth, Draco felt like a fool - he had allowed himself to slip up in front of her far too many times. He was supposed to stay guarded and vigilant, unwilling to show himself to anyone. But despite this, he had never let his eyes leave hers. For the first time, Draco was able to see how they looked up close - her eyes were more than just brown, they were flecked with gold. He had watched as they shifted from a curious squint to a wide-eyed stare, and then, against all odds, to the look .
Draco had nearly fallen over as he observed the shift in her gaze. Her surprised expression had melted into the beautifully soft one from his dreams, the one where she looked at him with kindness overflowing from her eyes. Hermione was just barely smiling, yet her stare was both warm and tender.
"Thank you for rescuing me back there, Malfoy. I can't imagine what this now means for you."
He had reached for her without thinking, his hand faltering just at the edge of her curls. Draco continued to look her in the eye as his hand hovered in the air, waiting for her to back up and shout at him. But much to his surprise, Hermione did not move nor did her gaze waver. She blinked slowly, possibly expectantly.
sod it.
Gently, he had placed a trembling hand on her cheek and caressed the skin beneath her eye with his thumb. She had been so tangible, too tangible. She was soft and warm beneath his palm, and so badly he had wanted to kiss her - but it was too much to bear. Just as he had begun to retract his hand, she leaned forward into his touch, bringing her hand up to rest against his own before she closed her eyes. Draco's mouth had immediately gone dry, his eyes wide in disbelief.
i must be going mad. there is no way this-
His ruminating mind had been put to a halt the moment she kissed his palm.
It had been a simple gesture, one that she may have done to anyone, but it had been enough to rock Draco's entire world. They had separated from one another shortly after, their eyes once again lingering.
Eventually though, Hermione had come to her senses and began to frantically obsess over the wellbeing of Potter and Weasley. Draco had stayed silent for most of her self-deprecating tirade, his back teeth gnawing on the inside of his cheeks, and did not protest when she insisted she was strong enough to apparate to one of the Order's many safe houses.
"Well, where are you going?" She had asked just before leaving.
Draco had shrugged. "I'll figure it out."
Hermione gave a slow, pensive nod. "Alright." She nodded a second time, then looked directly at him as she had before. "Stay safe."
He had nearly snorted. "You want me to stay safe?"
"Yes, Malfoy." She smiled. "I'll see you later in the spring." And with that, she was gone.
They had, in fact, seen one another in the spring - and then some. But pondering upon their fleeting moments gave Draco nothing but a harsh pang to the center of his chest.
Draco had escaped to the sea after the conclusion of the war. With what little money he had, he blindly purchased a small shack-like home on the northwestern coast of Scotland, then made sure to have one of his family's house-elves furnish it before the war concluded. Upon his arrival, Draco had given the little creature a folded handkerchief - the one his mother had always kept on her person - freeing them from eternal servitude. Draco had watched the elf pop away through a screen of long overdue tears, then turned towards the sound of crashing waves.
Salt water had soaked into his clothing instantly, his shoes filling with sand as his body cut forcefully through the waves, trudging along until they came up to about his torso. Only then had he let out a scream that rivaled the persistent crashing of the chaotic water. He screamed for his mother, for the years wasted on fear. He screamed for his father, for the hatred that made a home in his heart. He screamed for himself, for all he lost and left behind.
Sure, he had gained his freedom - at long last, he was able to live life for himself. But at the same time, he had lost everything. He got what he wanted, but only after losing what he had.
Draco turned in his bed, eyes closed and grimacing, to relieve some of the building pressure in his abdomen.
Sometimes, he made himself sick.