(no subject)
Title: so never mind the darkness
Author: pencil gal
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Draco/Hermione, mentions of others
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,330 words
Summary: He watches from the shadows, because he never learnt how to live in the light. Draco POV.
A/N: 1. Written for nelpher as part of the final round of dmhgficexchange (Darkest before the Dawn).
2. This fic was originally inspired by Limp Bizkit's version of the song, "Behind Blue Eyes". I was really struggling with ideas when I happened to hear it on the radio. And within three minutes the beginnings of this fic had formed.
3. Title comes from "November Rain" by Guns N Roses.
so never mind the darkness
You like to spend your afternoons in the library. It reminds you of home in a way - all the shelves, lined with centuries-old books, magic practically pouring out of them. Just like the library in Malfoy Manor. But bigger. Everything at Hogwarts is bigger than it was at home. You don’t tell your parents that sometimes you feel homesick (Father only wants to hear things he can be proud of). So instead you come to the library, and sit amongst the books, and pretend. You pretend that you’re still only ten, and that you’re not at Hogwarts, and you’re still the best at everything.
She comes too.
Everyone knows who she is. Hermione Granger - the buck-toothed, bushy-haired know-it-all. Not even her fellow Gryffindors seemed to like her. They all talked about her behind her back; imitating her, making fun of her.
You had done it too. You would probably do it again.
And so she comes here every day, probably thinking she can escape the taunting if she just buries her nose deep enough in another book. She sits there by herself, day after day, the piled up books on the table her only friends.
You think she looks lonely.
***
She just lies there.
Day after day after day.
You’re afraid this might be your fault. You said that you hoped she would be the one to die and next thing you know, there she is lying lifeless on the hospital bed.
Madame Pomfrey finds you lurking in the corner of the hospital wing. You had thought you were well-hidden, but apparently you’re not as sneaky as you like to think you are.
“Is Granger going to be okay?”
If Madame Pomfrey finds it odd that you’re only asking about Granger’s well-being and not the others’ (that you’re asking at all) she doesn’t say anything. She merely raises an eyebrow at you before replying, “Once the Restorative Potion has been brewed, then yes, Miss Granger will be perfectly well.”
You nod and walk away to the door. You stop and look back for a moment. Madame Pomfrey has moved back into her office and Granger is lying all alone again.
Your stomach twists and clenches. It’s like it’s trying to eat itself from the inside out. What is this feeling? You’ve never experienced anything so uncomfortable before. It couldn’t be guilt, could it? You hear Father’s voice in your head: Malfoys never feel guilt. Because, as Malfoys, we are never wrong. Always remember that Draco.
You try to let his words reassure you as you leave the hospital wing (and Granger’s accusing eyes) behind. It doesn’t work.
(This is your fault. You made it happen by saying it out loud. And now you feel guilty for it.)
***
You can’t go in there.
Can’t watch as they torture Granger. Not this time. Not her.
You stand just outside the doorway, hidden by the shadows. Her screams pierce your eardrums, even as you try not to hear.
You sing to yourself. You don’t care what it is that comes out of your mouth as long as it’s words and a tune so that you can listen to something other than her. You try to focus on the words. You think it might be a Muggle song that you’re singing.
You’ve taken to sneaking into Muggle London lately. Whenever Mother thinks you’re in Knockturn Alley, you actually disappear into the Muggle world. There’s no magic there. No war. No Deatheaters.
No Lord Voldemort.
Your one small (only) rebellion.
The song, you must have heard it while wandering around London. You don’t know what it is, but you remember thinking it was good when you heard it. Probably why you remember it.
The screaming stops. You glance out of the shadows and into the bright room. She’s lying on the ground, Bellatrix cackling behind her (the worst sound in the world). You have to look hard to make sure she’s still breathing.
You can’t help her.
And so instead, you stand outside and you stay in the dark and you sing.
***
They made you get a job at the Ministry - the new powers that be that is. Shacklebolt as Minister of Magic and Potter as the new Head of the Aurors - or whatever stupid position it was the Ministry had handed to the Boy Saviour on a plate.
Your “rehabilitation” they called it. As if you really had any choice in it, considering Lucius was in Azkaban, all of the Malfoy accounts were frozen, and your mother could barely support herself on what little remained of the Black fortune, never mind having to support you too. At least they let you and Mother stay in the Manor.
Of course, they weren’t going to make it easy for you. This is obviously why they assigned you to work in the same Department as Granger. You’re willing to bet anything that it was Potter’s idea. You’re surprised that Granger let them. They probably didn’t tell her so that she wouldn’t have the chance to object.
Bloody Potter.
People mutter about you everywhere you go. You can’t even move from one desk to another without the sneering and constant whispering (deatheater deatheater deatheater) under everyone’s breath. So you try to keep to yourself. You keep your head down, you make minimum contact with anyone, you eat lunch at your desk by yourself. You stick to the shadows (just like you always have. Some things never change).
And because you have nothing better to do you start to watch Granger. (Not that you ever really stopped.)
It was like the start of Hogwarts all over again.
The only difference now is that she’s treated like a hero. All those people and politicians, they’re nice and lovely to her face, completely sucking up to Harry Potter’s best friend. Everyone wanting stay on the good side of the brightest witch of her generation.
But as she turns her back and moves away you can see the snide comments immediately starting.
She still looks lonely.
***
Granger wears Muggle clothes to work. Oh, she wears a boring, very practical black robe over the top when she first arrives in the morning, but as soon as she sits down it comes off. It’s hard not to like what’s underneath. The tight skirts that hug her hips and thighs, straight to her knees. The collared shirts and fitted cardigans.
She wears shoes with very high heels as well. They make her legs look brilliant. Hardly the comfortable, practical kind you would expect her to wear though. Maybe they’re meant to make her appear more professional. You’re not sure how true that is, but whatever the reason she certainly looks good in them.
You like what you see. Too much you think. It doesn’t stop you from looking though.
***
You sometimes wonder what it is Potter and Shacklebolt and all those others are trying to fix. What is it about you that they think is broken? The fact that you were a Deatheater, maybe? Never mind that you never killed anyone (you don’t have the guts) and that you hated everything that went on in your Manor (nothing like the glamorous war stories Father used to tell when you were a child) and that Voldemort scared you more than you care to admit.
Or maybe it’s because you spent your formative years repeating everything your parents had taught you (mudblood mudblood mudblood). You didn’t know they were wrong about Muggles until you were so scared that you escaped to their world.
You made mistakes. You know that. You were afraid for Mother and you wanted to prove yourself to Lucius and you ended up getting in way over your head. You’re not Snape and you’re not a Gryffindor. You’re not brave.
You were a scared little boy. A scared little boy that didn’t know any better.
***
You made the mistake of telling Potter you liked Muggle London.
He actually smiled at you when you said it. Smiled for Merlin’s sake. (It was possibly the scariest moment of your life. Well, except for the Battle of Hogwarts. And every time you had to be near Voldemort. And - okay so maybe not the scariest. But it’s up there.)
That was when Potter had his best idea yet: day excursions into the Muggle world. It would seem that you were the Ministry’s little test case for their “rehabilitation project”. Anything they came up with they were allowed to make you do it. No objections.
And that was how you ended up here, walking into a Muggle aquatic centre with Potter grinning like an idiot beside you, wearing nothing but a pair of board shorts. You’ll be lucky to survive the day, of that you’re certain. Potter is chattering away, acting as if you were the best friends (no history, no hatred, nothing). You block the words out so that his voice becomes nothing more than white noise. You’re pretty sure that his current behaviour is just another of Potter’s little mind games anyway.
The two of you walk outside into the bright, midday sun. Potter starts to weave his way around the smaller pools obviously designed for young children, and moves towards the large one at the end of the lot. He raises his hand and you look towards the direction he’s waving. And immediately stop short.
Merlin help you, Weasley and Granger are here. They were sitting together on beach towels, off to the side of the pool. Weasley’s pasty skin was already turning as red as his hair and the scowl that graced his face upon spotting you matches your own. As for Granger, well. You gulp and glance away. She is wearing far, far too little clothing for your liking.
Your imagination is already taking you places you don’t want to go, and you know that you won’t survive a minute if you have to interact with her while she is looking (delectable, desirable, irresistible) like that.
“I don’t actually have to sit with you annoying Gryffindors, do I?” You turn to Potter still scowling.
He’s amused. Bloody pillock. “No Malfoy. As long as you don’t leave, and stay somewhere I can see you, then you can do whatever you want.” Potter suddenly frowned. “Except-”
You roll your eyes and cut him off. You already know what he’s going to say. “Don’t worry Potter, I’m not about to hurt any of the Muggles.” You walk away before he has the chance to reply.
You find a tree to sit under. The sun is hot and you can feel your skin burning already - you don’t want to end up looking like a tomato the way Weasley currently does. You turn your attention towards studiously ignoring the Golden Trio. The plan is to look at anything and everything but them. It’s nice in the shade.
Fitting too. You’ve always lived in the shadows.)
You can suddenly see Granger in the pool, cutting a path through the water with ease. She does a few laps before pulling herself back out. Rivers of water pour down her body and her drenched hair is stuck to her chest.
Your mouth goes dry.
A breeze suddenly picks up and blows by you. You blame the shudder of desire that passes through your body on the chill of the wind. Because it was certainly not caused by Granger’s gorgeous body. And it really wasn’t caused by the fact that you are unbelievably attracted to her.
No, definitely the wind.
You, Draco Malfoy, are royally screwed.
***
You’re not quite sure how you and Hermione Granger got to this point. Somewhere in between all the hours you spend together at the Ministry and Potter’s continued forced trips to the Muggle world, you and Granger had reached some sort of odd, pseudo-friendship.
Weasley still hates you. You still hate Weasley too, so it’s okay. As for Potter, he bickers and banters with you, he laughs at (and sometimes with) you, and he (astonishingly) sticks up for you. He’s not an acquaintance and he’s not a friend and he’s not an enemy. Potter is a weird mixture of all three.
But it’s your new relationship with Granger that confuses (scares) you.
The two of you had been assigned to work on a project together by the Head of your Department. It was hardly the most arduous task you’d ever had (far beneath yours and Granger’s intelligence levels. It was almost insulting to assign you something so simple) but it was time-consuming, and so you and Granger decided to stay back late one night to get it finished.
She’s flirting with you. You’re sure of it. You want so much to breach the distance between you and just kiss her. Slip one hand amongst her riotous curls, the other around her waist, and never let her go until she’s yours and only yours.
But you don’t. You tell yourself that you must be imagining things, or that she’s not ready to go to that level with you. You always were good at lying to yourself.
(When it comes to her you’re still a scared little boy.)
***
This afternoon you kissed her. Earlier this evening you took her out and bought her dinner. And now, tonight, she has fallen asleep on your lounge.
You could easily get used to this sight. Hermione Granger (no longer buck-toothed, hair slightly more controlled, most definitely still a know-it-all) sprawled across your lounge, mouth hanging slightly open, as she dozes after a long day at work. You wave your wand lazily and darken the room so that the bright lights won’t disturb her sleep. Standing there in the shadows as you watch her, you lean against the doorway and smile.
You have absolutely no idea what all this is, or where it’s going, or what it might mean. But you know you like it.
And that’s enough for you.
Author: pencil gal
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Draco/Hermione, mentions of others
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,330 words
Summary: He watches from the shadows, because he never learnt how to live in the light. Draco POV.
A/N: 1. Written for nelpher as part of the final round of dmhgficexchange (Darkest before the Dawn).
2. This fic was originally inspired by Limp Bizkit's version of the song, "Behind Blue Eyes". I was really struggling with ideas when I happened to hear it on the radio. And within three minutes the beginnings of this fic had formed.
3. Title comes from "November Rain" by Guns N Roses.
so never mind the darkness
You like to spend your afternoons in the library. It reminds you of home in a way - all the shelves, lined with centuries-old books, magic practically pouring out of them. Just like the library in Malfoy Manor. But bigger. Everything at Hogwarts is bigger than it was at home. You don’t tell your parents that sometimes you feel homesick (Father only wants to hear things he can be proud of). So instead you come to the library, and sit amongst the books, and pretend. You pretend that you’re still only ten, and that you’re not at Hogwarts, and you’re still the best at everything.
She comes too.
Everyone knows who she is. Hermione Granger - the buck-toothed, bushy-haired know-it-all. Not even her fellow Gryffindors seemed to like her. They all talked about her behind her back; imitating her, making fun of her.
You had done it too. You would probably do it again.
And so she comes here every day, probably thinking she can escape the taunting if she just buries her nose deep enough in another book. She sits there by herself, day after day, the piled up books on the table her only friends.
You think she looks lonely.
***
She just lies there.
Day after day after day.
You’re afraid this might be your fault. You said that you hoped she would be the one to die and next thing you know, there she is lying lifeless on the hospital bed.
Madame Pomfrey finds you lurking in the corner of the hospital wing. You had thought you were well-hidden, but apparently you’re not as sneaky as you like to think you are.
“Is Granger going to be okay?”
If Madame Pomfrey finds it odd that you’re only asking about Granger’s well-being and not the others’ (that you’re asking at all) she doesn’t say anything. She merely raises an eyebrow at you before replying, “Once the Restorative Potion has been brewed, then yes, Miss Granger will be perfectly well.”
You nod and walk away to the door. You stop and look back for a moment. Madame Pomfrey has moved back into her office and Granger is lying all alone again.
Your stomach twists and clenches. It’s like it’s trying to eat itself from the inside out. What is this feeling? You’ve never experienced anything so uncomfortable before. It couldn’t be guilt, could it? You hear Father’s voice in your head: Malfoys never feel guilt. Because, as Malfoys, we are never wrong. Always remember that Draco.
You try to let his words reassure you as you leave the hospital wing (and Granger’s accusing eyes) behind. It doesn’t work.
(This is your fault. You made it happen by saying it out loud. And now you feel guilty for it.)
***
You can’t go in there.
Can’t watch as they torture Granger. Not this time. Not her.
You stand just outside the doorway, hidden by the shadows. Her screams pierce your eardrums, even as you try not to hear.
You sing to yourself. You don’t care what it is that comes out of your mouth as long as it’s words and a tune so that you can listen to something other than her. You try to focus on the words. You think it might be a Muggle song that you’re singing.
You’ve taken to sneaking into Muggle London lately. Whenever Mother thinks you’re in Knockturn Alley, you actually disappear into the Muggle world. There’s no magic there. No war. No Deatheaters.
No Lord Voldemort.
Your one small (only) rebellion.
The song, you must have heard it while wandering around London. You don’t know what it is, but you remember thinking it was good when you heard it. Probably why you remember it.
The screaming stops. You glance out of the shadows and into the bright room. She’s lying on the ground, Bellatrix cackling behind her (the worst sound in the world). You have to look hard to make sure she’s still breathing.
You can’t help her.
And so instead, you stand outside and you stay in the dark and you sing.
***
They made you get a job at the Ministry - the new powers that be that is. Shacklebolt as Minister of Magic and Potter as the new Head of the Aurors - or whatever stupid position it was the Ministry had handed to the Boy Saviour on a plate.
Your “rehabilitation” they called it. As if you really had any choice in it, considering Lucius was in Azkaban, all of the Malfoy accounts were frozen, and your mother could barely support herself on what little remained of the Black fortune, never mind having to support you too. At least they let you and Mother stay in the Manor.
Of course, they weren’t going to make it easy for you. This is obviously why they assigned you to work in the same Department as Granger. You’re willing to bet anything that it was Potter’s idea. You’re surprised that Granger let them. They probably didn’t tell her so that she wouldn’t have the chance to object.
Bloody Potter.
People mutter about you everywhere you go. You can’t even move from one desk to another without the sneering and constant whispering (deatheater deatheater deatheater) under everyone’s breath. So you try to keep to yourself. You keep your head down, you make minimum contact with anyone, you eat lunch at your desk by yourself. You stick to the shadows (just like you always have. Some things never change).
And because you have nothing better to do you start to watch Granger. (Not that you ever really stopped.)
It was like the start of Hogwarts all over again.
The only difference now is that she’s treated like a hero. All those people and politicians, they’re nice and lovely to her face, completely sucking up to Harry Potter’s best friend. Everyone wanting stay on the good side of the brightest witch of her generation.
But as she turns her back and moves away you can see the snide comments immediately starting.
She still looks lonely.
***
Granger wears Muggle clothes to work. Oh, she wears a boring, very practical black robe over the top when she first arrives in the morning, but as soon as she sits down it comes off. It’s hard not to like what’s underneath. The tight skirts that hug her hips and thighs, straight to her knees. The collared shirts and fitted cardigans.
She wears shoes with very high heels as well. They make her legs look brilliant. Hardly the comfortable, practical kind you would expect her to wear though. Maybe they’re meant to make her appear more professional. You’re not sure how true that is, but whatever the reason she certainly looks good in them.
You like what you see. Too much you think. It doesn’t stop you from looking though.
***
You sometimes wonder what it is Potter and Shacklebolt and all those others are trying to fix. What is it about you that they think is broken? The fact that you were a Deatheater, maybe? Never mind that you never killed anyone (you don’t have the guts) and that you hated everything that went on in your Manor (nothing like the glamorous war stories Father used to tell when you were a child) and that Voldemort scared you more than you care to admit.
Or maybe it’s because you spent your formative years repeating everything your parents had taught you (mudblood mudblood mudblood). You didn’t know they were wrong about Muggles until you were so scared that you escaped to their world.
You made mistakes. You know that. You were afraid for Mother and you wanted to prove yourself to Lucius and you ended up getting in way over your head. You’re not Snape and you’re not a Gryffindor. You’re not brave.
You were a scared little boy. A scared little boy that didn’t know any better.
***
You made the mistake of telling Potter you liked Muggle London.
He actually smiled at you when you said it. Smiled for Merlin’s sake. (It was possibly the scariest moment of your life. Well, except for the Battle of Hogwarts. And every time you had to be near Voldemort. And - okay so maybe not the scariest. But it’s up there.)
That was when Potter had his best idea yet: day excursions into the Muggle world. It would seem that you were the Ministry’s little test case for their “rehabilitation project”. Anything they came up with they were allowed to make you do it. No objections.
And that was how you ended up here, walking into a Muggle aquatic centre with Potter grinning like an idiot beside you, wearing nothing but a pair of board shorts. You’ll be lucky to survive the day, of that you’re certain. Potter is chattering away, acting as if you were the best friends (no history, no hatred, nothing). You block the words out so that his voice becomes nothing more than white noise. You’re pretty sure that his current behaviour is just another of Potter’s little mind games anyway.
The two of you walk outside into the bright, midday sun. Potter starts to weave his way around the smaller pools obviously designed for young children, and moves towards the large one at the end of the lot. He raises his hand and you look towards the direction he’s waving. And immediately stop short.
Merlin help you, Weasley and Granger are here. They were sitting together on beach towels, off to the side of the pool. Weasley’s pasty skin was already turning as red as his hair and the scowl that graced his face upon spotting you matches your own. As for Granger, well. You gulp and glance away. She is wearing far, far too little clothing for your liking.
Your imagination is already taking you places you don’t want to go, and you know that you won’t survive a minute if you have to interact with her while she is looking (delectable, desirable, irresistible) like that.
“I don’t actually have to sit with you annoying Gryffindors, do I?” You turn to Potter still scowling.
He’s amused. Bloody pillock. “No Malfoy. As long as you don’t leave, and stay somewhere I can see you, then you can do whatever you want.” Potter suddenly frowned. “Except-”
You roll your eyes and cut him off. You already know what he’s going to say. “Don’t worry Potter, I’m not about to hurt any of the Muggles.” You walk away before he has the chance to reply.
You find a tree to sit under. The sun is hot and you can feel your skin burning already - you don’t want to end up looking like a tomato the way Weasley currently does. You turn your attention towards studiously ignoring the Golden Trio. The plan is to look at anything and everything but them. It’s nice in the shade.
Fitting too. You’ve always lived in the shadows.)
You can suddenly see Granger in the pool, cutting a path through the water with ease. She does a few laps before pulling herself back out. Rivers of water pour down her body and her drenched hair is stuck to her chest.
Your mouth goes dry.
A breeze suddenly picks up and blows by you. You blame the shudder of desire that passes through your body on the chill of the wind. Because it was certainly not caused by Granger’s gorgeous body. And it really wasn’t caused by the fact that you are unbelievably attracted to her.
No, definitely the wind.
You, Draco Malfoy, are royally screwed.
***
You’re not quite sure how you and Hermione Granger got to this point. Somewhere in between all the hours you spend together at the Ministry and Potter’s continued forced trips to the Muggle world, you and Granger had reached some sort of odd, pseudo-friendship.
Weasley still hates you. You still hate Weasley too, so it’s okay. As for Potter, he bickers and banters with you, he laughs at (and sometimes with) you, and he (astonishingly) sticks up for you. He’s not an acquaintance and he’s not a friend and he’s not an enemy. Potter is a weird mixture of all three.
But it’s your new relationship with Granger that confuses (scares) you.
The two of you had been assigned to work on a project together by the Head of your Department. It was hardly the most arduous task you’d ever had (far beneath yours and Granger’s intelligence levels. It was almost insulting to assign you something so simple) but it was time-consuming, and so you and Granger decided to stay back late one night to get it finished.
She’s flirting with you. You’re sure of it. You want so much to breach the distance between you and just kiss her. Slip one hand amongst her riotous curls, the other around her waist, and never let her go until she’s yours and only yours.
But you don’t. You tell yourself that you must be imagining things, or that she’s not ready to go to that level with you. You always were good at lying to yourself.
(When it comes to her you’re still a scared little boy.)
***
This afternoon you kissed her. Earlier this evening you took her out and bought her dinner. And now, tonight, she has fallen asleep on your lounge.
You could easily get used to this sight. Hermione Granger (no longer buck-toothed, hair slightly more controlled, most definitely still a know-it-all) sprawled across your lounge, mouth hanging slightly open, as she dozes after a long day at work. You wave your wand lazily and darken the room so that the bright lights won’t disturb her sleep. Standing there in the shadows as you watch her, you lean against the doorway and smile.
You have absolutely no idea what all this is, or where it’s going, or what it might mean. But you know you like it.
And that’s enough for you.