Draco/Hermione : The Drowned Must Wear Such Smiles
This is for the incomparable x_ning, who requested D/Hr from me :D! This took a bit of a different direction from what I intended, but I hope it fits your requirements. It's not as dark as I would have liked, I'm a bit rusty at the dark <3
Title: The Drowned Must Wear Such Smiles
Length: 250 words
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Rating: PG (verging on dark themes)
Summary: He is nothing and he knows this because she will never let him forget it. This is vengeance, such as he has never seen.
A/N: The title of this piece is a wonderful line from a poem by David Malouf (I can’t quite remember the name of the poem) and the nursery rhyme sprinkled throughout is Come to the Window. Beta’d by the fan-fucking-tastic derryere and sexxxxxy somesadaffair who are just so incredible ♥ Any other mistakes in this are my own :D
Tabby darling, I hope you enjoy it! <3
Feedback is <3
The Drowned Must Wear Such Smiles
He sits with his hands in his lap, fingers grappling with sea salt and sand, squinting at the ghost of a girl who knew the world: a different plane, an unintelligible way. She dances, with grit and mayhem beneath her toes, a sublime thing of tarnished virtue and dirt befoul.
He is shivering, from the roots of his flaxen hair to the tips of his pale toes and the hollow, throaty winds chant: Come to the window my baby, with me.
And look at the stars that shine on the sea.
They will not be forgiven.
~*~
She teases him upon the shore with her otherworldly ways and an impish sway of her corporeal hips, and sometimes she can almost see the reticent fear reflected in his eyes. So she claps her hands to an unheard of beat, a scintillating blend of spindrift and rhyme and bone, and he draws his cloak tighter around his frame, blowing upon his knuckles rigid with cold.
She is smiling, with the translucent skin of her skull pulled taut and her teeth bared, as his eyes widen and she inhales, the words drifting from her wispy tongue: There are two little stars that play Bo-Peep.
With two little fish far down in the deep.
Everything falls - eventually.
~*~
He watches the waves tumble, beholds the tides surge with grains of upheaval and the sands of time. It scares him for he is neither pillar of strength nor symbol of madness.
He is nothing and he knows this because she will never let him forget it. This is vengeance, such as he has never seen.
He has washed his mouth until he has become benumbed; he has frenetically scraped his skin red and raw; he has dug and dug and dug, burying everything that they ever had in her hallowed, shallow grave.
And when he wakes, he wakes with the taste of ocean spray fresh on his lips; stirs to find the dreaded sprinkling of powdered shell gracing his limbs; rouses to discover her wedding invitations and his photographs and their memoirs canopied upon his ceiling and plastered against his four walls.
She lingers; she refuses to leave. It is putrid and vile and cloying and his efforts have been in vain.
Hermione is the first thing he hears when he rises in the morning - a prickling cockcrow of dawn, a pitter-patter of nymphlike feet dancing across the floorboards. Hermione is the last thing he listens to before he drifts off to sleep - a raspy lullaby from the shadows, a quiet lilt of laughter from behind the drapery.
Her voice spurns dreams, welcoming sin: And two little frogs cry “Neap, neap, neap.”
I see a dear baby that should be asleep.
He will never be alone.
Title: The Drowned Must Wear Such Smiles
Length: 250 words
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Rating: PG (verging on dark themes)
Summary: He is nothing and he knows this because she will never let him forget it. This is vengeance, such as he has never seen.
A/N: The title of this piece is a wonderful line from a poem by David Malouf (I can’t quite remember the name of the poem) and the nursery rhyme sprinkled throughout is Come to the Window. Beta’d by the fan-fucking-tastic derryere and sexxxxxy somesadaffair who are just so incredible ♥ Any other mistakes in this are my own :D
Tabby darling, I hope you enjoy it! <3
Feedback is <3
The Drowned Must Wear Such Smiles
He sits with his hands in his lap, fingers grappling with sea salt and sand, squinting at the ghost of a girl who knew the world: a different plane, an unintelligible way. She dances, with grit and mayhem beneath her toes, a sublime thing of tarnished virtue and dirt befoul.
He is shivering, from the roots of his flaxen hair to the tips of his pale toes and the hollow, throaty winds chant: Come to the window my baby, with me.
And look at the stars that shine on the sea.
They will not be forgiven.
~*~
She teases him upon the shore with her otherworldly ways and an impish sway of her corporeal hips, and sometimes she can almost see the reticent fear reflected in his eyes. So she claps her hands to an unheard of beat, a scintillating blend of spindrift and rhyme and bone, and he draws his cloak tighter around his frame, blowing upon his knuckles rigid with cold.
She is smiling, with the translucent skin of her skull pulled taut and her teeth bared, as his eyes widen and she inhales, the words drifting from her wispy tongue: There are two little stars that play Bo-Peep.
With two little fish far down in the deep.
Everything falls - eventually.
~*~
He watches the waves tumble, beholds the tides surge with grains of upheaval and the sands of time. It scares him for he is neither pillar of strength nor symbol of madness.
He is nothing and he knows this because she will never let him forget it. This is vengeance, such as he has never seen.
He has washed his mouth until he has become benumbed; he has frenetically scraped his skin red and raw; he has dug and dug and dug, burying everything that they ever had in her hallowed, shallow grave.
And when he wakes, he wakes with the taste of ocean spray fresh on his lips; stirs to find the dreaded sprinkling of powdered shell gracing his limbs; rouses to discover her wedding invitations and his photographs and their memoirs canopied upon his ceiling and plastered against his four walls.
She lingers; she refuses to leave. It is putrid and vile and cloying and his efforts have been in vain.
Hermione is the first thing he hears when he rises in the morning - a prickling cockcrow of dawn, a pitter-patter of nymphlike feet dancing across the floorboards. Hermione is the last thing he listens to before he drifts off to sleep - a raspy lullaby from the shadows, a quiet lilt of laughter from behind the drapery.
Her voice spurns dreams, welcoming sin: And two little frogs cry “Neap, neap, neap.”
I see a dear baby that should be asleep.
He will never be alone.