[ hp ] blankets of the night.
blankets of the night
(draco malfoy, draco/hermione) The three words came like a curse. They hung into the air, broken and vulnerable and pleading and loving, as if they would shatter in the fragility of the moment around them if he tried to speak.
written for the valentines drabble ficathon.
present.
He bumps into her one day, seven years after the war, two years after they ended. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised-they've always worked in the same building, after all, but in different departments that barely interacted. It's the first time he's seen her in nearly a year, and his fortune's run out.
They both stare at each other for a long moment. Her hair falls past her shoulders in a tornado of barely tamed curls. She's taken to wearing reading glasses on occasion-the same ones that peek out of the pocket of her robes. Her eyes are as brown as ever, and he cannot help but notice all of these things. He watches the surprise flare in her expression, then the hesitation, and finally the determined look to pursue civility. She speaks first, "Hello, Malfoy."
Draco wonders when she reverted back to using his surname.
"Granger," he returns curtly. Hermione purses her lips. They remain in a standstill for the longest time, so he forces out something-anything-to get rid of the awkward silence. "Aren't you-shouldn't you be eating lunch, now?"
Always on the defensive, "I'll eat lunch whenever I-" she begins to say, but then she processes his words and her eyes widen when she realises that he still knows her work schedule by heart.
His mouth stretches into a thin line at his blunder. Slowly, he turns, and walks away with a determined pace. She does not bother to call after him.
.
before.
"You're late again." His fork scraped against his plate. The words slithered out of his mouth before he could think to hold them back; they were the exact words to start a fight.
Hermione stopped at the edge of the dining room, just staring at him. He watched as she slid into the chair opposite him, quietly scooping bits of food onto her plate. "It isn't like you're never late," she pointed out, an edge her voice as she shoved the fork into her mouth. The food was cold, and her nose scrunched up the tiniest bit.
"Twice this month," he said, "and I was never late for two hours without letting you know without a note or floo call, in comparison to the seven times you've-!"
"So we're keeping score, now?"
"I wasn't-"
"You always do this-"
"-comparing when the work we do is entirely diff-"
"-oh, but you seem to have enough time for-"
"-since when do you believe every single thing in the Dai-"
"-you've been gone for-"
"-have a future with you?"
Draco stopped in the middle of whatever argument he was grasping for then, because he was fighting for the sake of fighting, and he was tired and she was tired and arguing seemed to be the only thing he knew how to do. He stared at her as she repeated his words, and he fleetingly remembered his mother's thinly-veiled disapproval, his father's outright disgust, the rumours floating around of pureblood upbringing and ideals.
Of course, he wanted to say, ofcourseofcourseofcourse because he could not think of a day where he would be able to go on with life happily without her. The words struggled to push against the invisible barrier that held his tongue in place and when they finally broke free, it was twenty seconds too late, and it was enough time for her to read the hesitation in his expression.
The door slammed behind her.
.
present.
He's slumped on a stool in some bar he doesn't know the name of, a bottle of muggle beer in his hand. A couple minutes pass, or an hour, but he soon finds himself staring down this enormous, red-faced man with a large tattoo on his shoulder. Draco thinks he may have insulted him or something of the sort, because the next thing he knows, he's being slammed against a table, and he tries to grab for his wand, but-
"Stop! Wait, please! I'm sorry-we'll leave-Malfoy-!" Of course it's her. He squints, only able to make out her wild, bushy hair, before black begins to seep into his vision. Then there is a small hand roughly pulling him upwards, shoving him through the doors and into a dark alley. Draco manages to catch her flushed, angry expression before they pop out of the muggle area and in front of his house.
He throws up on the porch. His nose wrinkles in disgust, because he isn't a lightweight and never has been, and how much alcohol did he drink tonight, again? "Hermione," he tries to say, but his mouth is fuzzy and what he says instead is a botched up version of what was supposed to be her name.
Through his distorted vision, he watches Hermione take out her wand to dismantle the wards. "They-they're still the sa…" he trails off in a slur. What was he trying to say again?
He doesn't see her startled expression, but he does see her flick her wand in a hesitant but familiar motion.
Then he passes out.
.
before.
The three words came like a curse. They hung into the air, broken and vulnerable and pleading and loving, as if they would shatter in the fragility of the moment around them if he tried to speak. It hung heavily around them, weighed at his chest, swallowed by the darkness.
I love you.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Her toothbrush wasn't supposed to be permanently stationed in his bathroom; her clothing wasn't supposed to have a drawer in his bedroom; the wards weren't supposed to be altered to let her in safely; he wasn't supposed to know exactly when she had breakfast and lunch; she wasn't supposed to love him as much as she did.
Draco pretended not to hear her. Coward, he thought, cowardcowardcoward and if he tried to think of whether or not he loved her, he--he didn't know.
He feigned sleep, and minutes later, her shoulders trembled as she cried into his shoulders.
.
present.
He's only a little surprised when he sees her in his kitchen, preparing a cup of coffee. His hangover prevents him for being entirely awake, however, and so he stumbles into the couch and groans in pain. Hermione appears a moment later, lips pinched tightly together. She hands him the mug.
Draco wonders what would have happened if he'd woken up first. Then he has this fleeting imaginary scenario that flashes in his mind in which he'd found her lying on his couch, curled up into a ball, just like before. He blinks rapidly to dispel it.
She hands him the coffee wordlessly, and then flicks her wand. The relief his head feels is inexplicable--the sudden absence of the relentless pounding drags a relieved sigh out of him. For a second, she looks as if she wants to scold him, to shout, to rant, but seems to think better of it and sits down.
"What are you doing here?" It comes out harshly. He tries not to look at her eyes, but then he does, and-
He doesn't need her pity, her sense of obligation towards him. She owes him nothing and it's the same with him.
"You looked like you needed help," is all she says. He hates her answer. He likes to think that he hates her as well, but-but he can't.
Their relationship has been a battlefield. They've both left scars on each other too deep to see, hidden too well to mend. Sometimes, when he looks back, he finds all the spots where he'd hurt her and she'd hurt him. When he can no longer remember the good times, he uses those spots to create a time-line-one of fights, arguments, and all the gaps in between are moments of laughter that he's forgotten.
He wonders, sometimes, when their relationship started breaking down. The would have beens and could have beens that haunted him in his memories of the war now torture him through a different time. He likes to think that, in another time, in another world, they would have been enough.
"I don't regret it," she confesses quietly. He must not have hid the spasm of pain as well as he thought, because she leans forward with a sad smile. "We gave it our all, didn't we? I think-I think we're better, this way." she shakes her head. "But I-I don't hate you. And if it's possible, I'd like to… to become… acquaintances, again." Her nerves seem to flutter out of her and she stands, preparing to leave.
"I love you," he says as she reaches the door, two years too late. They both know that.
She closes the door softly behind her.
His eyes drift shut, and he does not think of Hermione Granger.
(draco malfoy, draco/hermione) The three words came like a curse. They hung into the air, broken and vulnerable and pleading and loving, as if they would shatter in the fragility of the moment around them if he tried to speak.
written for the valentines drabble ficathon.
present.
He bumps into her one day, seven years after the war, two years after they ended. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised-they've always worked in the same building, after all, but in different departments that barely interacted. It's the first time he's seen her in nearly a year, and his fortune's run out.
They both stare at each other for a long moment. Her hair falls past her shoulders in a tornado of barely tamed curls. She's taken to wearing reading glasses on occasion-the same ones that peek out of the pocket of her robes. Her eyes are as brown as ever, and he cannot help but notice all of these things. He watches the surprise flare in her expression, then the hesitation, and finally the determined look to pursue civility. She speaks first, "Hello, Malfoy."
Draco wonders when she reverted back to using his surname.
"Granger," he returns curtly. Hermione purses her lips. They remain in a standstill for the longest time, so he forces out something-anything-to get rid of the awkward silence. "Aren't you-shouldn't you be eating lunch, now?"
Always on the defensive, "I'll eat lunch whenever I-" she begins to say, but then she processes his words and her eyes widen when she realises that he still knows her work schedule by heart.
His mouth stretches into a thin line at his blunder. Slowly, he turns, and walks away with a determined pace. She does not bother to call after him.
.
before.
"You're late again." His fork scraped against his plate. The words slithered out of his mouth before he could think to hold them back; they were the exact words to start a fight.
Hermione stopped at the edge of the dining room, just staring at him. He watched as she slid into the chair opposite him, quietly scooping bits of food onto her plate. "It isn't like you're never late," she pointed out, an edge her voice as she shoved the fork into her mouth. The food was cold, and her nose scrunched up the tiniest bit.
"Twice this month," he said, "and I was never late for two hours without letting you know without a note or floo call, in comparison to the seven times you've-!"
"So we're keeping score, now?"
"I wasn't-"
"You always do this-"
"-comparing when the work we do is entirely diff-"
"-oh, but you seem to have enough time for-"
"-since when do you believe every single thing in the Dai-"
"-you've been gone for-"
"-have a future with you?"
Draco stopped in the middle of whatever argument he was grasping for then, because he was fighting for the sake of fighting, and he was tired and she was tired and arguing seemed to be the only thing he knew how to do. He stared at her as she repeated his words, and he fleetingly remembered his mother's thinly-veiled disapproval, his father's outright disgust, the rumours floating around of pureblood upbringing and ideals.
Of course, he wanted to say, ofcourseofcourseofcourse because he could not think of a day where he would be able to go on with life happily without her. The words struggled to push against the invisible barrier that held his tongue in place and when they finally broke free, it was twenty seconds too late, and it was enough time for her to read the hesitation in his expression.
The door slammed behind her.
.
present.
He's slumped on a stool in some bar he doesn't know the name of, a bottle of muggle beer in his hand. A couple minutes pass, or an hour, but he soon finds himself staring down this enormous, red-faced man with a large tattoo on his shoulder. Draco thinks he may have insulted him or something of the sort, because the next thing he knows, he's being slammed against a table, and he tries to grab for his wand, but-
"Stop! Wait, please! I'm sorry-we'll leave-Malfoy-!" Of course it's her. He squints, only able to make out her wild, bushy hair, before black begins to seep into his vision. Then there is a small hand roughly pulling him upwards, shoving him through the doors and into a dark alley. Draco manages to catch her flushed, angry expression before they pop out of the muggle area and in front of his house.
He throws up on the porch. His nose wrinkles in disgust, because he isn't a lightweight and never has been, and how much alcohol did he drink tonight, again? "Hermione," he tries to say, but his mouth is fuzzy and what he says instead is a botched up version of what was supposed to be her name.
Through his distorted vision, he watches Hermione take out her wand to dismantle the wards. "They-they're still the sa…" he trails off in a slur. What was he trying to say again?
He doesn't see her startled expression, but he does see her flick her wand in a hesitant but familiar motion.
Then he passes out.
.
before.
The three words came like a curse. They hung into the air, broken and vulnerable and pleading and loving, as if they would shatter in the fragility of the moment around them if he tried to speak. It hung heavily around them, weighed at his chest, swallowed by the darkness.
I love you.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Her toothbrush wasn't supposed to be permanently stationed in his bathroom; her clothing wasn't supposed to have a drawer in his bedroom; the wards weren't supposed to be altered to let her in safely; he wasn't supposed to know exactly when she had breakfast and lunch; she wasn't supposed to love him as much as she did.
Draco pretended not to hear her. Coward, he thought, cowardcowardcoward and if he tried to think of whether or not he loved her, he--he didn't know.
He feigned sleep, and minutes later, her shoulders trembled as she cried into his shoulders.
.
present.
He's only a little surprised when he sees her in his kitchen, preparing a cup of coffee. His hangover prevents him for being entirely awake, however, and so he stumbles into the couch and groans in pain. Hermione appears a moment later, lips pinched tightly together. She hands him the mug.
Draco wonders what would have happened if he'd woken up first. Then he has this fleeting imaginary scenario that flashes in his mind in which he'd found her lying on his couch, curled up into a ball, just like before. He blinks rapidly to dispel it.
She hands him the coffee wordlessly, and then flicks her wand. The relief his head feels is inexplicable--the sudden absence of the relentless pounding drags a relieved sigh out of him. For a second, she looks as if she wants to scold him, to shout, to rant, but seems to think better of it and sits down.
"What are you doing here?" It comes out harshly. He tries not to look at her eyes, but then he does, and-
He doesn't need her pity, her sense of obligation towards him. She owes him nothing and it's the same with him.
"You looked like you needed help," is all she says. He hates her answer. He likes to think that he hates her as well, but-but he can't.
Their relationship has been a battlefield. They've both left scars on each other too deep to see, hidden too well to mend. Sometimes, when he looks back, he finds all the spots where he'd hurt her and she'd hurt him. When he can no longer remember the good times, he uses those spots to create a time-line-one of fights, arguments, and all the gaps in between are moments of laughter that he's forgotten.
He wonders, sometimes, when their relationship started breaking down. The would have beens and could have beens that haunted him in his memories of the war now torture him through a different time. He likes to think that, in another time, in another world, they would have been enough.
"I don't regret it," she confesses quietly. He must not have hid the spasm of pain as well as he thought, because she leans forward with a sad smile. "We gave it our all, didn't we? I think-I think we're better, this way." she shakes her head. "But I-I don't hate you. And if it's possible, I'd like to… to become… acquaintances, again." Her nerves seem to flutter out of her and she stands, preparing to leave.
"I love you," he says as she reaches the door, two years too late. They both know that.
She closes the door softly behind her.
His eyes drift shut, and he does not think of Hermione Granger.