Dramione Fic: Bend or Break [6/?]
Title: Bend or Break
Author: charlottetrips
Rating: R
Genre: Drama, Angst, Romance
Characters: Draco, Hermione, Ginny, Harry
Disclaimer: Anything from the Harry Potter-verse belongs to JKR. The plot is mine.
Summary: In one moment, everything falls apart in Hermione's life. Her world in turmoil, she's reaching the breaking point. Someone unexpected might be able to bring her back. And if he can, she'll learn more than she thought possible about love, loss, and learning to heal.
Chapter 1 - Her
Chapter 2 - Him
Chapter 3 - Cliff Edge
Chapter 4 - In the Middle
Chapter 5 - The Baby
Chapter Six - A Funeral and a Visitor
He kept coming back. After that first day, when a sad and guilty man had reached into a cradle and made a connection with just one finger and one small hand, he could not seem to stay away. He showed up on the doorstep the next day and again a few days after that, just to see the child and sit with him. It became an almost daily visit after that. He never stayed for more than a half-hour but it seemed necessary for him, and-this convinced Ginny the most to let him keep coming back-it seemed necessary to the baby.
Ginny, trying to help her friend's parents, juggle work, her own life and family as well as the new baby, had at first balked at Draco's presence; the anger and hurt of yesterday creating walls and barriers in the now. But he had seemed earnest and Ginny had a feeling about him, that she could believe him in this. Him being around the baby and helping take care of the newborn was a tacit agreement, not really spoken of, mainly due to the fact that it was a bit surreal to Ginny that Draco Malfoy, of all people, would be entering a Muggleborn's house and playing domestic.
Hermione's parents accepted him because Ginny accepted him, knowing only that he was another wizard, not necessarily knowing that there was any bad history between them. Draco had been polite enough to them, something which Ginny had noted with relief.
He never spoke more than a few words to her, comfortable to just sit there and watch the baby, hold him if he cried, keep him amused for a time. "What's his name?" Draco had whispered, cradling the baby awkwardly in his arms that first day. Ginny had watched them, quietly astonished by the way they were taken with each other. The baby's blue eyes had been closed in contentment with a smile so sweet that it had squeezed at Ginny's heart. Draco's long fingers had cradled the ginger head carefully, following her instructions to not let the baby's head loll.
Her smile had been bittersweet as she'd answered him. "He doesn't have an official name, yet." Draco's eyes had met hers, clearly surprised. Not even knowing why, she had further clarified her statement, "She didn't name him after he was born." There had been no need to specify who, they both knew she spoke of the woman behind the closed door, the one who hadn't seen or touched her son since leaving the hospital. "With her feeling…unwell, we haven't been able to ask her about it. We've taken to calling him 'Jack', it's one of the names they'd thought of before-" she had cut herself off, blinking back the sudden tears in her eyes.
Draco's eyes had been unreadable as he took in this information, then he'd looked back down at the baby. "Hello, Jack," he had greeted the baby softly. Ginny had taken note of his expression and filed it away to analyze later.
Harry found her in the kitchen a few days before Ron's service was to be held. She sensed his silent presence in the doorway as she finished cleaning up after dinner, her wand moving this way and that with a Molly-esque competence. She waited for him to speak, knowing he was still weighing his words.
Once the last plate had landed in the cabinet, she turned to face him, taking him in as he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes tired. He finally spoke, "Can you tell me why Draco Malfoy visits Jack nearly every day?" His voice wasn't mad or upset. In fact he sounded mildly interested, but Ginny, knowing her husband well, could see that he didn't like it one bit. She understood this reaction but she also understood that Harry hadn't yet seen Draco with the baby. He hadn't seen Draco's tight features soften as he looked at the baby, the careful and gentle way that Draco handled Jack nor had he witnessed Jack's obvious affection for the blond man.
She wasn't quite sure how to communicate this to Harry so said nothing. Harry continued after a moment, "The man may have saved Hermione and therefore Jack but he's still the man who let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, turning our safe haven into a nightmare castle. He's the man who stood by and watched his sadistic aunt torture a young girl: Hermione herself!" His voice rose a little at this, that night at the Malfoy Manor still imprinted in his mind as a night of terror and loss.
Ginny stayed near the kitchen counter, letting him vent. She knew it wasn't just Draco he was upset about. His grief over his best friend's death, his fear of Hermione never being able to face her loss, his pity for the baby who was so much like an orphan already; all of it was coming together and spilling over and he was finding it easier to be mad, to target the outsider, the one who didn't belong.
Harry stared at her, her blue eyes calmly meeting his though she could feel tears at the back of her throat, shining through her eyes. Knowing she had seen through him, his hard expression dropped, revealing the pain he kept bottled up as he made it through each day. Both stepped forward, choked sobs coming from Ginny's chest as his familiar arms came around her, sharing her sorrow.
*.*
A week after the accident, Blaise's funeral was held. Draco was pointedly not invited. He went though, standing at the edge of the cemetery, silently watching the service. Indira and Sybil sat in the front row; Blaise's mother clearly heartbroken, unable to lift her face from her handkerchief at all while Sybil had sat there quietly, hands tightly clasped in her lap, her beautiful face seemingly set in marble. He knew that she was in pain but how much of that was actually for Blaise and how much of that was just for herself, he wouldn't be able to say.
After everyone was gone and all that was left was the dark gray sky and the bare patch of freshly turned earth, he approached the grave. There were no words to express his sorrow and guilt. What could one say to a man he had killed?
He stood in front of his friend's last resting place, the toes of his shoes just brushing the edge of the shifted dirt. The day was one of those days when the season was not sure if it was still winter or if it was spring, the clouds covered the sky, making their onerous way to the north, helped along by a chilly breeze. He had his coat on but the cold that had crept over him since after the accident and only went away when he was with Jack, kept its icy hands on him, searching and reaching deep into him, making him regret every day that it was he that had lived, and not the man whose gravestone he was staring at now.
He may have stood there for a minute or it may have been an hour. His mind refusing to provide the words he needed to say: the apologies, the excuses, the reasons why, the regrets, the good times or even that last good-bye. His face felt oddly set, like it was encased in ice and if he moved any part of it, the façade would crack and he would fall apart.
Only when the clouds had darkened and the shadows had lengthened, bringing to life the misshapen and haunted figures in Draco's mind, did he break. He fell to his knees, doubled over, his pale head falling to the dirt before him, his hands grabbing at the soil covering the coffin which held his only real friend. He was sobbing and, gods above, it hurt. The sounds and his breath were caught in his chest, stuck in his throat and fighting to get out and be heard, to be released. The tears burned as they fell, salt upon the earth.
Emotions which he had been trained to keep in check, to never reveal, now broke down the paper-thin barricades he'd erected so long ago. He wept in grief and hurt, in anger and in shame, finally feeling, just feeling.
There were only two words he could choke out, filtering through the guilt and despair that sat in his heart. "I-I'm s-s-sor-ry." His breath hitched, barely able to get them out, these words, the hardest words to utter. And he knew why he never said them: there was no point. He didn't feel forgiveness or relief; there couldn't be any acceptance of his crimes. All he could feel was the hard earth, the dirt underneath his fingernails, the chill that swept through the open collar of his coat and the blackness, the utter hopelessness for one Draco Malfoy.
*.*
She found him the next night, at one of his usual clubs. After a hellish night where he'd tossed and turned and ran from the demons that tortured him, he'd gotten up just past lunch and headed straight to Rockfords, to lose himself in cards and numb himself with drink.
By dinner, he was completely sloshed and owed a couple thousand to the house. His bleary eyes could barely make out the numbers and faces of the cards in front of him as the dealer started a new round. The only other man at the table, a silent dark-faced fellow, wasn't that far behind Draco in the alcohol department, and had recently chosen to use the lovely shoulder of one of the Rockfords' girls as a means to keep himself propped up on his seat.
Gambling was something that Draco had stumbled upon during his wandless years and taken an instant shining to. His ability to know just how a hand would turn out, what horse would win this race or which boxer would win that fight was uncanny and seemed almost like magic to the people who'd watched him play. He'd liked hearing this, having just struggled through a year of adjusting to being regarded as second-class after his trial. His aversion to all-things-Muggle, while not fully gone, had toned down a bit-having to live life the way they did-especially when he had a pint in hand at the Friday night pub.
It was on one of these nights that he had discovered this talent that had nothing to do with his Pureblood status or his wizard genes, but just what he brought to the game. He'd watched over the shoulder of one of a few men who had gathered around a scarred and much used table in a smoky corner of the pub to play an impromptu round of poker. He'd caught on quickly to the rules and had guided the man to victory again and again. The man had hugged Draco in drunken and triumphant glee and pronounced them the best of friends.
Mikael Adrach had turned out to be a professional gambler. He'd taken Draco under his wing and taught him gambling and in turn Draco had helped the older man out in boosting his own career. Draco had traveled with him for a year, gaining slight fame for his streak of luck and animosity from sore losers. Despite the fact that Mikael wasn't a wizard, Draco found that he could like him, to a degree. The man was brash, taken with his drink and reckless as a result.
It was on one of his trips when he had met her, Jemima, the only woman whom he had come close to loving or at least admitting that he loved her.
The same woman who now found him just was he was falling asleep at the game table. Her soft warm hand settled on his shoulder and shook him awake. His eyes already felt crusted and there seemed to be a layer of oil upon his view of the world. He should've been shocked at Jemima's appearance, having been thrown out of her home over seven years ago, her angry shouts still echoing in his nightmares. But he couldn't seem to get the right emotions together. In fact, all he could really feel was a giddy rush of pleasure at having her near him again.
Her blonde hair fell gracefully about her shoulders as she shook her head at him, probably disappointed that he was so bleeding pissed. He stood up quickly, attempting to gain some semblance of dignity but only ended up almost falling over, stopped only by her arms coming around him. And then, feeling that it was out of his control, his lips ended up on hers and his hands landed at the small of her back. He might have pulled back after one kiss but her mouth opened under his and even if he was about ten scotches past being drunk, he knew an invitation when it was given.
In the haze of desire and lust, they made it to a room that Draco usually stayed in if he was pulling an all-nighter at the club. Not even bothering with the lights, his hands were pulling up her skirt while hers were busy getting under his shirt. They fell on the bed in a tangle of arms, legs and tongue. Given his inebriated state and her eager mouth and hands, Draco wasn't about to wait for the nicety of full skin on skin. Once he had her under him, he entered her, moaning at the feel of her, Jemima, who'd rejected him but who he had missed so much. She was making sounds of her own, her head pushed back against the covers. He wished it wasn't so dark so he could see her face but he settled for the feel of her around him as he moved and the taste of her skin as they neared the peak and fell into each other. After a moment, he moved to her side, lazily pulling off the rest of his clothes, helping her pull down her skirt. He went to sleep, his arm curled around her waist.
He dreamed of the last happy time he'd had with her. They had been out at dinner, her face glowing in the candle light as he'd told her a story of Mikael and his antics. She'd been so beautiful, head thrown back in laughter and Draco had felt something, something that he'd been afraid to look at, the thought of it so foreign to him.
The dream shifted abruptly to the last time he had ever seen her. Her face contorted in anger and terror as she threw whatever she could reach near her. Screaming at him to get out and to never go near me again and that he was a monster. The door was shut in his face and he turned and met the glowing eyes of his worst nightmare.
He woke up suddenly, a startled gasp issuing from his lips, feeling completely sober. The room seemed to sharp to him, as if the colors and the shadows were in complete contrast. The early dawn light filtered in, attempting to soften the edges. His heart still racing and his breath a little short, he looked over at Jemima to make sure he hadn't woken her.
And he felt a punch to his stomach. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no! Feeling sick, he moved out of the bed as quietly and as quickly as he could, gathering up the trousers and shirt that had been thrown away in abandon. Putting them on while also trying to get into his shoes, he left the room, trying to close the door without waking the woman sleeping in the bed.
Sybil's eyes opened as she heard the sound of the door clicking shut.
Author: charlottetrips
Rating: R
Genre: Drama, Angst, Romance
Characters: Draco, Hermione, Ginny, Harry
Disclaimer: Anything from the Harry Potter-verse belongs to JKR. The plot is mine.
Summary: In one moment, everything falls apart in Hermione's life. Her world in turmoil, she's reaching the breaking point. Someone unexpected might be able to bring her back. And if he can, she'll learn more than she thought possible about love, loss, and learning to heal.
Chapter 1 - Her
Chapter 2 - Him
Chapter 3 - Cliff Edge
Chapter 4 - In the Middle
Chapter 5 - The Baby
Chapter Six - A Funeral and a Visitor
He kept coming back. After that first day, when a sad and guilty man had reached into a cradle and made a connection with just one finger and one small hand, he could not seem to stay away. He showed up on the doorstep the next day and again a few days after that, just to see the child and sit with him. It became an almost daily visit after that. He never stayed for more than a half-hour but it seemed necessary for him, and-this convinced Ginny the most to let him keep coming back-it seemed necessary to the baby.
Ginny, trying to help her friend's parents, juggle work, her own life and family as well as the new baby, had at first balked at Draco's presence; the anger and hurt of yesterday creating walls and barriers in the now. But he had seemed earnest and Ginny had a feeling about him, that she could believe him in this. Him being around the baby and helping take care of the newborn was a tacit agreement, not really spoken of, mainly due to the fact that it was a bit surreal to Ginny that Draco Malfoy, of all people, would be entering a Muggleborn's house and playing domestic.
Hermione's parents accepted him because Ginny accepted him, knowing only that he was another wizard, not necessarily knowing that there was any bad history between them. Draco had been polite enough to them, something which Ginny had noted with relief.
He never spoke more than a few words to her, comfortable to just sit there and watch the baby, hold him if he cried, keep him amused for a time. "What's his name?" Draco had whispered, cradling the baby awkwardly in his arms that first day. Ginny had watched them, quietly astonished by the way they were taken with each other. The baby's blue eyes had been closed in contentment with a smile so sweet that it had squeezed at Ginny's heart. Draco's long fingers had cradled the ginger head carefully, following her instructions to not let the baby's head loll.
Her smile had been bittersweet as she'd answered him. "He doesn't have an official name, yet." Draco's eyes had met hers, clearly surprised. Not even knowing why, she had further clarified her statement, "She didn't name him after he was born." There had been no need to specify who, they both knew she spoke of the woman behind the closed door, the one who hadn't seen or touched her son since leaving the hospital. "With her feeling…unwell, we haven't been able to ask her about it. We've taken to calling him 'Jack', it's one of the names they'd thought of before-" she had cut herself off, blinking back the sudden tears in her eyes.
Draco's eyes had been unreadable as he took in this information, then he'd looked back down at the baby. "Hello, Jack," he had greeted the baby softly. Ginny had taken note of his expression and filed it away to analyze later.
Harry found her in the kitchen a few days before Ron's service was to be held. She sensed his silent presence in the doorway as she finished cleaning up after dinner, her wand moving this way and that with a Molly-esque competence. She waited for him to speak, knowing he was still weighing his words.
Once the last plate had landed in the cabinet, she turned to face him, taking him in as he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes tired. He finally spoke, "Can you tell me why Draco Malfoy visits Jack nearly every day?" His voice wasn't mad or upset. In fact he sounded mildly interested, but Ginny, knowing her husband well, could see that he didn't like it one bit. She understood this reaction but she also understood that Harry hadn't yet seen Draco with the baby. He hadn't seen Draco's tight features soften as he looked at the baby, the careful and gentle way that Draco handled Jack nor had he witnessed Jack's obvious affection for the blond man.
She wasn't quite sure how to communicate this to Harry so said nothing. Harry continued after a moment, "The man may have saved Hermione and therefore Jack but he's still the man who let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, turning our safe haven into a nightmare castle. He's the man who stood by and watched his sadistic aunt torture a young girl: Hermione herself!" His voice rose a little at this, that night at the Malfoy Manor still imprinted in his mind as a night of terror and loss.
Ginny stayed near the kitchen counter, letting him vent. She knew it wasn't just Draco he was upset about. His grief over his best friend's death, his fear of Hermione never being able to face her loss, his pity for the baby who was so much like an orphan already; all of it was coming together and spilling over and he was finding it easier to be mad, to target the outsider, the one who didn't belong.
Harry stared at her, her blue eyes calmly meeting his though she could feel tears at the back of her throat, shining through her eyes. Knowing she had seen through him, his hard expression dropped, revealing the pain he kept bottled up as he made it through each day. Both stepped forward, choked sobs coming from Ginny's chest as his familiar arms came around her, sharing her sorrow.
*.*
A week after the accident, Blaise's funeral was held. Draco was pointedly not invited. He went though, standing at the edge of the cemetery, silently watching the service. Indira and Sybil sat in the front row; Blaise's mother clearly heartbroken, unable to lift her face from her handkerchief at all while Sybil had sat there quietly, hands tightly clasped in her lap, her beautiful face seemingly set in marble. He knew that she was in pain but how much of that was actually for Blaise and how much of that was just for herself, he wouldn't be able to say.
After everyone was gone and all that was left was the dark gray sky and the bare patch of freshly turned earth, he approached the grave. There were no words to express his sorrow and guilt. What could one say to a man he had killed?
He stood in front of his friend's last resting place, the toes of his shoes just brushing the edge of the shifted dirt. The day was one of those days when the season was not sure if it was still winter or if it was spring, the clouds covered the sky, making their onerous way to the north, helped along by a chilly breeze. He had his coat on but the cold that had crept over him since after the accident and only went away when he was with Jack, kept its icy hands on him, searching and reaching deep into him, making him regret every day that it was he that had lived, and not the man whose gravestone he was staring at now.
He may have stood there for a minute or it may have been an hour. His mind refusing to provide the words he needed to say: the apologies, the excuses, the reasons why, the regrets, the good times or even that last good-bye. His face felt oddly set, like it was encased in ice and if he moved any part of it, the façade would crack and he would fall apart.
Only when the clouds had darkened and the shadows had lengthened, bringing to life the misshapen and haunted figures in Draco's mind, did he break. He fell to his knees, doubled over, his pale head falling to the dirt before him, his hands grabbing at the soil covering the coffin which held his only real friend. He was sobbing and, gods above, it hurt. The sounds and his breath were caught in his chest, stuck in his throat and fighting to get out and be heard, to be released. The tears burned as they fell, salt upon the earth.
Emotions which he had been trained to keep in check, to never reveal, now broke down the paper-thin barricades he'd erected so long ago. He wept in grief and hurt, in anger and in shame, finally feeling, just feeling.
There were only two words he could choke out, filtering through the guilt and despair that sat in his heart. "I-I'm s-s-sor-ry." His breath hitched, barely able to get them out, these words, the hardest words to utter. And he knew why he never said them: there was no point. He didn't feel forgiveness or relief; there couldn't be any acceptance of his crimes. All he could feel was the hard earth, the dirt underneath his fingernails, the chill that swept through the open collar of his coat and the blackness, the utter hopelessness for one Draco Malfoy.
*.*
She found him the next night, at one of his usual clubs. After a hellish night where he'd tossed and turned and ran from the demons that tortured him, he'd gotten up just past lunch and headed straight to Rockfords, to lose himself in cards and numb himself with drink.
By dinner, he was completely sloshed and owed a couple thousand to the house. His bleary eyes could barely make out the numbers and faces of the cards in front of him as the dealer started a new round. The only other man at the table, a silent dark-faced fellow, wasn't that far behind Draco in the alcohol department, and had recently chosen to use the lovely shoulder of one of the Rockfords' girls as a means to keep himself propped up on his seat.
Gambling was something that Draco had stumbled upon during his wandless years and taken an instant shining to. His ability to know just how a hand would turn out, what horse would win this race or which boxer would win that fight was uncanny and seemed almost like magic to the people who'd watched him play. He'd liked hearing this, having just struggled through a year of adjusting to being regarded as second-class after his trial. His aversion to all-things-Muggle, while not fully gone, had toned down a bit-having to live life the way they did-especially when he had a pint in hand at the Friday night pub.
It was on one of these nights that he had discovered this talent that had nothing to do with his Pureblood status or his wizard genes, but just what he brought to the game. He'd watched over the shoulder of one of a few men who had gathered around a scarred and much used table in a smoky corner of the pub to play an impromptu round of poker. He'd caught on quickly to the rules and had guided the man to victory again and again. The man had hugged Draco in drunken and triumphant glee and pronounced them the best of friends.
Mikael Adrach had turned out to be a professional gambler. He'd taken Draco under his wing and taught him gambling and in turn Draco had helped the older man out in boosting his own career. Draco had traveled with him for a year, gaining slight fame for his streak of luck and animosity from sore losers. Despite the fact that Mikael wasn't a wizard, Draco found that he could like him, to a degree. The man was brash, taken with his drink and reckless as a result.
It was on one of his trips when he had met her, Jemima, the only woman whom he had come close to loving or at least admitting that he loved her.
The same woman who now found him just was he was falling asleep at the game table. Her soft warm hand settled on his shoulder and shook him awake. His eyes already felt crusted and there seemed to be a layer of oil upon his view of the world. He should've been shocked at Jemima's appearance, having been thrown out of her home over seven years ago, her angry shouts still echoing in his nightmares. But he couldn't seem to get the right emotions together. In fact, all he could really feel was a giddy rush of pleasure at having her near him again.
Her blonde hair fell gracefully about her shoulders as she shook her head at him, probably disappointed that he was so bleeding pissed. He stood up quickly, attempting to gain some semblance of dignity but only ended up almost falling over, stopped only by her arms coming around him. And then, feeling that it was out of his control, his lips ended up on hers and his hands landed at the small of her back. He might have pulled back after one kiss but her mouth opened under his and even if he was about ten scotches past being drunk, he knew an invitation when it was given.
In the haze of desire and lust, they made it to a room that Draco usually stayed in if he was pulling an all-nighter at the club. Not even bothering with the lights, his hands were pulling up her skirt while hers were busy getting under his shirt. They fell on the bed in a tangle of arms, legs and tongue. Given his inebriated state and her eager mouth and hands, Draco wasn't about to wait for the nicety of full skin on skin. Once he had her under him, he entered her, moaning at the feel of her, Jemima, who'd rejected him but who he had missed so much. She was making sounds of her own, her head pushed back against the covers. He wished it wasn't so dark so he could see her face but he settled for the feel of her around him as he moved and the taste of her skin as they neared the peak and fell into each other. After a moment, he moved to her side, lazily pulling off the rest of his clothes, helping her pull down her skirt. He went to sleep, his arm curled around her waist.
He dreamed of the last happy time he'd had with her. They had been out at dinner, her face glowing in the candle light as he'd told her a story of Mikael and his antics. She'd been so beautiful, head thrown back in laughter and Draco had felt something, something that he'd been afraid to look at, the thought of it so foreign to him.
The dream shifted abruptly to the last time he had ever seen her. Her face contorted in anger and terror as she threw whatever she could reach near her. Screaming at him to get out and to never go near me again and that he was a monster. The door was shut in his face and he turned and met the glowing eyes of his worst nightmare.
He woke up suddenly, a startled gasp issuing from his lips, feeling completely sober. The room seemed to sharp to him, as if the colors and the shadows were in complete contrast. The early dawn light filtered in, attempting to soften the edges. His heart still racing and his breath a little short, he looked over at Jemima to make sure he hadn't woken her.
And he felt a punch to his stomach. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no! Feeling sick, he moved out of the bed as quietly and as quickly as he could, gathering up the trousers and shirt that had been thrown away in abandon. Putting them on while also trying to get into his shoes, he left the room, trying to close the door without waking the woman sleeping in the bed.
Sybil's eyes opened as she heard the sound of the door clicking shut.