dramione au:draco’s world falls into pieces when hermione doesn’t survive at malfoy manor
and if holding her means, that I have to bleed then I am the martyr, love is to blame cause she is the h e a l i n g, and I am the p a i n
No words entered or left Draco. All there was, was silence. The kind of emptiness that isn’t void, or even incomplete, but blatantly shattering. His heart’s strings stretched like elastic when he watched her head drop to the floor, the lean and bony fingers of her hand dropping onto the marble that was now as pale as her skin. A haze of movement surrounded him as Weasley and Potter hurtled past him, but all he could see was the pitch dark. Flashes of light flew around the room, probably spells being cast, but Draco was blind. Her quivering lips, soaked with blood, and her inky eyes, swimming with pain and utter hopelessness - they were the only images that remained, scorched into the back of his eyelids and surrounding his sinking frame.
The color had withdrawn from his senses, and blotches of red dotted his raging mind as he remembered the shade of her dress on the day that he’d first caught her off guard. The different hues of his breath when she had first said that she loved him, and the color of her cheeks when he had countered that he didn’t deserve it. The same red that clotted around the carved out ‘mudblood’ on her arm, staining the unblemished skin that would never heal. The goddamn red that wouldn’t desert his crumbling chest as he watched her lay still. Not the kind of stillness he had admired her for, not the kind that she possessed when she was thinking hard, or recovering from something unexpected, or the way she slept, trapped in his arms, but inching into his warmth without knowing. This was the stillness of a dried up river, the aftermath of a storm - this was the absence of the turbulence threatening to take over her mind, and the dearth of her courage to fight back.
And in all the chaos and havoc materializing around him, Draco could only feel the hollow stillness. Gnawing into his bones from the insides, and pulsing dangerously against the veins that he tried so tirelessly to purge of her. But she still lived, no longer breathing, in his bloodstream, and he was afraid her lingering whispers and comforting smiles would turn him into a ghost as well.
Draco Malfoy was fidgeting. As comfortable as his chair was, he was uneasy as he tapped staccato beats against the huge, black desk with his fingers. The Ministry had given him an important job - and that was to catch Fenrir Greyback, who had, embarrassingly enough, escaped from Azkaban. Shacklebolt had given him permission to bring an assistant into the complicated job, but so far, he hadn’t found anyone capable of working with him. It pissed him off. Honestly, how hard could it be?
Growling, he grabbed his quill - for the ninth time since the last interviewee left - when he heard a faint, almost unsure knock against the door. He frowned slightly and glanced at the clock. What the hell was someone doing here so late? If memory served him right, he was the only one who stayed in the office this time of the night. With a resigned sigh, he told whoever was outside the door to come in, and froze. Shock clouded his now stormy grey eyes when a familiar witch with bushy hair stepped into his office.
Hermione Granger had.. changed. For the better, he admits begrudgingly. Her wild curls was tamed, her teeth was a bit smaller than they were in their school days, and the clothes she had put on for the day hugged the curve of her hips and the soft swell of her breasts. He locked eyes with her, and tilted his head against the palm of his hand.
“Granger. What a pleasure,” he said, rich sarcasm tainting his tone. Her appearance might have changed, but he knew her personality hadn’t.
“Shove it, Malfoy,” she spat, stepping in to his office and closing the door with too much force than was necessary. Draco clicked her tongue at her, smirking when he saw the familiar flash of anger in her amber-coloured eyes. “I’m here for professional reasons,” she explained as she took a seat opposite of him.
“Such a shame. I hoped you had come to see me for … social reasons,” he replied, still with the infamous smirk tugging at his lips. It had been ten years since they had graduated, and he still enjoyed getting the know-it-all fired up. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that he had always been able to cause that reaction in her.
It seemed as if time had stopped the moment that the doors of the Great Hall opened.
Everyone, even some of the professor, dropped everything that they were doing just to watch the four boys, all clad in Slytherin uniform, walk inside. They all went to the direction of the Slytherin table and sat at the upper end.
Hermione shook her head and snorted. It's them again. She thought about how the student body of Hogwarts wanted nothing but to kiss their arses. It was idiotic.
She was new in this school, but from the first time that she was here, the routine never changed. It’s like they’re some sort of celebrities or whatelse - it’s pathetic.
The girl beside her, a ginger who was a year below her, tapped her shoulder and asked why she snorted. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “I just think that it’s quite… uncanny for us to watch them enter the halls every morning. I mean, who are they?”
The witch looked shocked, “Don’t you know them?”
Hermione shook her head. Her seatmate bit her lip and hesitated, “Alright - see the one with the raven hair sans the glasses? That’s Theodore Nott.”
“So!? His family owns a quidditch team and he’s bound to be the heir of their family business - Nott Enterprise! They made the best and fastest brooms in all land. One of the richest lads, he is.” The red-head said, taking a deep breath before continuing. “That olive-toned lad, that’s Blaise Zabini.”
“I think I’ve heard the name before.” Hermione sipped her pumpkin juice, listening.
“Well, he’s an artist - and not just any. His family owns a portrait business. They were the suppliers of the painting inside Dumbledore’s office. Oh, and they own quite a chain of resorts in Maldives.
"And that one with the glasses - that’s Harry Potter.”
Oh, Harry Potter. That was why he was quite familiar to her as well. She’d read books about him defeating Lord Voldemort - and she always thought that he was in Gryffindor. “I’m sure you knew him, new girl.”
“Well, let me proceed.” The witch continued. “The last one - the lad with the blond hair - is Draco Malfoy. He had the largest vault in Gringotts for people at the age of sixteen. His father owns the largest - ever. And amongst all that, they have a massive influence over the Ministry and Hogwarts, if I’m not mistaken. His father is a governor of the school, and owns nearly all of the shops in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade Village.”
“They’re rich, that’s why we stare at them?” Hermione concluded.
The witch rolled her eyes, “Didn’t you hear a word I said? Their influence over the school can either get you some latin honours or expel you.”
And in that moment, she felt the desire to hate the four Slytherins.
He glanced up at her and leaned closer, “If this is about that wretched wedding, I’ll go ahead and cancel it -”
“No, Malfoy. It’s better this way. That one night led to a series of mistakes - and I can’t let that happen anymore."
"But I don’t want her, Granger - I want you.” He looked at her intently, “Come - run away with me. Let’s go away. I’ll get a portkey. Let’s head over to Russia - or wherever. I don’t care -”
She shook her head, “I can’t do this. You’re going to get married at five in the evening tonight and she’s going to be in that dress, waiting for you. And I’ll go back to Ron - he’s in my house. Probably waiting for me, too.”
Narcissa Malfoy stepped out of the restaurant and onto the cold, winter air. “So, she can’t have children?”
Draco nodded, following his mother outside. He sighed and glanced at her. “She couldn’t.”
“But you’ve always wanted children.”
He nodded again.
She sighed, “How long have you known about this?”
“I’ve known about it last summer.” He replied, smiling. “Mother, I’m not marrying some future possibility of starting a family. I’m marrying a girl - who means more to me than children. Or my career. Or a massive house. So please, be nice to her.”