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Basketcase
By attica
Disclaimer: What else is there to say? J.K. owns all; I only own the plot. Chapter title borrowed from band The New Pornographers, who I am (sadly) not affiliated with in any way.
Speaking of my beta, I would like to thank Jojo, who has been the best beta a girl can ask for and who has helped me more than anyone this year (it's taken me more than a whole year to write this fic!). An ETERNAL thanks to the beautiful REVIEWERS AND READERS who have had the stamina to make it this far! Really, I'd send you all Thank You cards if I could. I love you all!
And so, rightfully as it should be: this chapter is dedicated to all of my readers, reviewers, my beta, and my friends. You all know who you are. ;-)
These Are The Fables
Draco couldn't blame her, really. Seeing the Dark Mark on his own arm had been one of his greatest fears that haunted him every time his forked-tongued father had flashed his own before his eyes, smirking proudly. As if it had been something to take pride in – it only signified the official recruiting of a brain-dead fool, everyone knew that. Of course it scared the hell out of him too. Even though it had just all been this sick ploy to somehow get rid of her, it stung every time he thought of that night. Seeing that hideous tattoo on his own skin, like a stamp that proclaimed HYPOCRITICAL BASTARD all over his body had been close to death itself. But not even that could compare to the feeling of seeing her cry.
Nothing could compare to the feeling of being the one to make her cry.
He didn't even think there was a word that could embody the crushing emotion he felt when he saw her. It was like someone had beaten him ruthlessly, inside-out. His mouth became dry and his mind was suddenly awash from the swell of memories and feelings that had tided within him. That was why he couldn't look at her. It hurt too much, and Malfoys knew loads about hurt and pain (financial, mental, physical) so that wasn't something to be taken lightly. At all.
Because Draco had always been a strong boy. He'd beaten up a fair few as a toddler before his mother had tried to discipline him and then his father had taught him hexes and curses so he could fight people that way instead. Then at the mere age of eight, he'd had private lessons on the Dark Arts from Lucius, explaining to Draco that it was going to be his future. Lucius had made it such a big deal that he was teaching him all that hocus-pocus, like it was a pony or something (Draco owned five stallions, so ponies were nothing), and got so frustrated that he hexed Draco himself sometimes. That was how Draco came to know how to conceal his scars and his pain, and also how he came to hate his father.
Of course, that was only one of the many various reasons why he hated twitchy-lip Lucius. There were loads more, but Draco planned to write a novel about that later on.
Point was: he hadn't many weaknesses. He kept everyone at an arm's length, and that was his secret weapon. His icy approach prevented anyone from getting close to him, ergo him never getting close to anyone. But even then as a little boy, he knew "impossible" was never really a permanent word in life. How? His father had said that it was "impossible" his Uncle Alistaire hadn't an interest in the female species, because that's why the female species were made – to entertain men. But a few weeks later, Draco found out that his uncle was really having an affair with his butler, Charly, and really hadn't an interest in women. It was then that the word "impossible" was made worthless, and also when he had realized (about time, too) that his father was a complete idiot.
Every person had their weakness, and defeat was never "impossible" because even the word impossible was impossible. Lucius had his greed and idiocy and feminine hair, Harry Potter had Voldemort, Voldemort had Harry Potter and Dumbledore, and Draco Malfoy…
Draco Malfoy had Hermione Granger.
Hermione Granger was his weakness.
Why? God knows. For many reasons, maybe. Or maybe just one sole reason. He didn't know. But she just was. Just like the Weasley clan was poor, she just was.
Draco frowned.
"… It'll be best if we carry it off then. But first we have to insure no witnesses will be present that day, or else it'll get messy." Severus Snape's voice sharpened. "Draco? Are you listening?" he barked.
"I stopped listening six years ago, what makes you think I'll start now?" Draco snapped, his eyes flashing. He glowered intently at him before standing up, walking over to his wide window. He tried to remember just what it was that Granger liked about looking out windows, but before he could exactly recall the reason, he stopped himself. He felt that familiar burst of pain again, this time stronger, and his eyes narrowed at the night sky.
Snape impatiently sighed. He wanted to smack some sense into him. "For heaven's sake, boy. Stop pining, you idiot."
"I am not pining," Draco ground through his jaw. "I do not pine, and make no mistake about that in the near future." Draco's glower intensified; he could see the reflection of his Head of House scowling at him from the glass of the window.
"You aren't a bad liar, that's for certain," drawled Snape. "At least your father spared you there. However, that Granger is an entirely different matter. How do you suppose the Dark Lord hasn't caught on yet? Hermione Granger, fairly short-tempered when you strike the right nerve, she'd almost go willingly if the Dark Lord were to —"
Before he knew it, Draco had turned around and drawn his wand, his molten eyes dark and fierce. "Don't you finish that sentence," he threatened. "Don't you dare."
"A bit touchy, are we?" said Snape, his lip twitching with distaste. His eyes narrowed at Draco's wand. "Sensitivity is such a revolting trait." He paused, meeting Draco's eyes with his swampy orbs, the gold of the light reflecting from the dark surface of them. "If you must know, it was necessary. What did you expect? That I would just sit back and wait until you finally stopped being a coward and end things between you? You were being selfish. You were wasting time, not to mention your energy. But now that it's over, you can now focus on the more important matters at hand." He scowled, his sallow face twisting into a dissatisfied expression. "Although now I see that my intentions were in vain."
Draco said nothing, only glowering at him.
"I did it for your own good."
Seeing that Snape was waiting for a reply, Draco only called him a very foul name followed by many other very foul things.
"Begrudge me all you like. You're still to carry out your orders," said Severus Snape, irked by his student's impetuous attitude. After Draco's only response to him was only walking towards the door and leaving, managing to give the doorframe a good rattle, he sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. "Teenagers," he muttered.
oooo
Draco was only walking down the hall, incensed but minding his own business and occasionally imagining how Severus Snape would look without a head, when he was unexpectedly pinned against the wall by an unusually strong force.
Alas, here he was. Draco should have known he'd make an appearance sooner or later. Strong force Harry Potter. Harry Potter had always had this Hero mentality, after all. The Defender of just about anyone who supported him and his wretched scar. So why hadn't he seen this coming? Why hadn't he seen him attacking an unsuspecting Draco Malfoy in an empty corridor?
Because he wasn't a bloody seer, and he hated Divination, that was why.
He pinned Draco against the wall by his collar, his fingers digging into his throat. Draco tried to wrench free from his grasp, but it was absolutely ridiculous. Potter holding him up against a wall? Draco knew for a fact that he was much taller than Harry Potter! Potter'd never been this strong before, either – had he started taking extra servings of spinach?
"Potter, what in the bloody hell—" he choked out, trying to jerk his hand away.
"I knew you were scum," Harry Potter seethed, his emerald eyes dark and glinting like dirtied sea glass. "I knew it the moment I met you. But how could you play her heart like that? How could you treat her that way after she'd given you a chance?" His grip tightened, his fingers jabbing into Draco's gorge. "How could you treat her like nothing?"
Draco kept a straight face, glowering at him although his throat was getting mangled harder and harder by the minute. He kicked him – hard – but Potter had either gotten himself castrated or Draco's jokes had really been true all along: there really was nothing there.
"Let go of me," Draco snarled.
"How could you do it?" Harry asked him furiously. "How could you hurt her? Are you really such a heartless arsehole that you didn't care?"
Draco was getting very angry. Suddenly his chest burned and he had a feeling it was only partially because he was getting choked the hell out of by an annoying Gryffindor with a steel grip. He saw a flash of her brown eyes again, glossy from her tears and broken from his words. Something tender crumpled and collapsed inside of him to the hollow, bubbling pit of his stomach. He tasted something sour in his mouth, his muscles tightly contracting, as his jaw clamped down on itself.
Then, as Draco felt his temper start to spark, a fever of rage creeping all over his body, a torch at the end of the hall combusted.
Harry did not even do so much as flinch.
"I have an idea," Draco growled, "why don't you go and fuck yourself, Potter? Please," he spat in his face. "For all our sakes."
He ignored him. "Stay away from her. Don't even look at her, do you understand me? Stay the hell away from her, Malfoy. I'm warning you."
Then, as quickly as he came, he went. He released Draco from his stranglehold and gave him one last menacing look, the lenses of his glasses flashing a blinding golden-orange from catching the light of the flambeaux. Then he disappeared down the hall, his silhouette smearing away with the darkness, as if he had only been a part of Draco's imagination and some illusion his spinning, dazed mind had conjured up.
Draco stared after him, swallowing hard, his neck sore and aching. He wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that he wasn't heartless at all out of mere spite, but the teeming words never made it past his lips. Once upon a time maybe they would have believed it. He'd even had Hermione Granger believing it like it was a fact – for a while. But then he'd told her that he was, in fact, heartless. Shouted it at her, more like. And she believed him.
Either he was surrounded by devastatingly gullible people or actions meant even more diddlysquat than words. So what if he'd lied? So what if he'd spent the past seventeen years of his existence living a life already framed in the Wall of Winners in hell? Would anyone truly believe him now if he'd said that he did have a heart?
After all, he was clever enough to know their gullibility stopped there.
oooo
Hermione, waiting in the Gryffindor common room for her final goodbye with her friends, was surprised to watch as the portrait hole opened to reveal a merry Albus Dumbledore stepping through. He shone radiantly today, dressed in different hues of faint gold that made him almost shimmer and sparkle, his hat almost getting snagged at the entrance. He only laughed goodheartedly as he approached her, and beaming beatifically, Hermione stood as well.
"Headmaster," Hermione happily greeted him. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, what else, Miss Granger?" he smiled. "I am here to bid one of my best students adieu." Then he looked around, as if mystified. "And where are Mister Potter and Mister Weasley? I thought they'd be awake by now."
Hermione laughed. "No, they aren't. After seven years, I've gotten used to their habits of oversleeping."
"How true, Miss Granger." He sighed. "I remember reading the last issue of the Hogwarts Harmonium the other day – which was most excellent, by the way – and I must tell you it was a wise decision to appoint Miss Weasley as head of the newspaper for the next school year. She is quite the clever girl."
He continued to smile at her, jolly and jubilant. But his smile faltered a bit as she noticed a sad gleam in his eye. "However, newspaper business aside, I think you must know how disappointed I am to see you leaving so early. It is unfortunate to have a family member die, indeed, but I only wish the timing were another. I was looking forward to your speech," he sincerely whispered to her. "You were one of the brightest students to ever walk into this school, did you know? Oh, well of course you did," he chuckled. "You'd be blind not to."
Hermione looked up at him, feeling the snags of guilt and sadness latch onto her. She couldn't help but think this was cruelly unjust. Everyone seemed intent on playing the Guilt card. Nevertheless, she couldn't exactly blame them. It was so last minute, not to mention fairly unexpected.
"Thank you, Professor," she politely replied, feeling the powerful beats of her heart as she stared into his wrinkly face. He'd aged more, indeed. The past seven years had been quite a doozy, no doubt maybe even the most eventful in the entire history of Hogwarts, and though Dumbledore had always been somewhat childish in spirit, it had done irreparable damage to him as well. As she looked into his eyes then, she saw a deep and internal exhaustion.
In that moment, she couldn't believe she was leaving, either. Somehow, she didn't want to. A sudden urge became her to furiously grasp onto the reins of her childhood, of Hogwarts, of laughter, of joy – of tribulations and trials that somehow, some way, always resulted into something great and hopeful. What was she to feel once she stepped out of this place? The place she considered a second home for so long? Leaving her friends behind so adamantly, her stride so determined on abandoning pain only to be walking straight into another?
It almost seemed foolish as she thought about it now. But, just like everything else, there were two sides to it. Like a coin. Two sides. Like tails to heads, one side had to lose – one side had to face down. Now, she didn't know which would benefit whom, but even with the tugging knots in her stomach she knew it was something she had to do. As copious as her ill feelings were, as innocuous as her intentions were from the very beginning… Draco Malfoy was the sole paradox of her life. She wasn't running from him. She was running towards something else and just happened to be running from him as well. If it could be summed up entirely by one word, it would be this: convenience. Simple as that.
She didn't need the debauched rivalry betwixt her and Snape, fighting over Malfoy. She didn't need the depravity they'd smilingly succeeded in showing her. She wanted to leave this year an amiable person with an amiable life, disregarding heartache and injustice. She was going back to her pernickety ways, and she was going to be happy.
She was going to be happy.
Then a hoot surprised them all. Dumbledore's eyes lit up with surprise as they both looked down to see Guinevere in her cage with her owlets. Hermione suddenly had an idea.
"Are those yours, Miss Granger?" inquired Dumbledore, taking quite an interest. "How charming!"
"Yes, they are," she answered. "But I haven't got much room for them, so I was wondering if you'd like a chick or two," she offered. "Please. You'd only be doing me a vast favor."
Dumbledore's smile widened. "Why, certainly. Fawkes is always in need of a companion. It gets quite lonely in my office, you know."
"Splendid!" said Hermione. She fetched out two owlets while muttering an apology to Guinevere, handing them to Dumbledore, who cradled them in his hands pleasantly. Hermione conjured a small box on the side table for him to take them in. Then he looked up at her, cleared his throat, and set aside the softly hooting owlets in the box.
"Back to the matter of business, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore politely. "I wanted to give you something. No student should leave this school without it." He then pulled a scroll from his sleeve like a magic trick, handing it to Hermione.
Hermione, curious, took it and began to unroll it. She sucked in a breath as her eyes widened, taking in the crisp parchment in her hands: her diploma. She observed the neat and elegant strokes of her name, of her achievements, of the stamps of all of the rings of the professors. Her heart stopped in light of her delight. "Oh, Headmaster," she breathed. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
"Ah, but that is not all," he joyfully told her. Hermione looked up in bewilderment, wondering what else there could possibly be, but beamed with shining eyes as Dumbledore retrieved a golden medal, holding it up for her to see, glinting brightly in the light. "For you, Miss Granger. It is an honor and a privilege to have watched you grow over the years." He smiled with sparkling blue eyes. "May I?"
Hermione nodded, dumbfounded, as she gathered her hair with her hands rather dazedly and he put it on her, resting it gently around her neck. Hermione looked down at it, the warm weight of it on her chest, and felt her eyes start to burn.
"Now that looks about right," said a familiar voice. Hermione and Dumbledore both looked up to see Ron and Harry descending the stone stairs from the boy's dormitory and Ginny crossing the common room. Ginny ran to her, almost knocking her over in a fierce bear hug.
"Oh, Hermione!" she exclaimed as Hermione tried to keep herself from falling. Ginny Weasley was indeed fairly strong. She held her tightly, closing her eyes and smiling and frowning at the same time. There was a dry, painful lump in her throat and heaviness on her heart. "I'm going to miss you! Who else is going to keep my brother in line for these last three and a half weeks? Oh, you daft girl!" Ginny cried, digging her head into Hermione's shoulder. "Why are you being so stupid and leaving early?"
"You're going to be fine, Ginny," said Hermione. "I have a feeling you can keep your brother in line just fine. And – don't call me daft."
Ginny pulled back, laughing, wiping her eyes. "This is ridiculous, Hermione. It's only three and a half weeks, right? It isn't that long. Sure, with exams it'll seem like ages, but it'll be quick, right?"
"Quicker than you know," Hermione comforted her. Hermione then handed Ginny a cage with three of Guinevere's owlets. "For you," Hermione explained. "A going away present."
Ginny squealed her thanks, immediately reaching in and petting them.
"Liar," Ron suddenly grumped, and they all turned to look at him. He had a sour look on his freckled face, his long ginger hair disheveled and tousled from sleep. " 'Quicker than you know'?" he repeated, as if it was a stupid thing to say. His face resumed in seriousness. "Liar, liar, pants on bloody fire."
Dumbledore looked amused. Harry rolled his eyes. Ginny scoffed.
"Are you going to just stand there and insult me or are you going to come over here so I could give you a hug?" Hermione said laughingly. "I don't have much time, you know."
Grumbling, Ron walked towards her and they embraced. Hermione couldn't believe how tall he'd gotten – she almost couldn't even reach his shoulders anymore. He held her firmly, still mumbling names under his breath.
"Ron, don't be so childish," she managed to say, despite the overwhelming clout of unhappiness sweeping over her now.
"Only if you stop being so bossy," he retorted, yet it wasn't toned like his usual witticism. She could hear sadness in his voice, even a bit of bitterness.
Chuckling, Hermione drew back. She looked into his oceanic eyes, the bluest she'd ever seen. "I'm going to miss you, you know."
Ron flushed a bright red as he looked at her, and Hermione smiled.
"Er – ditto, Hermione," he answered clumsily. "Just… just take care of yourself, all right?"
Suddenly, there was a commotion that made them all jump in surprise.
Out of the portrait hole stumbled a frantic Professor McGonagall, looking panicked and breathing rather haphazardly. Her glasses were askew and her robes were tangled around her ankles. "Oh!" she said as she saw Hermione. "There you are, Miss Granger! Thank Goodness!"
"Professor—" Hermione began, before her Head of House walked straight at her and gathered her into a bone-crushing hug. Hermione's eyes widened even more as she felt some of her bones crack – how on earth had her professor gotten so strong?
"You're a foolish girl, you are," her professor told her. She sounded as if she was on the verge of tears. "But you are the single brightest witch I have ever seen in the whole of my teaching years. I almost despise your grandmum for her terrible timing – you'd've been my pride and joy at the graduation ceremony."
"Um, thank you, Professor," said Hermione, endeared by what she had said. "Really, thank you."
Sniffling, she drew back and fixed her glasses, smiling at her and standing beside Dumbledore where he comfortingly patted her on the shoulder. Then he offered her his handkerchief. Nodding, she took it and raised her square spectacles as she dabbed her eyes.
Hermione, looking apologetic to her Head of House, turned her head and felt an uneasy feeling overcome her as her gaze came upon Harry. He looked stern at first, as if angry with her, but his face softened and a boyish grin took place of his concerned frown. He looked bashful in his pajamas, and Hermione shot him a trembling grin to mirror his own.
He stepped forward, and before Hermione could reach out to him, he had already flattened her against him with the single most meaningful and dense hug she had ever had – surpassing Ron's, Ginny's, and even Professor McGonagall's. Her surprise quickly passed, however, as she dug her face into his chest and wrapped her arms around him, the tears teeming from her soul brutally beating her through and through.
There was something about the way he held her. So protectively, so firmly, so tightly and closely that it made her sigh. She knew it was just the resulting outcome of these seven years. He hadn't been too fond of her in the beginning – nobody had been, really – but something had changed as they got older. Besides getting older, experiencing the normal adolescent alterations, maturing… their strictly mutual feelings intensified. It got stronger. Brash.
Almost promising.
She needn't say anything to him, she knew that. She knew it very well. But she did, anyway, still trying to keep back her tears. She felt it was something that needed to be said, though what she was sorry for, which error, she didn't know. Her fingers curled against the warm fabric of his shirt, his body rigid and so real that it almost pained her. In a flash all of her faults returned to her. They were sucked back into her soul and inexorably began warring.
She let out a shuddering sigh.
"I'm sorry, Harry," she whispered. "I'm sorry."
But he only smiled at her as they pulled back, in that boyish way he always did, and Hermione was once again shocked for the umpteenth time that day as he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.
Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall gave each other amused looks.
oooo
Hermione was walking through the empty corridor, her footsteps echoing as her shoes lightly tapped against the shiny marble floors. She looked down and tried to memorize the sound, rhythmic to her ears, yet sometimes uneven in depth and volume, and smiled sadly as she saw her blurry reflection. As she looked down her hair almost hid her face, but she could see her smile. It was warped amongst the sea of gleaming polished floor. For a second there, it had even turned upside down, and rippled away from the light.
She looked behind her to make sure her trunk was still following her, with a sleeping Guinevere in tow, before raising her hands and carefully lifting her medal from her neck. Her neck relieved from its glorious weight, she set it on her palm. It was smooth and warm to her skin, her nerves buzzing with bliss and delight. But as she observed it, brushing her fingers against the engraved image of the Hogwarts crest, savoring its flawless surface, she sighed. She continued to look at it, in a trance, as she remembered what had happened in the common room.
Her heart sagged noticeably when she thought of it. Her cheek burned. She couldn't even shake off the niggling shivers when she thought of when Harry had pressed his lips to her cheek.
It was odd. Unusual. Unexpected.
Different.
But she couldn't forget, most of all, the looks on their faces as she levitated her trunk and announced her final goodbye. Her Head of House had started to tear up again, and Hermione remembered feeling slightly envious of her tears.
Dumbledore had shaken her hand, nice and firm, winking at her. Ron and Harry had stood stoically like stone figures, watching her with sad eyes but forced smiles. Their faces were pale. Even Ron, who had blushed like a beet when she had told him she'd miss him.
Then they'd waved.
"We'll see you soon, Hermione."
She tried to take comfort that it was only three and a half weeks. She couldn't be missing out on too many events. Besides, she needed to go home. For her grandmum. For herself. As much as Hogwarts held a part of her heart, her heart needed some repairing, too. And all of that had to be done by herself, for herself. She could never accomplish such a feat if she still saw hook-nosed Snape or Malfoy every day. They'd only delay the process.
At the thought, she felt herself fill with a miserable melancholy, even a bit of nostalgia. Just then, she stopped in her step as her eyes roamed around and she realized just which hall she was in.
"I left my Transfiguration book!" she remembered frantically saying to Ginny. But instead of feeling wistful in her memories, pleased to remember such a small account in her life, there was an abrupt and poignant anchor to her chest. Suddenly, she felt sick. His face constructed in her view again, and her battling scruples were roused.
All of a sudden, she heard a hoot behind her, unmistakably Guinevere.
And, as if on cue, the door of a classroom opened, just right ahead. Her breath stopped and she slowed to a halt as she recognized the tall, slender figure that walked out, radiating with superiority, oblivious to her presence. His expensive leather shoes gleamed immaculately, lightly squeaking against the floor for a mere second. His uniform, absent of his robes, was faultlessly done just as the rest of him looked. There was not a single button awry, not a single silver hair uncombed. He continued to walk on, looking down and mumbling something under his breath in a familiar way that sent tremulous pangs through her chest, until he looked up.
His face instantly paled, freezing in his spot, a look of pure surprise on his face. He was only a small distance from her now. Far enough for her to know he couldn't read the shards of pain in her eyes, but near enough that the misinterpreted and muffled aches from the last few days, purposely and determinedly buried underneath her exams and packing duties, became an actuality again. Her lungs lost all of its functioning reflexes; her head dizzyingly overcome with longing and a hard-struck, iron-fisted blow that rattled her very bones. Her mouth dried up – her tongue crumbled away into dust that blocked up her closing throat.
Her eyes took him in, and she began to hurt all over again. That same nonsensical, undefeatable pain. God, how she hated it.
Her heart that she had been trying to, piece by piece, set back together from all of the devastating little shards and bits – shattered all over again.
It was a monster of a feeling, cruelly perpetual. But as broken as her heart was, she felt it jump with what seemed like newfound life at the sight of him.
They simply looked at each other, unmoving, each reeling in their own feelings, barricaded and tackled by such a rush of emotions, turbulent and suffocating and passionate, and time froze. The seconds had died away in silence, the world stopped spinning. Just for a moment. A depraved, exalted, painful moment.
Draco felt himself shiver. Tingles poured from his body, heat and chills colliding against each other in the very midst of him. It was almost impossible to take her in, this sight of her, this spectacle – because at that second, frighteningly still in time, everything that seemed tangible and palpable around them dissolved into millions of microscopic fragments. And then, suddenly, nothing else existed except them. Except her. Except him. Except them.
He felt as if he hadn't seen her in ages. He hadn't remembered her being this beautiful before. The smooth creaminess of her skin, the charming but fading freckles dotting her nose, the stunning depth of her eyes. But it wasn't just the look about her. It was what she stood for. Innocence, goodness, kindness, intelligence. The way she glowed with her civility, courageous defiance that Draco had never appreciated before – until this year, in this very corridor. It was funny, he reckoned, how fate had brought them running right into each other in this very hall. Where it all started.
They were back where it all had started.
But as he gazed into her eyes, he felt an impact of stumbling reality. Fearless, true. He couldn't move because he was afraid of what he'd do. He'd worked so hard to get this far – he'd worked so hard to drive her away. He couldn't throw it all away, not for one last bout of physical contact. It would be foolish, indeed foolish. But weren't men always foolish?
An inkling of memory slipped back to him, weightless but instantaneously crushing.
Do you love me?
No, he didn't love her. He couldn't. How could he? He was destined to be something horrible, something awful – how could some someone birthed with a cold heart possibly love? Even after years and years of ruthless training to be exactly what they wanted him to be? It was impossible. He was impossible.
Just then, he felt a mind-pinching twinge.
Impossible.
Impossible was impossible.
But he didn't deserve to love her. He didn't deserve to have her in that way – in any way. She was safe, remember? She was untouchable now. He couldn't drag her down with him. He couldn't do that. He would save her.
But.
The abrupt realization was a ruthless punch in the gut, and if he hadn't already lost his breath, he would have then. There were the antagonizing thoughts, the thoughts of refusal and denial swarming like an angry colony, but even they were weak and flimsy compared to the strong feeling pounding through his veins and striving in his Dark Magic-infested body. He was suddenly bathed in clarity, a growing tumor of bright light blossoming within him, and it was frightening. But it was something new and strange but so potent – as if it was fated. He didn't know why, or how. He didn't even know if he believed in fate. But he just got the sense of it, clear and uninterrupted.
It was rather easy, really. Once he got over the bolt from the blue. Suddenly he knew it like he knew his name. As if he'd known it all this time. So he loved her. So it wasn't impossible. End of story.
But, really, it wasn't the end of the story. He couldn't stand it. Realizing it before wouldn't have done him any good and would've only caused him more trouble, but why now? Why not ten years from now? Why not on his deathbed (however soon that may be)? He'd still be dying with the knowledge that he had loved someone so much that he hated himself for it. Living with it was the problem. That was always the problem. But why now?
Suddenly, his gaze flickered to behind her, where there was a faint hooting. He spotted her owl and her trunk, levitating behind her. Confusion struck him. Was she leaving? Where was she going? She couldn't be leaving yet – there was still about three weeks until the end of school! What had happened? Why hadn't she told him?
He didn't know how long they stood there, looking at each other. It seemed idiotic, but the mere notion of its stupidity was overtaken by his new revelations of impossible but possible love, of un-Malfoy love, and bewilderment at why she was all packed up. Somehow, he didn't want to believe it, that she was the one leaving him. He'd always taken comfort in knowing the fact that he would be the one leaving her. But, no. It wasn't fated that way. He was going to have to watch her walk away unless he turned his back and walked away, too.
A rumbling, imminent tide overwhelmed him then. Something was bubbling up his throat. He was going to tell her. Why not? She was leaving already – for what reason, he didn't know, and he didn't want to know. But what could he possibly lose now? What could possibly be lost from those three words? Undoubtedly he wouldn't gain any more wounds. Past his stoicism, past his adamant claims – he was already hurting as much as one possibly could.
It would be the perfect goodbye. Simple, yet with masses of complexity threaded in the seams. But would that matter? His pride, his thickly established pride, seemed eons away when he was with her. Shouldn't he take advantage of its leave? Didn't she deserve at least a bite of the truth? Or would she even believe him? Had he already done too much to ever catch even a hint of her favor?
But it seemed that she had suddenly sensed urgency. Her eyes, almost vulnerable for that whole time they had looked at each other in vague but drowning honesty, strengthened and were masked by her obstinacy. She looked away and began to walk towards him, and soon – past him.
His mouth was dry, almost reaching out to grab her arm.
"Granger—"
"Mister Malfoy?"
Draco blinked. He looked behind him and glanced at the elderly man approaching him, dressed in layers of azure, his silver beard trailing down the front of his chest. His half-moon spectacles winked at him, the glass reflecting from imperceptible light. He heard the motion of his footsteps and robes, sweeping against the marble.
Draco looked back before him, where Hermione Granger had just been about to pass him. But as his mind was cleared of the nostalgic, almost pitilessly painful daze, his memories ebbing away like stolen cobwebs on his fingertips and clinging to his wrists, she was gone.
Not a single trace of her. Just the bitter, bile and metallic taste of the words that had just been right at the tip of his tongue – the same ones that he still hadn't been able to swallow down yet. But he remembered all too clearly that in a solitary second too fast they had plunged and burrowed right back inside him again, stunning him to a cold silence. It was then he had succumbed into the shell of a coward, closing his eyes as the single moment to make everything right again slipped away from him just as easily it had come.
Draco Malfoy smirked stonily as he recalled the movement-induced breeze he'd felt when she'd finally passed him, not uttering a single vowel, and the heat radiating from her that he could have sworn was made only and especially for him to feel.
Albus Dumbledore stopped beside him, a thoughtful look on his face.
"Ah, this corridor. Any special memories concerning it?"
Draco regained his composure, baring an impassive face. "No," he drawled, looking at his former headmaster. "None worth remembering."
"Oh, what a shame," said Dumbledore. "What a shame indeed. I, myself, had some very special ones in this very hall." He smiled jubilantly, but Draco could see from the corner of his eye that the old man was giving him a knowing look, a gleam in his eye. "Precisely how long has it been, Mister Malfoy? Standing in this hall?"
"A year," Draco replied. "Precisely a year."
"Ah, yes," Albus sighed. "One entire year. Seems long, doesn't it? Yet, at the same time, it seems as if no time has passed at all. Don't you agree?"
Draco looked away from the hall, diverting his gaze to the softly lit torches. He was getting quite annoyed with the old coot's tireless implications. "A year is a year, Professor," he answered. "Nothing can undo it."
Dumbledore smiled. "Mister Malfoy, that is, without a doubt, a clever answer. But, might I say, you are very young in the ways of the world." He gave one last look at the empty corridor before motioning for them to move on. "Classes are soon to start," he said. "You must be on your way."
Nodding, even scowling a bit as he had not lost any bit of the distaste he held for Albus Dumbledore since his years here at Hogwarts, he turned and began to walk away.
"Oh, and Mister Malfoy?" Dumbledore called out, as Draco halted. "Do try to be gentle, won't you? I think Mister Potter may be a little overwhelmed. The element of surprise is not always a good one."
Albus watched with sparkling eyes as the young Malfoy resumed walking. He noticed he still had the same powerful stride – reminding him exactly of his father, the notorious Lucius Malfoy. But the boy hadn't aged at all, not even in the ways of his mind. Yes, now there was more of a depth to him than his impish childhood schemes, but there was still work to be done. But though Lucius and Draco Malfoy were alike in the matters of pride and swagger, they were quite different, as well. For one thing, Draco had something Lucius did not.
Albus smiled happily to himself. "Oh, what a blessed reunion," he sighed as he walked down the hall, whistling.
oooo
Draco wasn't quite familiar with Muggle streets, but he felt immediately out of place as he Apparated to a back alley. The soil was damp beneath his soles, and the air smelt of fresh rain. Funny, it hadn't been raining at all in the wizarding world. Trying to shrug off the aftereffects of Apparating, he lightly brushed himself off, scowled at the entrance of the alley, and began heading towards the light to the Muggle world.
Draco Malfoy had one objective today, and it was urgency that had forced him to come to these desperate measures. Unfortunately, their plans had been drastically altered. They needed Harry Potter informed and involved as quickly as they could. Now, they couldn't very well owl him because there was a possibility of owls being intercepted, and there was the Floo network but even that alternative was risky. They had to talk to Potter in person.
Draco grumbled under his breath. He just didn't understand why it had to be him who had to do it. He was sure Snape had materialized that last minute "business trip" just to avoid being chosen, but all he needed was proof. His mother couldn't very well do it because she was, well, his mother. She was an elegant woman, she was, the perfect queen of wealth, but her exposure to the outside world was trivial. It would only draw attention. Attention of which, especially now, was definitely not needed.
Dumbledore was another matter. Yes, he was busy. Yes, he was still headmaster of one of the most prominent wizarding schools in the whole of the world. But wasn't Potter his most favorite person in the whole universe? He didn't understand why he hadn't broken a hipbone trying to volunteer himself for the task. And certainly Potter would take joy in the old man's visit – unlike, let's say, Draco Malfoy's, childhood enemy, eternal enemy. Didn't they see it was a haphazardly flawed plan? Potter would hex him the moment he saw him on his doorstep – he was willing to bet his entire vault in Gringott's on it. After all, it was something of a surprise. No one could keep in touch with the git, so it was drop by spur of the moment or not drop by at all. Draco had enthusiastically opted for not drop by at all, but he was outnumbered. By a scarecrow, an ice queen, and a mad old man. Really, what were the chances? He was the only sane one in the group, and they'd gone and sent him to the wolves. He should have known they'd team up on him.
It truly was unfair, really.
Now he was wandering around in Muggle London, dodging the suspicious characters and getting cigarette butts blindly thrown at him by conspicuous purple-haired people with numerous facial piercings and hideous boots. He sneered in disgust as some elderly women eyed him from a bench, whistling at him, asking if he wanted a good time tonight.
Draco scoffed, looking around. As if he'd ever want a good time with her. She'd be too drugged up to even remember what to do.
He reached in his pocket and retrieved a crumpled piece of paper, reading it again as if he'd forgotten. He looked above him at the towering buildings, spying the rusting fire escapes. There was indistinct shouting pouring from an open window, and he had to dodge a pair of shoes being flung down below.
He squinted at the address on the parchment.
Then he looked up again.
Yes, it had to be true. He had to be in hell.
He kept walking until he saw a rather decent-looking bookstore. Shivering a bit from the chilly disposition of Muggle London, he walked in and felt pleasant tingles travel across his skin from the heated room. His eyes roamed around, intrigued by the countless selections of books. There were indeed many.
"Darling? Hu-llo?" said a singsong voice. "Can I help you, pumpkin?"
Draco whirled around, surprised by the voice. He found a redheaded woman a decade his senior waving at him at the front of the store. Then she smiled at him, pleased at what she was seeing. "Oh yeah, indeed," she muttered to herself as Draco neared her. "This must be my lucky day." He stopped in front of her as she was grinning toothily at him, and Draco shuddered. She reminded him of the Weasleys' mother. "So what can I do for you, you handsome lad?" she winked, chewing her gum loudly.
Draco sent her a scowl. "I was just looking for this address," he said, distancing himself a bit from her, handing her the paper.
She peered at it, bringing it closer to her face. Then she nodded, smiling widely. "Oh yeah, this is quite near. It's the building right next to Madigan's Pub. It's downright massive – you can't miss it."
And before she could say anymore, Draco had snatched the paper from her and walked out of the store, hearing the faint jingle of the bell as he quickly headed towards Madigan's Pub – wherever that was.
He found it within minutes, staring up at the rather obscene sign it sported, lined with neon light wiring. Cursing to himself as he had to evade some rather drunk women nearing him with devilish lips and sloppily donned dresses, he ducked into the entrance of the Cheshire Fox flats. There he stumbled into an old woman who was just getting her post.
"Pardon, where—"
"Wrong flat, dear," she said, not even looking up. "You want the one next to this one. A few paces to the left." And then she turned away, heading up the stairs.
Nonplussed, Draco shook his confusion away and headed out again, doing just what the old woman had said. Paces to the left, go inside – ah, there it was. Number three, in polished black letter, just right up two sets of stairs and down an extensive hall. It really was odd in this area. He'd been to a few Muggle flats before (strictly for business, and, no, not that sort if business) and this was certainly the most bewildering one of the lot. Reminded him of why he wasn't too fond of Muggles. Not too fond at all.
Draco stood before the bare door, carefully looking around the hall. It was completely empty. Determined and anxious, as well as bracing himself for any possible hex-hurdling individuals, he balled his hand and knocked, loud and clear.
He heard shuffling inside. Footsteps. Then there were voices – two voices, a female and a male. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but Draco found himself looking at the door with an amused look on his face.
"So, Potter," he mumbled. "Finally got yourself someone blind, deaf, and brain-dead, have you? What a pity. A woman of such standards, having to degrade herself to—"
"Who is it?" he heard the female voice call out.
Draco then froze, feeling tingles shimmy up his spine. He concentrated on the voice. He recognized that voice. He was sure he did.
"Who is it?" it called out again.
Draco narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out why it sounded so familiar. Something about it sent enormous amounts of blood pumping to his head at an extraordinary rate. It shot electric adrenalin straight to his heart, causing it to ram against his chest, and his breathing eased from calm and shallow to rough and ragged.
So, instead of answering, Draco knocked. Persistently.
Then, suddenly, the door opened. It opened with a swift pull, drawing in air, and revealed to him the owner of the familiar female voice. Her expression was clearly drawn over with irritation at first, but her mouth fell open and the color drained from her face once she saw him.
Draco stared at her with wide eyes, completely stunned, every drop of blood in his body freezing over. His heart stopped.
Indistinctly he heard glass shattering somewhere.
Enlarged chestnut eyes gazed into his own, echoed by a mass of curly hair. Her pink lips parted, moist. Fading freckles, almost gone now, on her nose.
Dear God.
It was Hermione Granger.
End.
