Disclaimer: This is my first ever attempt at any kind of angst, but I was in this sort of mood today, and I really love this song. I promise the next chapter of Hit Me One More Time is on it's way. And seriously, if you recognize it, do you think I own it? No, dumbass.

Pairing: Drarry

Rating: PG for dark (ish) mental themes.

This is a song-fic to the incredible Between the Lines by the talented and beautiful Sara Bareilles.

Between The Lines

Time, to tell me the truth, to burden your mouth for what you say, no pieces of paper in the way…

He wants to say it. I can see it in his eyes, anxiously flitting from me to his plate. I sigh, and pick at the food. He knows I know, knows it is only a matter of time, knows he should just say it, admit it, get it out.

He doesn't.

...I can't continue pretending to choose, these opposite sides on which we fall…

"Malfoy if you are so damn unhappy with all of this then why don't you just leave? I don't give a fuck about what you do anymore!" He throws the book in my hands against a nearby wall - it crashes into a photo, the our faces serene and smiling, so in love. It seems so long ago.

...No right minds could wrong be this many times...

"Well? Don't you have anything to say?" He leans over, eyes blazing with that passion I know so well, but this time it isn't passion for me. My throat is constricting, swallowing doesn't help in the slightest. I force the words out.

"I suppose I'll get my stuff."

...My memory is cruel

I'm queen of attention to details…

It's been a week and no word from him. A year ago, he would have been at the door of my hotel, begging for my forgiveness, begging me to come home, begging for me, after just a day. Now I wonder if he is even thinking of me in the slightest, wondering if I'm alright. I have sent no owl, no letter, no word of where I am, hoping to make him worry, hoping he'll feel even a hint of the agony he is causing me. Nothing.

...Defending intentions if he fails...

Maybe he has gotten caught up in case, I reason. Maybe no one knows where he is. Maybe he's on another god-awful stake out. I entertain that idea until a letter from my best friend appears on the wings of a tawny owl. She has the rest of my things, it says, he has been by to drop them with her.

I burn the letter in the grate.

...Until now, he told me her name

It sounded familiar in a way...

The Prophet headline on Monday reads like a nightmare from the darkest recesses of my mind. The Saviour to Marry Childhood Sweetheart. The title mocks me with its black and white clarity and certainty. I read the name. Ginerva Weasley. I should have known, really. Who else could it be? He is gay after all, and she is the only one who is so desperate for him that she could know this and chase him anyway. I look at the picture and my eyes darken. One of his arms is around her waist, laughing so freely and happily, head tilted back, eyes sparkling. She clings to him, grinning from ear to ear. Then, with a possessive smile, she stretches up, and kisses his cheek tenderly.

I send the house elves away that night. They are no longer required.

...Leave unsaid unspoken…

Pansy visits the next night. She chatters away light-heartedly about the parties she has attended, the recent pureblood scandals, and Blaise's latest working world conquest. She says nothing of my stained, unwashed robes. She ignores the uncleaned room. She turns a blind eye to the bags under my eyes. She doesn't even remark on the tears that fall freely from my eyes. She doesn't need to. She knows.

...You and me

Always between the lines…

Their wedding is set for June. The entire wizarding world is abuzz with gossip and trivia. Who's going, who isn't, where it will be, and all the other nonsensical questions that touch empty minds. No one asks why it took so long, why they haven't ever been seen together until now, why, until just last week, Ginny Weasley was publicly dating Dean Thomas, quidditch player extraordinaire. All this disappears between the lines of printed trivialities. They don't want to know. They want their fairytale.

The second week I stop ordering room service.

...I thought I thought I was ready to bleed…

Pansy brings Blaise with her the next time. He doesn't understand the way she does.

"Mate, it is filthy in here. The cells in Azkaban are nicer than this place! Surely you can afford somewhere that actually cleans the rooms?"

Pansy takes him away before long. She squeezes my shoulder. "It will get better, I promise."

It doesn't.

...Too late, two choices, to stay or to leave. Mine was so easy to uncover.

He'd already left with the other…

I leave the hotel in the third week. Pansy finds me a flat, and rents it before I even have time to blink. She appears on Tuesday, boxes floating behind her, brooking no objection. "It's time, Draco. You know he isn't coming back, you can't sit here forever. It doesn't help."

We unpack the boxes, and I mechanically arrange my new living quarters. Pansy keeps calling it 'home', but it isn't. It won't ever be. I can't have home. He has it.

She leaves me frozen meals, saying to warm them up. She knows about the food, I think. It doesn't matter though. Soon enough, she has to go.

I leave the food in the freezer.

...Eyes wide shut unopened…

Blaise makes me go to his birthday party. Pansy arrives and dresses me like a mannequin in clothes she brings with her. Grey shirt, fitted black dress pants. I push the green shirt away violently when she tries to swap them. The colour is too close, too close. She sighs, but she doesn't try again.

The party is in full swing, and Blaise is already pissed. Guests flood his cavernous mansion, dripping with finery. All his ministry associates are there, dull even when drunk under the table. Then, green and black on the other side of the room, and a flash of red. I look up and our eyes meet. He takes me in just as I take in him. He looks good, healthy. He turns away after a second.

It doesn't matter. I still see the pity in his eyes.

I refuse to leave the house after that.

...I tell myself all the words he surely meant to say. I'll talk until the conversation doesn't stay on 'wait for me, I'm almost ready'…

I sit in my room for the next three days. Pansy spends three hours outside my front door, frustrated, but the new wards don't let her in. I'm glad. She wouldn't like it anyway, how I am. She'd understand too well. She'd try to fix it.

I sit on the bed and quietly repeat my mantra.

"Five years, three months, seventeen days."

...You and me…

Dobby arrives in my room on the fourth day. He takes one look at my pitiful state and sets to work. Before long, the house is clean and disinfected. I admit to myself that it is nice to be tucked up in clean, fluffy sheets, while he makes me soup.

After two more days, I hear one of the last voices I would ever expect. Hermione Granger. I know I'm having the dream again.

"You are a fool and you know it! Just go in already!"

It's followed by silence, and then an even more unexpected voice.

"I can't. You didn't see him. It's my fault." My curiosity is peaked. This hasn't happened in the dream before.

Hermione sounds angry now. "Dammit, just go and see him! What, are you just going to stand here and stare at his flat?" I open the door and peer out.

There they stand, arguing like always. I tilt my head to one side, uncomprehending. Dobby pops into existence at my side. "Master Draco should be being back in his bed!" he huffs. I try to shush the elf, but it's too late. Their eyes fixate on me. An ubearable silence. I almost turn to leave and then, a hopeful voice, a pitiful voice, a so truly treasured voice cuts through my fog.


I groan inwardly. The one person who can take away the cloud of grief. And you are here. You're here.


...You and me

Always between the lines.

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