Disclaimer: Although I would like to, I do not own the magic that is Harry Potter or the characters. All I own is this plot :)
Twisted Love Story
He hates her kind. He's killed her kind. But he loves her. And as he awaits his trail, unafraid of death, he is afraid that she'll never know that.
Spells and Curses.
Blood on the walls and the floors of the dungeons in his family's basement.
Tears of the number (hundreds, maybe thousands) of victims.
Screams from the victims who were either too weak to keep them in, or strong enough to let them out.
Spells and Curses meant to hurt, maim and kill.
Laughter echoing in the dungeons and inside his ears; maniacal and twisted and soSO evil.
This is all he knows; this is all he's ever known.
This is home.
April 7, 2004
His cell is dark. Cold. Empty, except for a single bed, a toilet and himself. It's damp sometimes and the walls are wet, leaking from the ceiling down; like it's crying. It's ironic, really. So much so that he could laugh if he wanted t; which he doesn't.
Screams and laughter-maniacal and twisted and evil-travel through the corridors of Azkaban, through the bars of his cell. He can hear it all clear as day, as though the source is sitting right beside him.
He doesn't flinch. He doesn't wince. He doesn't smile, laugh or smirk. He doesn't even react.
Draco Malfoy is emotionless.
The rusty bars of his cell open with a creaking sound before closing with a soft click behind his visitor. He doesn't have to look up to know who it is; he's the same person who always comes, to break him. But the Death Eater never breaks. The man, twenty-four years old, with raven colored hair and dark green, steps out of the shadows and stands under the dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling. His arms are crossed over his chest, his legs are spread firmly, his cloak pooling around his feet on the floor. He leaves his wand in his pocket as he knows that the prisoner has no intention of attacking him. He takes in the site of the hollowed man before him, his blond hair is stringy and matted and longer than usual, falling in front of his eyes like a shield, his cheeks are hollow and his collar bones protrude beneath the white and black jumpsuit he wears. He's dirty and un-kept, very much unlike the man he thought he knew; a man he once called his friend.
"Potter," the prisoner acknowledges, albeit grudgingly.
"Malfoy," the Auror acknowledges back, with a curt nod.
A part of the war-hero wants to ask him how he's doing and if they're treating him okay in here before he remember why he's even here in the first place.
"Again, Potter? Haven't I made myself clear the last dozen times?" the blonde drawls, like his old-old self.
"I was hoping you'd changed your mind. I need a confession."
"Why? You've got all the evidence you need to condemn me."
Harry sighs loudly, "look, Malfoy... If you give me the information I need-"
"I have nothing to gain from that. Nor do I have anything to lose, so I think I'll take my right to keeping silent," Draco sneers.
"I know of one thing that you have to lose."
Draco Malfoy smirks. "That's where you're wrong, Potter, I've already lost her."
"Then out of respect for her, tell me what I want to know."
"I'll make you a deal Potter…"
"Now hang on, I'm the one who makes the deals-"
"Bring her to me and I'll tell her everything she wants to know." His voice holds a sort of truth that the raven haired man cannot ignore.
Harry sighs, shaking his head. "You know I can't do that," he whispers.
"You're the bloody Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, of course you can."
Silence falls between both men. Draco hasn't moved from his spot on the dirty old mattress, his back against the wall and his gaze trained on the floor. He's never once looked at the man before him no matter how many times he comes. He never looks at anybody.
"I'll see what I can do, but don't, under any circumstances think I'm doing it for you."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Potter."
March 13, 2004
They're closing in on him. His forehead and his armpits are sweating from exertion as he stumbles out of the fireplace in the house he shares with his wife.
"Hermione!" He calls, his frantic voice echoing through the halls.
The living room is empty and so he dashes into the kitchen to find her. She isn't anywhere on the first level of the house and his stomach jumps into his throat at the mere thought that she isn't here.
He races up the stairs, panting as he struggles to breath. As if on cue Hermione Malfoy walks out of the bathroom. Reliefs floods him.
"I'm right here, Draco. What-"
"We need to go," he cuts her off, "now." He grabs her around the waist and pulls her into their bedroom. She watches in confusion as he gathers two suit cases from the closet. With a flick of his wand, all of their clothes flutter off of the hangers and fold into neat piles inside the suit cases. He continues to move around the room, collecting a number of their valuables and tossing them on the bed. She watches in confusion.
"Draco what are doing, what's going on?" She asks him. He doesn't answer her. "Draco!"
He crosses the room and stops in front of her, holding her face in both of his hands. "We need to go, Baby. We have to get out of here."
"Why? What's happened?"
"We just-we have to go. We have to disappear."
"You're scaring me, what's going on?"
"I love you, you know that right?" He murmurs, resting his forehead on hers.
"Yes, of course."
"Do you trust me?"
"With my life..."
"Then trust me when I say that we need to go, now. Can you do that? Because there's no turning back, we can't come back here. Ever." Grey (desperate) eyes bore into brown ones, awaiting a reply. He moves away from her then, and walks towards the bed, zipping the suit cases closed by hand before placing them near the door. "Grab whatever you need, everything else can be replaced."
She still hasn't moved from her spot in the center of the room, stuck in a daze of confusion. "Draco, I don't understand-"
A loud crash from downstairs interrupts her thoughts. Her eyes widen in confusion and fear. Draco throws the bedroom door closed, pushing his hands through his hair before performing a number charms to keep it locked.
"Draco…" Her voice is shaky, unbearable.
He turns around, crossing the room once more. Wrapping his right arm around her neck and his left around her waist, he pulls her into his chest. "Don't be scared, baby, we're gonna be fine. We can leave now and I'll come back later for our stuff-"
"HERMIONE!" Her name is shouted from somewhere else in the house. The voice belongs to one of her best friends. Harry. Her eyes widen in shock as she pulls away from her husband. She goes to move towards the door but her husband holds her back.
Draco pushes her against the wall, pinning her there with his body. "Shhh-"
"But it's just Harry and Ron.."
Within seconds, the door flies off of its hinges across the room and Harry and Ron burst inside. Unsure of how to react, Hermione buries her face into Draco's shoulder, only to have him ripped away from her seconds later. She looks incredulously at her best friends as they struggle to push her husband onto his knees.
"Hermione, baby, listen to me-" Draco starts.
"Shut up!" Ron yells, finally forcing the blonde man onto his knees.
"What's going on?" Hermione asks, her voice soft and childlike. Afraid. Confused. Upset.
"Don't listen to them-"
"I said shut up, you sick son of a bitch," Ron growls, binding the man's hands behind his back
"Somebody tell me what the hell is going on! Harry…" she looks desperately at her best friend for some kind of explanation.
Harry looks sad, disappointed. And it scares her. "He isn't who you think he is 'Mione. He's…"
"He's still a Death Eater."
The way her eyes widen and gather with tears, the way her chest heaves with sobs she struggles to keep to herself, the way she raises her right hand to her chest...and then the look of utter betrayal and disgust on her beautiful face as her friends dragged him out of the house haunts him to this day.
Both of their lives shattered around them that day; his, for entirely different reasons.
April 12, 2004
Compared to the bed in his cell, the chair in the interrogation room is like sitting on a cloud. He leans back, resting his hands in his lap as he waits. The room is dark, save for one light hanging from the ceiling, and it's empty except for a table and two chairs, one of his he occupies. It's the first time he's stepped foot out of his cell in one month.
Potter has succeeded in his task to bring his wife to him. In all honesty he hadn't expected the man to come through; hadn't expected her to agree. For the last time he saw her was at the house as he was being dragged out and he knew from the look in her eyes that she would never want to see him again; but then, he couldn't blame her. She had every right, after all. In fact, he's sort of surprised that he hasn't received divorce papers yet. He doesn't think about why she's coming, all he can think about is her. All he can worry about is her.
July 28, 1999
It's the first thing he hears-the only thing he hears-as he makes his way through his brand new house and straight to the back yard. It's a different kind of laughter; like music to his ears. He savors every time he hears it, locks it away in the back of his mind for safe keeping; he's the only one with a key. He locks it away with images of her smile and her eyes, their first date, the first time they made love. The day he asked her to move in.
When he reaches the back door he pauses on the inside of the screen, peering out across the large backyard, over the green grass and the beautiful gardens. She's there, kneeling on the ground and pulling out weeds from in between the plants she'd planted just a month ago. It's like she forgets sometimes that she's magic; but then even when he reminds her, she claims that she likes doing things the muggle way because it reminds her of her childhood. [He tries to forget about her childhood all together].
He pushes the door open, stepping out onto the patio and into the sun's rays. She looks up at the sound of the door opening and closing and a wide smile graces her features. It sets his blood on fire and his heart beat picks up speed. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, watching her push herself to her feet and dust her clothes off. The knees of her old, tattered capris are stained with dirt, as are the gloves on her hands. Her t-shirt is one of his old ones from school and her hair is thrown into a messy ponytail at the back, right side of her head. She asks him how work was and he replies with the same answer he always uses. Okay. His arms reach out to grasp her waist when she's close enough and he pulls her flush against him, crushing his lips against hers in an I've-been-waiting-all-day-to-do-that kind of kiss. Hungry. Passionate. Like he can't get enough of her. She pulls back much too soon for his liking, eliciting a groan from inside his chest. He pressed his forehead against hers, lifting his right hand to the back of her head. He slips his fingers inside the band holding her hair together and tugs on it gently, pulling it out and letting her hair-wild and unruly curls-bounce into place around her shoulders. He smirks, pulling back to look at her.
"Much better..." he murmurs.
"Your obsession with my hair is unfathomable," She giggles .
This is true, he admits, for his desire to touch it and twirl it around his finger is far too great most of the time, and some of his wildest fantasies include his hands doing many things with her hair. What he won't admit is that she doesn't even know the half of it.
He answers with a smile, lifting his other hand to join his right in cupping her face. The fingers of his right hand curl around the base of her neck as he strokes her cheek with his thumb and his left brushes her hair out of her face before tangling themselves in it at the back of her head. He stares down at her and she stares back, neither of them speaking or moving. There's a comfortable silence in the air and he finds that he doesn't have the need to fill it with nonsense the way he does with everybody else. He could watch her for hours; in fact he has. He could spend days upon days, curled up against her in bed without the necessities such as food or water or light and survive just fine. He could spend the rest of his life in her light, drowning in her warmth and just being. (As if he could just be).
The words are out of his mouth before he even thinks them. It isn't a question, nor is it a request. It's a statement. It's been on his mind for months now (years, technically) and he's a ring in his pocket for weeks.
She answers yes.
Every time he closes his eyes, it's her face that he sees. It's her smile and her eyes and her hair. It's the way that her fingers fit perfectly in between his. It's the way she looks at him when they're alone, like he's the single most amazing person she knows. It's the way he feels like a different person when she's around, like a better person than he is.
He loves her-wholly and truly; it's the only thing he's ever felt, the only thing that's ever been true to him. And yet it's more than that, more of an obsession really. For as long as he can remember he's been obsessed with her; with everything about her. She is everything he's ever wanted, ever needed. And she is everything he's ever hated and despised. She is his prejudice, his enemy and his wife. He loves her like he's never loved anything. And he loaths her kind. Mudbloods. Muggles.
Blood: on his hands, soaked into his clothes and splattered on the walls.
Screaming, pleading and tears: from the man lying at his feet. Screaming in agony. Pleading for his life; promising to never tell a soul what he's done. Tears for a life he holds in his hands.
And he feels nothing. Nothing but content, because in a matter of minutes his mission will be complete. He holds his wand in his wand hand, twirling it between his fingers tauntingly. He smirks menacingly down at the old man and still, the man pleads for his life. The boy, he isn't more than 17 years old, bends down, resting on the backs of his legs as he point his wand to the man's forehead, directly between his eyes.
His lips curl into an evil, tormenting sort of smile as he utters just two words.
It's never been easier to kill someone.
The door opens, pulling him out of his thoughts, and his gaze snaps up towards the light spilling in through the crack. Potter walks in first in all his glorified hero-ness, extending his arm to hold the door open. This is it, he thinks. He leans forward in anticipation, his gaze trained on the open door. His stomach turns and his heart jumps when she walks in. He takes a moment to rake his gaze up and down, taking in her beauty and elegance. She's wearing black muggle skinny jeans and the silver flats she loves so much, along with an off-white 'pea coat'. Her hair is in soft curls around her shoulders, her bangs falling over her eyes slightly; he wants nothing more than to reach out and twirl those beautiful curls around his fingers. He refrains, of course, choosing to just stand up instead. Upon doing so, he notices that she flinches, turning her body towards Harry with her head down. She refuses to look up, even as Harry runs his hand up and down her arm. Draco finds that he can't look away, even as jealousy grips him hard.
"You don't have to do this if you don't want to," the Auror whispers into the brunette's hair.
Draco has half a mind to tell the man to shut up, but he holds his tongue. He keeps his gaze on Hermione, who still refuses to look at him even as she nods and sits down in the chair directly across from him. Draco sits himself down, leaning forward with his arms crossed over the table. And still, he stares. When he finds his voice, it's scratchy and shallow and he has to pause to clear his throat before trying again.
"You came," Draco whispers.
"I didn't come for you, I came for Harry," she replies shortly.
The words sting, like a punch to the chest, and he just barely contains a wince. The only thing that keeps him together in the way that her voice wavers, telling him that it isn't entirely true.
"You…you look great."
Her gaze flickers up to meet his for a fraction of a second before she lowers them again to where she's fiddling with her fingers in her lap. And for that fraction of a section he sees a mixture of emotion in her eyes, most of which he knows don't belong there. Hurt. Anger. Confusion. Longing...for the past, for his voice.
"I mean it, you look-"
Harry cuts him off quickly, "she didn't come here for a personal visit Malfoy, she came to get answers. The answers you promised-"
"And what are you still doing here, Potter?" Draco growls. The sneer and disgust in his voice is evident; his gaze, however, never leaves her.
"She asked me to stay."
The blonde nods slightly. "Very well." He watches her swallow, closing her eyes and wincing slightly, as though it's physically painful to do so.
"Harry's right, I came because I want answers," she whispers, barely able to do so.
"And I'll give them to you, all you have to do is ask," he promises.
"How will I know it's the truth?"
"Because you won't like the answers," he replies truthfully.
She takes a deep breath, raising her head for the first time and looking him straight in the eye. This time her gaze holds nothing but hatred and curiosity. "How many people have you killed?" she asks, her voice breaking when she says the 'k' word.
"I don't know."
"You said you'd answer any question she asked," Harry protests.
"And I am," the blonde man snaps. "The answer to that question is that I don't know." Once again even as he answers the man standing against the door, his gaze never leaves the woman separating them.
"If you had to guess?" Hermione wonders.
"More than one hundred and fifty but less than two hundred."
She nods, swallowing. "How many of those people did you torture?"
"Less than one hundred."
"How many did you…" She trails off, choking on the question. She closes her eyes, willing herself to continue. "Did you rape people?"
"No. Never. Not once."
"But you've watched...before, right?
"How many times?"
"I don't know. They start to...blend into each other after a while."
She raises her hands to her face, covering her mouth as she struggles to hold onto her composure. It's making her physically ill, asking these questions and she wants nothing more than to crawl into a hole and die. He wants nothing more than to hold her, comfort her. It's physically hurting him to see her in so much pain.
"When did you find the time?" she asks. This is a personal question, which has nothing to do with the actual investigation.
"Business trips. Working late. Working early."
Silence falls. She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest protectively. He continues to stare at her, waiting, hoping for another question-anything to make her stay.
"Hermione..we can go now," Harry suggests from behind her in the shadows.
She shakes her head silently as a tear trickles down her cheek and she reaches her hand up to wipe it away. The dark haired wizard pushes himself away from the wall.
"You got us a confession, that's all we need-"
"But I need more," she whispers, her voice hoarse and broken and thick with tears.
"Ask anything you want to, I'll answer," Draco tells her. He doesn't even care what sort of questions she still wants to ask. He just wants her to stay
"Why? Why did you...how could...how could you do something like this?" She looks at him once more and the hurt and pain and disappointment is almost too much for him to handle. Almost.
He swallows, intent on giving her everything she needs. "I was a Death Eater, Hermione. It was my duty."
"But-but you switched sides. You helped us, you...oh my god," she pauses, her eyes widening with realization. "You never switched sides, did you? You've been on his side all along, haven't you?"
"Yes," he whispers.
"Yes? That's all you have to say-yes?" She pushes herself to her feet then, the chair scraping against the concrete floors before tipping over backwards with an ear piercing thud. Draco doesn't flinch and he doesn't move, he just follows her around the room with his gaze as she begins to pace back and forth. He can see the wheels turning in her head, fitting the pieces together. He almost smiles. "You've been lying to us-to me-this entire time, haven't you?" she accuses him.
Her voice is strong now, demanding. Not quite the way it used to sound during their infamous arguments at school or in Grimmauld Place, but strong enough.
February 26, 1998
It's been one month since he joined the Order. One month since he showed up at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, battered and bruised and begging for protection in exchange for valuable information to over throw the Dark Lord. The Order had been skeptical at first, to say the least. Nobody trusted him. Even as he told 'horror' stories of the sickening things he had witnessed in his own home since Voldemort had begun his reign, very few of the members had felt bad enough to trust him. In the end it was Hermione who changed their views, for she was the first to voice hers-that he was still just a child who had forced down the wrong path, a path he didn't want (he never tried to correct her; he couldn't). Once she began to trust him, as did the rest of them. However just because she trusted him it didn't mean that they no longer fight, because they did. Every day. Sometimes they were just small disagreements, sometimes they were your usual arguments, and sometimes they were you full-fledged battles of wit and intelligence, and right and wrong. Most times she was right which meant that she won, but he enjoyed them nonetheless. It's one of the many things he's always liked about her.
This is one of those times. It started out simple enough, the two of them bickering over who opened the fridge first and before either of them knew it they were screaming and yelling at one another. Every member in the house had migrated to the dining room to be witness; there's not much else for entertainment these days.
"You are SO full of yourself Draco Malfoy! Do you EVER think about anybody but yourself?" she screeches, her voice carrying through the house.
"Of course I do, mostly when I'm sleeping," he smirks smugly at her.
"You...you are sick and perverted. Why I thought you were worthy of anybody's time is beyond me." She spins on her heel and marches out of the kitchen.
Draco is hot on her heels, determined to have the last word. "How did you yelling at me about the damn fridge turn into an insult on my character-"
"It isn't just about the fridge! It's about the fact that you're selfish and arrogant and you think that everything revolves around you!"
"You mean, it doesn't?" It's a vain attempt at a joke on his part, meant to lighten the mood just enough to crack a smile on those luscious lips of hers. Instead she makes a sort of hissing sound and continues up the stairs. He follows her, completely unaware that their audience is now watching from the hallway.
"You're not much better you know," he states.
"What does that mean?"
"I'm not the only one who might think they're better than everyone-"
"I do not!"
"Oh but you do. "
She's spun around to face him now and they're nose to nose. A part of him wants to ravish her lips until he can no longer move. Another part of him wants to knock her down a couple pegs. The monster in him wants to do unforgivable things to her blood.
"You're a know-it-all little snob who thinks she knows everything and everybody else knows nothing. You think that just because you're the smartest person here that the rest of us don't deserve the same recognition. You're just as full of yourself as I am of myself-one might say we're perfect for one another."
She smirks then, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Do you use that line on the girls?"
He grins from ear to ear. "Only the pretty ones."
"Whatever, Malfoy." She rolls her eyes, turning to walk away but this time he won't let her. His hand latches around her arm and pulls her back around before pushing her forcefully up against the wall and crashing his lips against hers, urgently. Hungrily. Desperately. She kisses back forcefully, raking her fingers through his hair and opening her lips for his tongue. He tastes her, savors her; taints her. She tastes better than he's ever imagined, in his dirtiest fantasies and his wildest dreams. He nibbles on her bottom lip as he pulls back slowly, gasping for air.
She's the Forbidden Fruit and he is Adam.
A round of applause reminds them that they aren't alone.
"You used me. You used all of us." Her voice is soft now, disbelieving as she sits back down in the chair across from him. He continues to watch her, taking in the look of total devastation on her face with a heavy heart. He regrets doing this to her, hurting her like this; he doesn't regret what he's done.
"I never used you. Them-yes...but I never used you," he tells her, hoping it's enough to convince her.
"I don't believe you."
"I told you I would answer every question you asked, that you would know it's the truth because you wouldn't like it. That's the truth. I never used you."
"How did you do it? How did you manage to trick all of us?" Harry wonders from across the room.
"I said I would answer any of her questions, Potter. I still refuse to answer yours." Although his words are directed at Harry, his gaze (still) remains on his wife-the woman trying so desperately to keep herself together.
"Answer him, Draco," she pleads.
The blonds sighs, leaning back on his chair. "It was easy. I'd seen enough-done enough damage, to create stories...and I'd witnessed enough fear and...desperation, to act like a victim," he reveals for the first time. He's already going to hell, admitting this is just giving him a more direct route.
"Why? Why do all of this? Y-you ruined everything...why?" she demands, like the strong woman he knows that she is.
"It's who I am. It's what I am," he replies truthfully. He wishes her had a better answer for her. "My whole life was based around evil. My father taught me everything he knew about the Dark Arts, engraved it into my brain. I knew how to perform Dark Magic by the time I was 9 years old and I could make Dark Potions before I even turned 6. My family's prejudice was like second nature and I thrived off it, I believed in it. I always have. So you can imagine my displeasure to be going to school at Hogwarts with a bunch of Mudbloods and Bloodtraitors...I reckon I was almost as disgusted as my father." He pauses, watching as the woman before him flinches, dipping her head down but not before he catches the glimmer of hurt in her eyes. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Harry's fists clench at his sides. "And then I met you, Hermione. And you had this love of knowledge that I'd never known before, and you were intelligent and witty. And you were talented with a wand, more talented than most pureblood witches and wizards I knew. Despite your blood, despite my prejudices, despite...everything I've ever believed, I thought it was beautiful and admirable. I started watching you…obsessing over you. I should've hated you, as I hated everyone else like you, but I didn't. I couldn't. You were a challenge that I couldn't conquer Granger. You were feisty and brilliant and you could go head to head with me a battle of wits on any given day. Quicker than I ever imagined I found myself falling in love with you." He's spilling everything now, laying it all out on the table for her. And only her.
"Don't say that," she whispers.
"…you know the rest.." he murmurs.
"No..no I don't know the rest. I don't know why you thought it was a good idea to do what you did. I don't know why you sought me out and I don't know why...I don't understand why you couldn't give it up. If you loved me...why couldn't you give it up?" She asks, brown boring into grey. She wants to know everything, and nothing, at the same time.
He groans inwardly. "Because it wasn't about you. Voldemort chose me. I wasn't like my father; I didn't follow him because I worshipped him-although I did share his views. He chose me, and I let him down when I couldn't kill Dumbledore. I couldn't let him down again. While the two of you-the three of you-were running around the world hunting his horcruxes I was doing his dirty work-which I'm fairly certain I don't have to explain. He knew he was dying, he could feel it, and he knew there was no way to stop Potter. He chose me to continue his reign after he died. Gaining the trust of the Order was just a part of the plan, so that nobody would suspect me."
"And me? Was I just a part of the plan?"
"His plan? No. My plan...always," he whispers. "You were everything I was supposed to hate and everything I loved."
She shakes her head, tears trickling down her cheeks. She's since given up on wiping them away. "You..you celebrated with us when we won. You came to the Ministry Balls, you…"
"I had to. If I didn't people would've been suspicious."
"So...in between Ministry events and work and everything else...you were torturing people-murdering them," she states, rather than asks. She already knows the answer, she just wants him to confirm her beliefs.
"Yes," he confirms.
She nods, blinking back tears as she struggles to hold onto the little composure she has left. She feels light headed and sick to her stomach at everything she's just learned. Leaning forward with her elbows on the table, she pushing her hands through her hair.
Something shiny captures Draco's attention and upon further inspection he notices that she's still wearing her wedding ring. He watches as she sighs, her breath coming out in shaky waves. His lips curl into a small smile. "You're still wearing it…"
She follows his gaze to her left hand, pulling it out of her hair and bringing it in front of her. She stares down at the ring wrapped perfectly around her finger and their life flashes before her eyes. Their wedding day; his vows. Their first Christmas as a married couple; hosting dinner at their house. Valentine's day in Paris. Talking about children; trying to have children.
Every day, since learning of the charges against him, she's tried to take the ring off. Every day she tries, and every day she fails because as awful as the situation is, she can't forget what they had. She can't forget about the kisses and the 'I love you's' and forever. He was a different person when she was with him, and that's the man she remembers; the man she loves.
The man sitting in front of her now, spilling his deepest, darkest secrets, so...emotionless and distant...is not the man she married. This is not the man she remembers. But then, of course he is. And yet for a single second, as he looks at the ring on her finger and then the band on his, she notices a flicker of emotion in his dull, steel grey eyes. Hope.
The air is suddenly thicker than it was just seconds ago and that sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach comes back. "I have to go." She pushes herself to her feet, her legs shaking slightly under the sudden weight of her body. Harry reaches for the door handle immediately.
In a sudden state of panic, Draco reaches out and wraps his hand around her wrist. His grip is loose and gentle, but she gasps from the contact. She looks back at him and his eyes are pleading-desperate.
"Please don't go. Just-just stay a little while longer..." he pleads.
Harry moves around to pull him off but Hermione lifts her other hand to stop him. She continues to look at the man in front of her, her husband, and despite every thought screaming at her to ignore him and leave and never come back, her resolve softens a little bit. His eyes are closed and his thumb is tracing patterns on the top of her hand -circles, squares, hearts...
Her skin is soft and smooth under his rough, callouses fingers. And as he closes his eyes, he savors the feel of her because he knows that he will never have this again. He brings up his other hand and reaches it across the table, trailing his fingers over hers. He stands then, bringing her hand to his lips as he places soft, feather-light kisses across her skin.
Hermione swallows the lump in her throat, watching him for a moment before closing her eyes. How can a man so dangerous and evil and destructive be so...gentle and loving?
September 10, 2003
Her final release brings forth his as he collapses on top of her, still moving slowly and softly inside of her. His head falls into the crook of her neck, his breath coming in spurts and gasps. Her legs wrap around his waist, holding him there, as she trails her fingers up and down his arm and then across his shoulders, over the nail scratches and bite marks. She shudders around him, humming her satisfaction as she tilts her head back in an attempt to open her airways. He's heavy, but not painfully so. In fact, she's quite comfortable.
"You're a minx, you know that?" His voice is husky and thick with lust and his breath on her skin sends shivers down her spine.
"You love it."
He smirks, lifting his head and trailing his lips across her jaw before stopping at her lips, teasing her. "Fortunately for both of us, you're right."
She giggles softly, raking her fingers through his hair.
"I love you," he murmurs.
"I love you."
He grins, rolling off of her and flopping onto his back, satisfied and exhausted. He extends his right arm across her pillow and folds his other behind his head. She rolls onto her stomach, folding her arms under her head, lacing her fingers with his and turning her face towards him. She stares up at him and he stares back. No words are needed to express themselves.
"Do you think it worked?"
"If it doesn't, we try again, that's all," he replies casually.
She smiles softly and he reaches out with the hand that was behind his head to ruck a loose curl behind her ear. He leans forward, placing a chaste kiss on her temple. "And again…"
He continues to roam his lips over her naked body, across her smooth, sweaty skins, pausing in between each kiss to whisper 'and again' over and over. On her shoulder, down the middle of her back, across her rib cage and down to the small of her back before moving his way back up. He's gentle and loving in his movements; she closes her eyes, enjoying these moments she shares in private with her husband.
Harry's voice pulls her out of her thoughts and she remembers, once more, why she's here. She shakes her head and a tear trickles down her cheeks as she pulls her hand away from him. She turns away from him then and head for the door but he's faster.
Desperation grips him as he jumps to his feet and hurried around the table, faster than Harry can stop him, and lunges forward. He reaches for her waist this time, wanting-needing to feel close to her. He uses magic for the first time in one month, silently and wandlessly putting up a shield around them so that Potter, nor anybody else, can get to whimpers, pushing him away as more tears break through her resolve. "Don't-don't touch me!"
"Don't call me that!" she screams, her voice shattering and echoing around the interrogation room.
"Please, just-just listen-""Why? Why should I listen to you? You've done nothing but tell me lie after lie! Why should I listen to you now?"
"Because deep down...you know that I love you. You know that I would never put you in harm's way..." He whispers desperately, holding her to him tightly.
"I..I don't know what I know anymore…"
"Please, Mia...please don't leave me yet," he pleads, using the pet name he's used for her for years. "I'm-my trial is tomorrow, and I'm lucky if they sentence me to death...just, give me a few more moments." Gone is his confidence. Gone is his distant, emotionlessness; he's all but on his knees, begging her. She looks up at him, her heart beating so fast that she's sure he can hear it, taking in his disheveled appearance; the desperate, scared, pleading...haunted look in his eyes. It's not for him, she knows, because he's long since accepted his fate. It's for her. "Please, baby…"
The emotion in his voice breaks her and she finds herself nodding against her better judgment. Within seconds he closes the rest of the gap, pushing her gently up against the wall the way he used to whenever he just wanted to feel her; to feel loved. His arms are resting on the wall on either side of her head, his body pressed up against her, his forehead resting on hers. And despite every fiber of her being screaming at her to push him away, despite the voices in her head telling her that she's just as sick as he is for letting him touch her after everything that he's done, her heart still loves him; she still loves the man he is when he's with her. More tears trickle down her cheeks and he uses both hands to wipe them away only to have them be replaced by an endless amount. His steel grey eyes are boring into hers and she can see the love, the passion, the adoration and lust that have always been there.
"I'm sorry…" he whispers.
"For what you did, or for getting caught?" she asks him seriously.
"For hurting you." That is his only source of remorse, she realizes. He doesn't have remorse for what he's done, for the victims he's brutally murdered. He only has remorse for what he's done to her. "It was never my intention."
"And yet you did it anyway."
This new confession brings about a fresh wave of tears. She whimpers, using all of the strength she can muster-which isn't much at this point -to push him away from her. He obliges, stepping away from her with his head hung.
She looks at him, preparing herself for what she's about to say. "I loved you Draco..I loved you more than anything and you ruined it. You ruined everything."
"I know."She's shaking now as one more question burns inside her head. "Answer me this Draco...when you came home late from work and you carried me into the bedroom and proceeded to make love to me...had you just killed someone?"
He closes his eyes. This is, perhaps, the only set of questions he hadn't been prepared to answer. The only set he wished she wouldn't ask. "Yes," he replies, keeping true to his word to tell her the truth.
"A-and after the business trips?"
"And that fight we had last month?"
"I think I'm gonna be sick..." she whispers, clamping her hands around her mouth.
He bows his head even lower, walking back around the table and sitting down in the chair he had previously occupied. In the meantime Harry walks around to escort Hermione out of the room.
"I don't expect you to come tomorrow...but it would mean the world if you would," he tells her softly.
She nods before making a hasty lingers in the doorway.
"Think whatever you like Potter, about what I've done and the people I've killed. Merlin knows I deserve it. But I love her," the blonde tells the Auror watching him.
"I know. "
And he does know. Because he's been visiting the man every day for about a month trying to get a confession and he had remained silent and reserved-aside from the occasional insult- and emotionless the entire time. And this, this encounter with his wife, is the most emotion he's showed since he had been arrested. Draco Malfoy most certainly loved his wife, however twisted, there is no denying that.
"Take care of her for me?"
"I will," Harry promises.
And as the door shuts, leaving Draco cold and alone in room that isn't his cell as he awaits to go back home, he takes comfort in the fact that at least she knows now.
A/N: This is my first Harry Potter fic! Some of you may recognize my Pen Name from stories I wrote for The OC. This is just plot bunny that popped into my head one day. Thanks for reading! Reviews are welcome :)