11A/N: This supposed oneshot was inspired by "Crosing the Frame" by Coheed and Cambria. Good band, good song ). I know I should be working on my other stories, but what can I say? I was struck by a muse P I'm also debating as to whether or not I'll turn this into an actual story, so if you're intrigued, or just bored, keep a weather eye on the horizon P there might be more coming soon! And please, by all means, review! I'd love to hear your thoughts )
Disclaimer: I own a Slytherin jacket, a Hogwarts backpack and a Hogwarts blanket. But no Slytherins, no Hogwarts, and no Harry Potter. Maybe for Christmas next year?
Draco Malfoy stood outside a familiar brick building, light snowflakes collecting on his eyelashes and platinum blonde hair; a layer slowly forming on his broad shoulders. If he was cold, he didn't know it.
Though a closed window, he could see a yellow glow that meant she had decided to burn candles instead of use those Muggle lamps he knew she had. He had never gotten used to those, no matter how many times she had tried to show him how to use them.
Taking a deep breath, he walked up snow-laden steps to her door, lifting a closed fist to knock on the door but stopping less than an inch away from the heavy wood. Should he really be doing this?
His mind wandered to the life he lived here once—a life he had recently found himself missing dearly. A life with her in the very center. She was everything to him, from her untiringly, beautiful head of bushy caramel hair, down to her dainty, tiny toes. He used to laugh at her small feet, saying they were the reason for her clumsiness. He missed her voice, the look in her eyes whenever he whispered her name, the feeling that spread from the pit of his stomach to the depths of his soul with the lightest touch from her slender fingertips. But there was a world between them now, though they were separated only by wood and glass.
The happy memories led to the night five years ago when he had left without a word. He knew—had known—for a year before then that he loved her with everything he had, but the fact didn't hit him completely until that morning.
She had gone to work, leaving him with a hot plate of eggs and sausage along with a few pancakes and a note saying she'd be home around 9 that night. It was the "Love, Hermione" that did it. He stared at her handwriting for hours—at those two words—not knowing why they affected him as much as they did in that moment. Love? He was a Malfoy—he wasn't supposed to "love." Yet here he was, professing his supposed love to Hermione Granger of all people. Every day. Multiple times. And did he even know what love was?
Part of him scoffed at the stupidity of his self consciousness. She, with all her kindness and compassion, had learned to love him. she, with all her forgiveness and patience, had shown him what it was to love himself. But after a life without love from anyone, he wasn't sure if he was equipped to do this forever. What if she decided he really was the evil git she knew in school? What if he hadn't really changed? What if this "new" Draco wasn't enough for her?
Not to mention the fact that she was Muggleborn. Of course, that meant nothing to him, now that the war was over and he was able to look past the mindless prejudice drilled into him from an early age. It was, however, not something that his old circle of friends were very happy about. He was a Slytherin—how could he act in such a manner unbecoming of the greatest Hogwarts founder? It was absolutely absurd.
"Fuck it all," he muttered to himself, lowering his hand and wondering again if this was a good idea and already knowing the answer. This was probably the worst idea he had thought up in a long time—save for the actual decision to run out on what just might have been the best thing to happen to him since Voldemort's death. He knew she would be furious. Hell—he left in a sudden rush and never said why. He left no note, gave no word—nothing. If it were him in her place, he would hate the very ground she walked on.
Leaving as completely as he did, didn't work out so well, however. He still tried to keep up with her comings and goings, even going to such lengths as asking Blaise to watch her and report to him every now and again. The idiot had laughed at his spying as he agreed, while Draco sneered his thanks.
The years had passed in the worst possible way for Draco. Trying to move on and get over Hermione wasn't easy when he was watching her by day and dreaming of her at night. By his count, he had accumulated over 600 years bad luck, what with his waking up in the middle of the night frustrated as hell and taking it out on the nearest mirror he could find. Sometimes it was just an accident that happened when he felt like throwing something across the room; it wasn't his fault there was always a mirror to catch those stupid useless marble baubles his mother insisted on having in his room.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he repeated under his breath, running a hand through his silky hair and brushing a few snowflakes off in the process. "This was a bad idea."
He turned, deciding against pressing the steps required to cross her door frame if she had decided to answer the door. How could she know he was here? His fist never rang hello, and his footsteps would be covered by new snow within minutes. Snow? He never even noticed it was snowing until now.
He had reached the bottom of the steps, ready to walk away from the threshold of the place he once thought of as home when the door opened, bathing him in a yellow light. It had been five years, yet he remembered all too well that little gasp she made when she was surprised. He shivered, not from the cold but from the memories that filled his mind—memories of making her gasp like that all through the night and the next morning.
He stopped, not knowing what to do. Should he turn around? Should he apologize? What would she say to him if he tried? "Fuck, fuck fuck," he repeated again in his mind, thankful she couldn't hear.
He shivered again as she breathed his name, proof that she recognized him. It never occurred to him how much pain, wonder and confusion one person could put into a single word—let alone his name—but there it was. That settled it.
Giving himself a shake to dust the snow out of his hair and off his shoulders, Draco Malfoy put his hands in his pockets, not realizing how cold they had gotten. It was a long walk home, and he knew it would be snowing the whole way.