Love and Unwanted Memories

Draco Malfoy gripped the washbasin, his knuckles turning white as tears streaked down his cheeks. “I can’t, I won’t, but- but- I must…” he muttered to himself, trying to straighten out the tangle that his life had become. It was no use. His life was a Celtic knot that had no end, no beginning. It was no use to know where it started, for it had started before him, before his father, before Lord Voldemort. “Why? Why me?” he asked his grimy reflection. He was twenty and going to Azkaban. Azkaban. Would he die from the Dementor’s evil, icy kiss? This could be the last time he would ever see himself reflected in the metallic substance of a mirror again. But he didn’t care. This could be the last time that he ever saw other people again. But he didn’t care. The face of the only person that had ever mattered was not there. She had left forever. The Dementors were even welcome. He wanted to straighten out his life, but leaving it was a way to do that, wasn’t it? “Let go, let go, I have to let go, I don’t want to live, can’t, call it what you will, if I can’t have her, then I might as well be dead.” It was insane that he would feel this way. He had never once in his life felt this way before. It was another insane thing that she had brought upon him, all those changes in his soul, then she left, left as soon as he had courage to move on. For that he would always hate her, love her, what did it matter? All his emotions were melded, blended, all one perpetual shade of gray. No black or white for him.

“Draco Malfoy, do you admit to killing Dean Thomas?” the stony faced judge boomed, no discernable emotions on his face. Draco knew he hadn’t done it, knew that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it didn’t matter. She was gone.

“Yes, I do,” he said tonelessly, only the slightest flicker of pain and tiredness flitting across his face for less than a millisecond, noticeable only if one had stopped time and watched intently.

“You will receive the Dementor’s Kiss in two months,” the judge sentenced, closing a man’s life with one slam of the wooden gavel. Draco let himself be led away, not resisting, not caring.

“Take me,” he whispered, taking savage pleasure at every jolt of pain as he was roughly pulled back and forth. Nothing mattered anymore except for her any more, so he would enjoy every last painful sensation he ever had. Perfect, it’ll match my heart, he thought as a particularly sharp stone gashed a scratch in his pale marble skin, smiling wryly and somewhat with satisfaction as a few drops of blood oozed out, marking the gray stones, the only sign that a man was to wait for death’s cold embrace on this wretched island. He wished he could hate her, but he knew he couldn’t. Never could. Perhaps, at one time, when life had been easier, black-and-white. But he would not remember, refused to remember. Not anymore, not anymore, please, God, no more, he thought, refusing to allow himself access to the bittersweet memories of the past year and a half. Not when she had left him, turned her back on him. But he knew that, no matter what, he would always belong to her. The memories would not be held back, could no longer be restrained. They poured themselves into his mind, imprinting every harsh image into his brain, branding him forever. A sharp intake of breath, and all came flooding back. Anger, hate, love, hope, despair, so many emotions took the chance for escape as they all broke free of the floodgates.

“Get away from me, you evil git, what are you doing?” She screamed, wrestling her arm from his hand. “I hate you, Harry hates you, just leave me alone!” He had only stared. If only she knew, if only, if only.

His own tortured look was veiled by spite, and he spat, “Oh, as if I wanted to touch you! Why can’t you just keep to yourself? Is it not enough that you have Potter and Weasley following you like they’re your personal little love slaves? Do you want me, too? Of course, I’d probably be better at it,” he added as an afterthought. It was her turn to flush and insult him. He rather liked the structure of their meetings. But she didn’t. He had- hurt her? Insulted her? Her eyes welled up with angry unshed tears and she drew back her hand and slapped him. The second slap felt as good as it had in third year. Damn, she looked good when she was angry. And she was touching him, had touched him. He wanted to kiss her senseless in front of everyone, but he hadn’t. Wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t. But the sensation of her skin touching his left him slightly breathless, and he could feel the longing building up inside him. It was all he could do not to moan aloud. He settled for the most wistful look any Malfoy had ever given (as soon as her back was turned) and strode back to the common room, his cheeks burning. Not from the slap, but the thrill of the contact. He knew he shouldn’t want her, love her, but he did. He waited until he was in the bathroom until he let himself whisper her name, just once, to the white, empty wall. He would never concede that every time he saw her made him ache, but it was true. He had loved her since second year, or at least that was when he realized it. Hermione, frozen on an infirmary bed, was probably the solely worst sight he’d ever seen in his life. He wanted to stroke her, make love to her, kiss her, tell her, something. But he wouldn’t. He was too proud. It could already be too late. Fifth year Draco buried his hands in his face and moaned, touching the red hand mark.

Draco shook his head. No. None of those hopeless memories, no. He would not have them. Not more of her. He refused. His mind refused to give ground and continued streaming those hurtful pictures.

“WHAT?? You’re my roommate? No! No! How did you become Head Boy? What did you do? What did you do? What did I do? Why me?” she moaned, turning on her heel, her skin turning a scarlet shade that he loved, wanted so much. He managed to turn her more against him every time he saw her, even glanced at her. It was ironic, really, that he was supposed to hate her, despise her, view her as second-class, and that she was the one who had those feelings. Did she know about the rows he’d had with his father over the idiocy of the pureblood creed? Did she know about how he had been basically dissevered from his family name? How he had given away his entire inheritance for her? No. All she saw was the boy who had led to the demise of Dumbledore. But even that had its own good reason. He had done it as part of an agreement with the Dark Lord. He had sold his soul so she would be safe. He belonged to someone else, but she had already enslaved his heart. But she couldn’t know, she refused to see past his cold exterior. He just stared mutely. She shrieked in anger and made as if to slap him again. He could stand it no longer. “ Hermione,” he said in a tired voice. “Save it.” She had flushed in anger and replied, “Why should I? Why should I?” He answered in a tone that betrayed his weariness.

“Hermione.”

“Did you just call me Hermione?”

“Hermione, yes, I did. I can’t stop it anymore, I can’t hold it in.”

“H-hold what in?”

He had not answered. Would never answer. His pride wouldn’t allow it. But his heart and his soul struggled in a fantastic free-for-all, demanding for supremacy. Don’t. Do. Don’t. DO. DON’T. He could not stand the tiredness, could no longer fight with his heart, could not stifle his longing. In one fluid motion, he brought his mouth down to hers. “Don’t. Save it.” Her muffled protests were not registered or even meant. They pulled closer, breathing the same breath, one soul, one mind, kissing with one mouth. It was more binding than marriage, for it was a kiss of pure love, at least on one side. The other side was more confused about it.

“What?” she whispered, confused, fingertips brushing her lips as if she was in a dream and did not believe what had happened, as if it was all a nightmare.

“Don’t. Hermione!” He called as she ran off into her room. “Come back! Please!”

“No! Stay away from me! Please! Please!”

“No! Come back!”

“I-I can’t! This is all wrong! I’m not a Juliet and you’re not a Romeo of any sort, Malfoy! I can’t do this! It’s all wrong!”

“How can it be all wrong if we both need it? If it feels like the only right thing I’ve ever done in my life? How can that be wrong?”

“No! Harry, Ron, Ginny, they’ll all hate me for that kiss alone! I can’t do this!”

“Hermione!”

“What? Don’t ask me to come back! This is all so wrong!”

“It’s not wrong! Hermione, I- I- I”

“You what, Draco? You what?”

“I… love you.”

“How can you know that? I’m sorry, but no!”

Damn. More fucking bad memories. Why? Why was his mind so set on taking away all of him, his hope, his love, his happiness? All emotions were slowly being replaced by bitterness. They had reached his cell. He sat, ignoring the coarseness of the stone, ignored the lack of light, ignored the Dementors outside his door. He could not see anything. He was still wading through a marsh of memories.

She walked out of the room, one month after that kiss, and looked at him, firelight dancing in her eyes. Perhaps they were tears. “Malfoy?”

“Hermione.”

“Malfoy.” They reached each other, and she kissed him, her arms around his neck. “I missed you, I couldn’t get you out of my head. I still replay that single kiss.”

“Me, too.”

“I wish I didn’t have to replay it over and over again.”

“Ah. Well, I believe there is a remedy for that.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Gladly.”

That had been the beginning of their relationship, which was forever in rough seas. Everyone had been suspicious, and many times Hermione had come back in tears from a row with Harry or Ron. They were both intellectuals and both had tempers. They had split and reconciled countless times. They either hated or loved each other with a passion. Many times Draco had kicked and destroyed whatever was in his path in a rage after a particularly fierce argument. They never stopped fighting, but he was always the one who truly needed her, the one who reconciled every time. She was his lifeline, his tie to the real world. She was his everything. Then, one day, it all changed.

Draco was no longer the ruler of his mind, which seemed determined to have him relive every torturous moment. “No,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth. His last desperate attempt to shut out the past, shut out his shame, his pain, his soul. No more memories. Oblivion. He waited impatiently for the Dementors. Perhaps if he didn’t eat, he would die sooner. Food. Water. They pushed through the slot. He refused to have them, would not have them. But his mind would not even allow that small power. His treacherous body began to eat, drink, take the life given it. At night, the memories began anew.

The Dark Lord needed him. His left arm burnt with insistency, and to protect his family, the one that had disowned him, he had to go. He was a slave, a nineteen-year-old slave. To protect her. To protect her. Yes, all was always to keep her. He kissed her and said he had to go. She asked where. He could not tell. But as he left, his sleeve slipped up, showed her the darkening skull and serpent. She ran after him. “Draco!”

“What?”

“Your arm!”

“Damn! I’m sorry, Hermione, but I couldn’t- couldn’t--”

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long have you been going to see him? Serve him?”

“Hermione-“

“How long?”

“Since sixth year.”

“I- I thought you’d changed!”

“I have! You’ve changed me!”

“I thought I had, too.”

He could stay no longer. His arm was burning. He looked at her, beseeching her. She gave a bitter laugh.

“Serve your master. I don’t matter. Love doesn’t matter. Leave.” She turned and left. He left also, Disapparating to his master’s side.

Voldemort stood in front of a boy. Draco recognized him as Dean Thomas. “This boy,” Voldemort began, “is a filthy excuse of a boy. He has had the audacity to kill a Death Eater, one of my own.” Here he paused, his red eyes glowing strangely, unreadable. He stroked Dean’s cheek. “Have you ever… seen a death?”

Dean stared. “Yeah, I have actually. I mean, that bloke I killed, that Macnair prat, I reckon I saw him die pretty firsthand.” Dean was always rebellious, even to the last few moments of his life. “How ‘bout you, Tommy? You've seen your fair share of dead people, I suppose, like my father!” He spat at Voldemort, whose pale face was transformed by anger, a cold anger.

“Insolent boy!” He flicked his wand and Dean began convulsing with pain, screaming. But he never begged for release, not once. “Enough!” A voice echoed in the darkness. Harry and some other Aurors had come to get Dean back. Including Hermione, her face filled with tears, her eyes betraying her anguish.

“Avada Kedavra!” Another voice broke the taut silence that had stretched on. No one knew where it had come from, but Dean crumpled to the ground, dead. The Aurors began battle, directing various curses at the Death Eaters, who responded with relish. All but one. Malfoy ran towards Hermione, holding her in his arms for a second and kissing her, but she broke away, running. “Never come near me again! I hate you and I always will! I will never forgive you!”

“Hermione!”

“Crucio!” A rough voice cut through the night. Hermione shrieked, falling to the ground. Draco found the man who had done it and Stunned him. She rose and began to curse other men, fighting back-to-back with Luna Lovegood, until Luna fell, dead and unmoving. Hermione kneeled, weeping over her friend’s body. “Luna! Luna!” she wept, shaking her friend. While she was doing so, a dark, cloaked figure hovered over her, pointing his wand at her back. Draco reacted quickly, too quickly. “AVADA KEDAVRA!” he roared, slashing his wand in the air. He missed by one infinitesimal inch. One inch too many. The man survived and Hermione, her sad beauty looked up for a moment at Draco, her tearstained face sad but understanding. “I forgive you,” she whispered, a peaceful look descending on her face as the green light hit her. Draco’s eyes widened, disbelieving of what had just happened. “Hermione!” he cried for the last time. That was when the Aurors caught him. That day was his twentieth birthday, the last happy day he had.

Draco hated himself. He hated Harry. He hated Voldemort, who had died on that self-same day. He hated every one except for her. He could never hate her. Never. He relived all of the little moments, the big moments, the important ones, the not-so-important ones, the happy times, the mistakes, the sad times, the fixes. The rows, even. She was so perfect, so beautiful. So her. The two months were passing. He refused to eat some days, would not drink, but he knew his body wanted to live anyway. He accepted this, accepted every thing, for he knew that in the last two months she was with him. Always with him. Finally, the day he had been dreading, yet at the same time looking forward to, came. He walked the same rough stone of the path as he had before. The same guards were watching him. He sat with pride amongst the cold circle of the Dementors. They approached and he accepted his fate, welcoming them. One came to him, ready to take his soul. He opened his mouth, and the words he had not spoken after that fateful birthday fell out once more, the last words he would ever speak, fell out of his mouth as if they had been waiting there the entire time. “Hermione, I love you. God, I love you.” Then, he felt a slow lightening, a certain freedom. His soul was leaving him, flying out of his mouth on silver wings. His dry shell of a body fell to the ground with a thump as he left the world. Although that self-same world had afforded him so much pain and misery, his last thoughts were that of a happy man. Goodbye, Hermione. Thank you for the last two months. I love you.