(no subject)
Author: Irisri
Title: The Blame Game
Summary: Her words were still on the mirror, in bright red lipstick.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character Death, AU
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Prompt: My Choice - Spirit
Prompts Completed: 43/100
Words:625
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The bottle of whiskey stood straight on the small table in front of him. His hand swayed as he poured another glass, causing the potent liquid to slosh over the sides. Her picture was in front of him, her smiling face belying what really was lying inside, cold and sad. Three months ago. That’s all it was. And yet, it felt like more than a hundred years. His blonde hair was tousled, from fingers run through it and burying his head into the pillows of his bed, trying to forget her and the dreams that haunted him in and out of sleep. The dragon-skin couch and antique coffee table spoke of wealth, of power, yet he felt as poor and helpless as a newborn baby.
Her words were still on the mirror, in bright red lipstick that she’d saved for special occasions, for times when she’d wanted to dazzle and bewitch him. How she’d done that. And it hurt to know that those words were the written in something he’d thought of as theirs, as a fun time, to know she’d used them to solidify a time of agony.
That’s what it was. Agony. He’d walked in, seen her there. How could she have done that to him? How could she have slit her wrists where he was sure to find her? Why not someone else? She was gone and those words whispered in his ear like a tantalizing drug.
He had to live with it, yet somehow he couldn’t. He’d loved her. He still did. Still couldn’t look at her picture when sober or smell her scent. He’d banished her clothes, her jewelry and makeup and perfumes, and the only thing he’d kept was the words on the mirror giving excuses why she did what she did. To remind. To drive him insane.
The glass of whiskey slipped from his hand, splashing onto the couch, as his head fell back and he passed out.
Draco.
He turned and looked at her. What are you doing here? He asks. She isn’t supposed to be here.
Don’t do this to yourself, Draco.
She watches him, her hands folded at her waist, her long brown hair sweeping down her front, her eyes watching him with concern, yet there was content in them. Do what? He asks her.
Live, Draco. Please. For me.
He hasn’t cried, yet he can feel tears coursing down his cheeks. You didn’t live for me, he whispers brokenly. You left me.
I was ill, Draco, that is my only excuse. You are not. You’re grieving, and it’s fine to grieve, but you’ve been drinking yourself into a stupor every night for three months. It’s time to let go.
No, he whispers stubbornly. I can’t.
A fire burns in her eyes, and temper rages as it did when she lived. He reveled in it. Do as I say, Draco. I cannot visit again.
How are you this time? He asks.
There’s a being in my world that gave me permission. Don’t let me down, Draco. I watch you. I love you. You must know that.
Not enough, he says. Not enough to stay with me.
No, she agreed. Not then. Now, I see you, and what’s in your head. And I love you so much. You must move on. If I had the chance to change, I would. But I can’t. Look at our daughter, Draco, the next time you see her, and you’ll see both of us.
That’s the problem, he chokes out. I see you.
You see me, but look deeper. She has your heart. Your strength. Please bring her home.
She was fading, he could see it. And yet he couldn’t say anything else. All he could do was stand there was his fists clenched and watch her disappear.
Title: The Blame Game
Summary: Her words were still on the mirror, in bright red lipstick.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character Death, AU
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Prompt: My Choice - Spirit
Prompts Completed: 43/100
Words:625
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The bottle of whiskey stood straight on the small table in front of him. His hand swayed as he poured another glass, causing the potent liquid to slosh over the sides. Her picture was in front of him, her smiling face belying what really was lying inside, cold and sad. Three months ago. That’s all it was. And yet, it felt like more than a hundred years. His blonde hair was tousled, from fingers run through it and burying his head into the pillows of his bed, trying to forget her and the dreams that haunted him in and out of sleep. The dragon-skin couch and antique coffee table spoke of wealth, of power, yet he felt as poor and helpless as a newborn baby.
Her words were still on the mirror, in bright red lipstick that she’d saved for special occasions, for times when she’d wanted to dazzle and bewitch him. How she’d done that. And it hurt to know that those words were the written in something he’d thought of as theirs, as a fun time, to know she’d used them to solidify a time of agony.
That’s what it was. Agony. He’d walked in, seen her there. How could she have done that to him? How could she have slit her wrists where he was sure to find her? Why not someone else? She was gone and those words whispered in his ear like a tantalizing drug.
He had to live with it, yet somehow he couldn’t. He’d loved her. He still did. Still couldn’t look at her picture when sober or smell her scent. He’d banished her clothes, her jewelry and makeup and perfumes, and the only thing he’d kept was the words on the mirror giving excuses why she did what she did. To remind. To drive him insane.
The glass of whiskey slipped from his hand, splashing onto the couch, as his head fell back and he passed out.
Draco.
He turned and looked at her. What are you doing here? He asks. She isn’t supposed to be here.
Don’t do this to yourself, Draco.
She watches him, her hands folded at her waist, her long brown hair sweeping down her front, her eyes watching him with concern, yet there was content in them. Do what? He asks her.
Live, Draco. Please. For me.
He hasn’t cried, yet he can feel tears coursing down his cheeks. You didn’t live for me, he whispers brokenly. You left me.
I was ill, Draco, that is my only excuse. You are not. You’re grieving, and it’s fine to grieve, but you’ve been drinking yourself into a stupor every night for three months. It’s time to let go.
No, he whispers stubbornly. I can’t.
A fire burns in her eyes, and temper rages as it did when she lived. He reveled in it. Do as I say, Draco. I cannot visit again.
How are you this time? He asks.
There’s a being in my world that gave me permission. Don’t let me down, Draco. I watch you. I love you. You must know that.
Not enough, he says. Not enough to stay with me.
No, she agreed. Not then. Now, I see you, and what’s in your head. And I love you so much. You must move on. If I had the chance to change, I would. But I can’t. Look at our daughter, Draco, the next time you see her, and you’ll see both of us.
That’s the problem, he chokes out. I see you.
You see me, but look deeper. She has your heart. Your strength. Please bring her home.
She was fading, he could see it. And yet he couldn’t say anything else. All he could do was stand there was his fists clenched and watch her disappear.