Ficcy: D/Hr
Title: Cry
Rated: PG13 at most (I don't think I even used any naughty words)
Pairing: Draco/Hermione, suggested Draco/Harry
Genre: That would be 'angst', my dears.
Summary:"You're never going to find one who doesn't make you cry."
Notes: For jamie2109's drabble challenge thing.
It was Saturday night, so Hermione was a little surprised when she opened the door to find Draco Malfoy standing there. He usually spent his Saturday nights pub crawling. He looked strained and wretched, but then he always did these days.
He lifted his head and looked at her, and without a word, she stepped back to let him in.
“Are you alright?” She asked. She didn’t ask him what had happened. She knew.
He laughed softly and shrugged out of his coat to toss it over the back of the nearest chair. “No.”
She nodded. It was the answer she had come to expect.
Draco took a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and lit one with a green plastic lighter. He took a deep drag on it and Hermione noticed his hands were shaking.
“Another one?” She asked.
He smiled at her, but there was no humor in his expression at all. “Yeah.”
She didn’t bother to tell him that he was wasting his time, that he was setting himself up for it, that he knew better. That Harry Potter was dead, and there was no bringing him back. Instead she sighed and crossed the room to slip one arm around his waist. She plucked his cigarette from his fingers, took a little puff on it, then pressed against him to lean over and crush it out in the ashtray on the table behind him.
She ran her hand over his back in a slow, soothing motion, then took his hand and pulled him along behind her. “Come on then.”
“In a hurry, Granger?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder and lifted a brow. “You come to me, remember? And though I let you in, I do not wait for you.”
He shook his head a little and followed her into her bedroom. “I’m sorry, Granger. You’re right, I’m…I’m just so tired.”
She nodded mutely and backed him toward the bed, tugging his shirt out of his pants as she did. He lifted his arms and she took it off and threw it on the floor.
“Lay down then,” she murmured, and pressed a hand to his chest.
Draco got up on the bed and lay back to watch her undress. She did it quickly, efficiently, as she did everything else. First her shirt, then her jeans, bra, panties. She folded them up and turned her back on him to set them neatly on the dresser.
He watched with a calm sort of detachment as she crossed the room to the bed without the slightest hesitation and climbed up beside him. She crawled across the mattress and straddled him, then simply leaned forward, rested her head on his shoulder and held him, skin on skin, so close that they breathed in tandem and their hearts beat against each other.
And it was enough.
It was enough for him to just lay there and feel her soft, cool skin gradually warming from contact with his, and hear her calm breath in his ear.
For now it was enough.
They had been doing this ever since the war ended. The first time he came to her was less than a week after the final battle between the Dark and the Light. She let him stay, and now, years later, he was so familiar with her that he could map each and every freckle and mole on her body with his fingertips. He knew every place on her body that she liked to be touched and it still fascinated and humbled him that she allowed it.
Hermione was not, nor would she ever be, a raving beauty. Hers was a quiet kind of grace and dignity, more than conventional beauty. Men watched her, not because she was beautiful to look at, but because she did not know that she was unworthy of their attention. They watched her because with every gesture of her hand and sway of her hips, she said as plainly as any words that she expected to be watched.
“Thank you,” Draco whispered, breaking the silence.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” Hermione murmured, turning her head on his chest to look him in the eyes. “You can’t keep crawling from pub to pub searching for…whatever it is you’re searching for. He’s gone, Draco. He’s dead. You’re not going to find him in the eyes of some dark-haired, green-eyed stranger, and there will never be one of them that doesn’t make you cry.”
“I haven’t cried in years,” he said.
She propped herself up on her elbows and looked down into his silver eyes. “What do you call this, then?”
“I…”
“Your eyes may not leak, but this amounts to the same thing,” she said. “This is you crying. This is your heart breaking just a little bit more.”
“What would you have me do?”
“Stop it,” she said. “Stop looking. Stop hoping to see him when you’re walking down the street or when you turn a corner. Stop. Learn to grieve.”
“And then?”
“And then learn how to let go.”
“You mean forget.”
“No. I mean move on,” she said. “Harry’s dead, Draco, but you’re not.”
He was silent for a long while, then he finally said, “You want me to leave.”
She smiled faintly and sat back to unfasten his belt. “No. I want you to stay.”
//finis//
Rated: PG13 at most (I don't think I even used any naughty words)
Pairing: Draco/Hermione, suggested Draco/Harry
Genre: That would be 'angst', my dears.
Summary:"You're never going to find one who doesn't make you cry."
Notes: For jamie2109's drabble challenge thing.
It was Saturday night, so Hermione was a little surprised when she opened the door to find Draco Malfoy standing there. He usually spent his Saturday nights pub crawling. He looked strained and wretched, but then he always did these days.
He lifted his head and looked at her, and without a word, she stepped back to let him in.
“Are you alright?” She asked. She didn’t ask him what had happened. She knew.
He laughed softly and shrugged out of his coat to toss it over the back of the nearest chair. “No.”
She nodded. It was the answer she had come to expect.
Draco took a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and lit one with a green plastic lighter. He took a deep drag on it and Hermione noticed his hands were shaking.
“Another one?” She asked.
He smiled at her, but there was no humor in his expression at all. “Yeah.”
She didn’t bother to tell him that he was wasting his time, that he was setting himself up for it, that he knew better. That Harry Potter was dead, and there was no bringing him back. Instead she sighed and crossed the room to slip one arm around his waist. She plucked his cigarette from his fingers, took a little puff on it, then pressed against him to lean over and crush it out in the ashtray on the table behind him.
She ran her hand over his back in a slow, soothing motion, then took his hand and pulled him along behind her. “Come on then.”
“In a hurry, Granger?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder and lifted a brow. “You come to me, remember? And though I let you in, I do not wait for you.”
He shook his head a little and followed her into her bedroom. “I’m sorry, Granger. You’re right, I’m…I’m just so tired.”
She nodded mutely and backed him toward the bed, tugging his shirt out of his pants as she did. He lifted his arms and she took it off and threw it on the floor.
“Lay down then,” she murmured, and pressed a hand to his chest.
Draco got up on the bed and lay back to watch her undress. She did it quickly, efficiently, as she did everything else. First her shirt, then her jeans, bra, panties. She folded them up and turned her back on him to set them neatly on the dresser.
He watched with a calm sort of detachment as she crossed the room to the bed without the slightest hesitation and climbed up beside him. She crawled across the mattress and straddled him, then simply leaned forward, rested her head on his shoulder and held him, skin on skin, so close that they breathed in tandem and their hearts beat against each other.
And it was enough.
It was enough for him to just lay there and feel her soft, cool skin gradually warming from contact with his, and hear her calm breath in his ear.
For now it was enough.
They had been doing this ever since the war ended. The first time he came to her was less than a week after the final battle between the Dark and the Light. She let him stay, and now, years later, he was so familiar with her that he could map each and every freckle and mole on her body with his fingertips. He knew every place on her body that she liked to be touched and it still fascinated and humbled him that she allowed it.
Hermione was not, nor would she ever be, a raving beauty. Hers was a quiet kind of grace and dignity, more than conventional beauty. Men watched her, not because she was beautiful to look at, but because she did not know that she was unworthy of their attention. They watched her because with every gesture of her hand and sway of her hips, she said as plainly as any words that she expected to be watched.
“Thank you,” Draco whispered, breaking the silence.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” Hermione murmured, turning her head on his chest to look him in the eyes. “You can’t keep crawling from pub to pub searching for…whatever it is you’re searching for. He’s gone, Draco. He’s dead. You’re not going to find him in the eyes of some dark-haired, green-eyed stranger, and there will never be one of them that doesn’t make you cry.”
“I haven’t cried in years,” he said.
She propped herself up on her elbows and looked down into his silver eyes. “What do you call this, then?”
“I…”
“Your eyes may not leak, but this amounts to the same thing,” she said. “This is you crying. This is your heart breaking just a little bit more.”
“What would you have me do?”
“Stop it,” she said. “Stop looking. Stop hoping to see him when you’re walking down the street or when you turn a corner. Stop. Learn to grieve.”
“And then?”
“And then learn how to let go.”
“You mean forget.”
“No. I mean move on,” she said. “Harry’s dead, Draco, but you’re not.”
He was silent for a long while, then he finally said, “You want me to leave.”
She smiled faintly and sat back to unfasten his belt. “No. I want you to stay.”
//finis//