Three Dramione_ldws drabble thingies
Feb. 28th, 2009 09:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bookishwenchWell, I managed not to get elimated by the horror challenge, which had me breathe quite the sigh of relief since, hey, not so big with the horror writing even though BtVS is still my thang. Anyway, I haven't logged the last three, hence.
Regrets
Years had passed since he cried. The last time was the day of Charity Babbage’s murder. When the Dark Lord dismissed them, Draco went to his room and sobbed, fist jammed in his mouth to muffle the sound, thinking what it might be like to see Hermione killed. Not until then had he admitted the truth to himself: that he loved her.
Now he was one more anonymous face in a crowd beside a fresh grave, reading her tombstone.
Hermione Granger-Weasley
1979-2021
He’d never told her, and he realized he was shedding tears over his foolish pride, his greatest regret.
Transposed
The Hogwarts Express puffed onwards as the meeting of new prefects came to a close.
“That’s about all,” said the Head Boy, Cornelius Kettletop, a Ravenclaw, “except we need someone with decent handwriting to make up a list of the new prefects and hang it outside the Great Hall. Any volunteers?”
Hermione’s hand went up, as usual, but Draco’s raised arm caught Kettletop’s eye first, probably from the sheer shock of the offer.
“Fine, Malfoy,” he said cautiously. “Have it done by dinner tonight.”
Draco nodded, and as the compartment emptied, he remained behind, pulling parchment, ink and quill from his bag. However, if anyone had been watching closely, the look of mischief on his face would have been obvious.
After the start of term feast finished, the students exited the Great Hall, walking past the announcements tacked on the notice board. Ron drifted over to the list of prefects, wanting to see his name, and immediately let out a howl of laughter.
“Nice spelling, Malfoy!” he yelled at Draco, who had been watching the scene.
Hermione immediately read the parchment and frowned.
“I should have expected you’d purposely bungle mine,” she said to Draco, and before he could say a word, she stomped up the stairs, glaring furiously.
Draco read the list of names. Each was followed by the word “prefect,” except for Hermione’s. He had intentionally misspelled her new title, hoping she might understand his hidden meaning.
“It’s no mistake. To me, you are perfect,” he said quietly.
The Final Test
This wasn’t how things were supposed to happen. When I was small, Mother and Father used to tell me bedtime stories about how wonderful things would be when the Dark Lord returned and the Wizarding world would take over, how we would be all but worshipped. He was supposed to take away everything bad and make the whole earth pure once more. I used to fall asleep with a smile on my face and dream lovely things.
But the reality is a nightmare. So much blood everywhere, on my parents’ hands, on mine, and I couldn’t see the difference in color when it belonged to a Mudblood or when it was my own. Everyone bleeds red.
Everyone bleeds.
Father brought me to the Ministry today. I don’t think even he knew why. Reading between the lines of the Prophet had taught me what to expect: terrified half-bloods and Muggleborns being brought in, the new statue lauding Pureblood superiority, Moody’s eye mounted on Umbridge’s door. But knowing didn’t prepare me for the reality of it all as I followed in Father’s wake down the corridors. Fear filled every breath of air like a poisonous cloud. Voldemort had created his own heaven, just as my parents told me he would, but it was a devil’s paradise.
Father brought us to a door at the end of a twisting corridor, and I knew trouble must be ahead because he was perspiring. Father sweats only when he cannot control his baser instincts, like fear. It unsettled me more than anything I had yet seen.
“Remember, Draco,” he said, and his tone shook the smallest bit, “you have nothing to fear from him if you have kept faith with your Pureblood ancestors and avoided anything that would shame them.”
I nodded. My godfather had taught me Occlumency well, and I was undoubtedly about to be subjected to yet another of the Dark Lord’s attempts to probe the thoughts in my mind, thoughts of her, her eyes laughing in sunlight, the strikingly beautiful lines of her face when I infuriated her, the deep brown of her incorrigible hair. He had thus far found nothing, and I would make sure he found nothing again.
My father opened the door to the Dark Lord’s throne room. It was just as I had pictured it would be, but there was one difference, and as that inhuman face lit with a horrific smile of satisfaction, I knew I was in hell.
I screamed. I screamed until my throat was raw, and my eyes would have forced themselves from their sockets if they could.
Her head, eyes staring sightlessly, was mounted above his throne.
“I see Miss Parkinson was right to suspect your infidelity after all, Draco,” the high voice said mockingly. “You have my congratulations. It is rare to lie successfully to Lord Voldemort for so long, but in the end, he always knows.”
Tomorrow I die, or so he has said, but in truth, I am dead already.
Years had passed since he cried. The last time was the day of Charity Babbage’s murder. When the Dark Lord dismissed them, Draco went to his room and sobbed, fist jammed in his mouth to muffle the sound, thinking what it might be like to see Hermione killed. Not until then had he admitted the truth to himself: that he loved her.
Now he was one more anonymous face in a crowd beside a fresh grave, reading her tombstone.
Hermione Granger-Weasley
1979-2021
He’d never told her, and he realized he was shedding tears over his foolish pride, his greatest regret.
The Hogwarts Express puffed onwards as the meeting of new prefects came to a close.
“That’s about all,” said the Head Boy, Cornelius Kettletop, a Ravenclaw, “except we need someone with decent handwriting to make up a list of the new prefects and hang it outside the Great Hall. Any volunteers?”
Hermione’s hand went up, as usual, but Draco’s raised arm caught Kettletop’s eye first, probably from the sheer shock of the offer.
“Fine, Malfoy,” he said cautiously. “Have it done by dinner tonight.”
Draco nodded, and as the compartment emptied, he remained behind, pulling parchment, ink and quill from his bag. However, if anyone had been watching closely, the look of mischief on his face would have been obvious.
After the start of term feast finished, the students exited the Great Hall, walking past the announcements tacked on the notice board. Ron drifted over to the list of prefects, wanting to see his name, and immediately let out a howl of laughter.
“Nice spelling, Malfoy!” he yelled at Draco, who had been watching the scene.
Hermione immediately read the parchment and frowned.
“I should have expected you’d purposely bungle mine,” she said to Draco, and before he could say a word, she stomped up the stairs, glaring furiously.
Draco read the list of names. Each was followed by the word “prefect,” except for Hermione’s. He had intentionally misspelled her new title, hoping she might understand his hidden meaning.
“It’s no mistake. To me, you are perfect,” he said quietly.
This wasn’t how things were supposed to happen. When I was small, Mother and Father used to tell me bedtime stories about how wonderful things would be when the Dark Lord returned and the Wizarding world would take over, how we would be all but worshipped. He was supposed to take away everything bad and make the whole earth pure once more. I used to fall asleep with a smile on my face and dream lovely things.
But the reality is a nightmare. So much blood everywhere, on my parents’ hands, on mine, and I couldn’t see the difference in color when it belonged to a Mudblood or when it was my own. Everyone bleeds red.
Everyone bleeds.
Father brought me to the Ministry today. I don’t think even he knew why. Reading between the lines of the Prophet had taught me what to expect: terrified half-bloods and Muggleborns being brought in, the new statue lauding Pureblood superiority, Moody’s eye mounted on Umbridge’s door. But knowing didn’t prepare me for the reality of it all as I followed in Father’s wake down the corridors. Fear filled every breath of air like a poisonous cloud. Voldemort had created his own heaven, just as my parents told me he would, but it was a devil’s paradise.
Father brought us to a door at the end of a twisting corridor, and I knew trouble must be ahead because he was perspiring. Father sweats only when he cannot control his baser instincts, like fear. It unsettled me more than anything I had yet seen.
“Remember, Draco,” he said, and his tone shook the smallest bit, “you have nothing to fear from him if you have kept faith with your Pureblood ancestors and avoided anything that would shame them.”
I nodded. My godfather had taught me Occlumency well, and I was undoubtedly about to be subjected to yet another of the Dark Lord’s attempts to probe the thoughts in my mind, thoughts of her, her eyes laughing in sunlight, the strikingly beautiful lines of her face when I infuriated her, the deep brown of her incorrigible hair. He had thus far found nothing, and I would make sure he found nothing again.
My father opened the door to the Dark Lord’s throne room. It was just as I had pictured it would be, but there was one difference, and as that inhuman face lit with a horrific smile of satisfaction, I knew I was in hell.
I screamed. I screamed until my throat was raw, and my eyes would have forced themselves from their sockets if they could.
Her head, eyes staring sightlessly, was mounted above his throne.
“I see Miss Parkinson was right to suspect your infidelity after all, Draco,” the high voice said mockingly. “You have my congratulations. It is rare to lie successfully to Lord Voldemort for so long, but in the end, he always knows.”
Tomorrow I die, or so he has said, but in truth, I am dead already.
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no subject
Date: 2009-03-02 05:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-02 11:46 pm (UTC)