His Perfect Dark Little World
Draco knew he had been out for a long time, he wasn’t exactly sure what curse that he’d been hit with had done it, or exactly how long. His only sensations were limited to the heavy awful feeling surrounding his right leg, the dull burn on his left forearm and the warm and lovely feeling that surrounded his right hand, the feeling would persist for a long time, disappear for a short time and then reappear. His whole world centred around his right hand ( and no not like it did when he was thirteen).
The discrepancies in the pressure forced him into an academic whirlwind – sometimes they were hard and all encompassing, other times soft and wavering drifting from knuckle to knuckle. Draco’s favourite was when the pressure became heavy in a whole other way, it just existed in his palm, no squeezes or movement put a perfect steady warmth that let his mind slip, let whatever part of him that existed in his little dark world relax.
Time was irrelevant to him, the world that existed outside of this was superfluous, the only thing on Draco’s mind was the meaning behind the perfect pressure on his hand. He’d run through enough scenarios that sat damn near the line of impossibility: 1) His hand had been chopped off, perhaps in some cooking accident – had he ever cooked? He couldn’t remember. 2) His magic had manifested in his right hand instead of his left due to that awful feeling that lingered there – and no he had not yet worked out why it hurt. 3) He had broken it so badly that the constant use of skelegrow had to be administered and the potion was simply doing its job. But the final scenario was the most improbable of all – someone was holding his hand.
Draco did not remember why he existed in this funny little world filled with three points of feeling. He did not remember who on earth would be holding his hand, perhaps his parents were there supporting him and clutching to him, or his friends – though Draco thought that to be improbable as no guy would cling to their mate quite like this one was. A girlfriend, a wife ? Draco thinks that it is quite a nice thought, having someone that loves you so much that they cling onto you – yes that must be the answer then. Who is this illustrious woman, how long have they been together, where did they meet? He is sure that he would have wooed her very intently, (read- wooed her socks and other unmentionables off), for someone to be this attached they must love him very much.
Love – yes Draco likes that.
The next few cycles of heavy pressure, absence and his favourite feeling – which Draco now believes to be when said women is asleep – are filled with his imagination of their life together, which is perfect. Things then decidedly become imperfect rather immediately.
The images of his real life, his recent memories, and what he believes to be the reason he is in this once perfect world return to him.
Now the feeling in his left arm makes sense, and the right leg is no longer just uncomfortable but border line torturous when he remembers the slicing hexes and crucio curses that had been sent to him by his dear old Aunt before he’d sliced her head clean off – Granger would approve…
OH FUCK
The beautiful feeling in his right hand is now more concerning than ever before – because WHO THE FUCK IS HOLDING HIS HAND!
- Not his mother.
- Obviously not his father.
- Ok ok urmmmmm Pansy ? – no he would have been slapped seven ways to Sunday instead of incessant hand holding.
- Blaise? Theo ? No absolutely not.
- The Greengrasses had fled to America.
Oh fuck!
Oh fuck!!
OH FUCK!!!!!!!!!!
There is categorically no way it is Granger ! Nope ! Nu-uh! Logically speaking it is not improbable – but this is not a logical situation and so there is no way that the feeling he loves most is brought on by HER!
Well fuck, it might actually be, because the moment in the courtyard is playing on repeat in his mind and Draco is now completely fucked because Granger gave him hope, Granger chose him – well that’s stretching it but it makes him feel better so he’ll bloody well believe it.
Now every time Draco has seen or spoken to the Golden Granger, his Golden Granger – wait hold up – is replaying in his head. Which is arguably not a good thing because none of the times they have ever spoken have been nice – not on the train on the first day when she came in looking for bloody Neville’s frog or whatever. Not when he’d sneered at her at every chance. Not when he’d called her mudblood in second year and then promptly told her the thing was after her next – he wasn’t wrong about that, but the principle of the issue remains . Not for a whole multitude of other interactions that had left her crying and him feeling – secretly – like utter shit; especially when he’d fallen over himself internally when she’d walked out into the great hall at the Yule ball. The worst memory Draco is forced to watch by his evil traitorous subconscious was the worst night of his life, one that haunted him for the rest of the war, the one that played in rapid speed and nearly deafened him when she had willed him to stay on that day in May. The day she had been given the scar with the slur he had called her first.
Draco hates this memory, loathes it actually, it burns through him and now it replays over and over again, coursing through him worse than the Dark lords cruciatus. His only respite within it was when Granger had shifted her head to stare at him as his aunt butchered her arm, and he stared back and willed with every fibre of his being that she focus on him, drawing her focus away from the pain. Her physical body was still reacting but he could see her subconscious, her beautiful fucking brain, understanding him in that moment and letting him pull her away.
So Draco now exists in a darker dimmer little world where his left arm burns from the mark he had taken, his right leg aches with the curse of his aunt’s touch, and his right hand is enveloped in a pressure that only brings dread.
Slowly Draco’s dark little world brightens and expands and every other sensation returns. Draco, however, cannot comprehend anything other than the sensation of soft curls on his right forearm, his favourite kind of pressure in his hand, and the sudden gasp as Granger feels him squeeze her hand back.