Eternal Night
Draco
The biting air stung Draco's face as he stepped out of the tent. This morning was by far the coldest he had experienced since arriving in the forest. A thick layer of frost blanketed the ground, crunching ominously beneath his boots, and the steel gray sky threatened snow. He shivered, crossing his arms, and hurried back inside.
Hermione lay curled on their bed of moss, pale and still. He knelt beside her, his heart aching at the sight of her. Dark circles underlined her closed eyes, and her skin, usually so vibrant, was now ashen. He gently shook her awake. "Granger," he said softly.
She stirred weakly, a low groan escaping her lips. He could feel the heat radiating from her fevered skin even before he touched her. "Draco..." she whispered, her voice hoarse and thin.
"I'm going to get you out of here," he said, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands. He carefully dressed her, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of her shirt, then tied her boots. She was so weak she could barely lift her head, let alone help him. He noticed how her clothes hung loosely on her body. She had always been small, but now she was alarmingly thin, her bones almost protruding through her skin. He swallowed hard, pushing down the fear that clawed at his throat.
He scanned their meager belongings. His flask, thankfully full of water, and the clothes on their backs were all they needed. Their food rations had dwindled to nothing, and there was no time to forage for more.
He estimated the journey to Hogwarts would take at least a day, possibly longer. He wasn't sure. He had to get her within those warm walls, before it was too late. He would figure out the rest later.
He lifted her gently from the moss bed, cradling her in his arms. Her head lolled against his chest, burning hot against his skin. He could feel the fragility of her body, the sharp angles of her bones.
"Malfoy..." she croaked, her voice barely a whisper. "You'll never make it to Hogwarts before nightfall carrying me. Go by yourself, find help, and come back."
He ignored her, just as he had the last few times she’d made this request. If he left her here, alone and defenseless, she wouldn't survive the night. The infection ravaging her body, coupled with the freezing cold, would kill her. She couldn't even move, let alone keep a fire going.
He pressed his lips to her forehead, murmuring, "Don't worry, Granger. I've got you." He started walking, his steps slow but determined, heading towards the faint glimmer of hope that lay beyond the dense, unforgiving forest.
He pushed aside the heavy tent flap, and the icy air slammed into him, stealing his breath. It was like stepping into a frozen wasteland. The wind whipped at his face, and the snow, which had been a gentle flutter before, was now falling with a vengeance. He realized, given their shrunken size, it wouldn’t take much to swallow them whole. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and began the long trek back towards the castle. He didn't look back, couldn't bear to see the meager shelter disappear behind him, their last vestige of safety swallowed by the blizzard.
Hermione was fading. Her moans, once frequent, had become sporadic, each one a painful rasp that tore at his heart. He could barely bring himself to look at her face, seeing her in so much pain made him sick to his stomach. Her skin, already pale, was now tinged with an alarming blue, her lips cracked and dry.
Every step was a battle. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, exhaustion weighed down his limbs, and the biting cold seeped into his bones. He was forced to stop every few minutes, his trembling legs threatening to give way beneath him. He would lower her gently to the snow covered ground, gasping for breath, his vision blurring. But the fear of succumbing to the cold, of failing her, spurred him on. He would rise again, his muscles screaming in protest, and stumble forward, Hermione's limp form cradled in his arms.
He had already tripped several times, his exhausted legs betraying him. Each time, he managed to regain his balance just before they crashed to the ground, his heart pounding in his chest. They still had so far to go.
Hermione had fallen asleep, and he was lost in his thoughts. He pondered his existence thus far, the choices he'd made, the path he'd followed. His mind, as it often did these days, wandered to Granger.
Had he ever truly hated her? Or had he simply believed he was supposed to? He saw now, with a clarity that stung, how thoroughly his father had brainwashed him, how twisted and wrong everything he'd once believed had been. The truth was, he'd always been drawn to her, captivated by her intelligence, her fire. He'd always felt such intense emotions toward her – annoyance, admiration, and something deeper he could never quite name. Now, he wondered if perhaps there was a reason for that intensity. Did the very cells that made up his body know something he didn't? Could they sense what she would mean to him someday?
He vividly remembered the first time he saw her, on the Hogwarts Express. She'd barged into his compartment, that bushy hair framing a face he'd found surprisingly pretty. He'd watched her through the compartment window before that, sitting with Potter and Weasley, and an unexpected curiosity had bloomed within him. He'd wanted to know more about her, this girl who seemed so different from the vapid, giggling girls he usually associated with.
He cringed now, remembering how he'd acted. The arrogant prat he'd been, with his sneering comments and condescending tone. Merlin, he'd been such a little shit. But she hadn't been fazed, not even slightly. Defiant, even. And his interest, already piqued, had deepened. She'd even displayed impressive magical abilities, effortlessly fixing Potter's glasses with a flick of her wand. He'd spent the rest of the train ride thinking about her, this intriguing girl with the bushy hair and the sharp mind. He'd wanted to know who she was, where she came from, everything about her. But then he'd learned her blood status, and the insidious poison of his upbringing had taken root. She was a Mudblood, he'd told himself, inferior, disgusting, an abomination. He'd shoved his curiosity aside, burying it under layers of prejudice and disdain.
He remembered the first time he'd called her a Mudblood, the way she'd flinched, the hurt that flashed in her eyes. Even then, a part of him had recoiled, but he'd pushed the feeling down, clinging to the beliefs that had been hammered into him since birth. He remembered how she'd confronted him when he'd stolen Neville's Remembrall, how she'd stood up to him time and time again. She'd always been fearless, loyal, and undeniably good. He remembered the jinx she'd thrown at him in the Great Hall during their second year, his nose swelling comically in front of the entire school. He must have hated her at that moment, right? But now, looking back, he remembered feeling angry, yes, but also...impressed.
He'd bullied her relentlessly throughout their school years, taunted her, belittled her, tried to break her spirit. But he'd also watched her, fascinated by her, her intelligence, her beauty, her unwavering belief in what was right.
The wind nearly knocked him over and he was snapped back to reality. Hermione still slept fitfully, drifting in and out of consciousness. Her silence terrified him. He paused frequently, his fingers searching for the faint flutter of her pulse against her icy wrist. He pressed his cheek against hers, desperate for the reassurance of her warmth, even though it was faint and fleeting. He brushed the snow from her hair and kissed her forehead, whispering meaningless words of comfort, hoping against hope that somehow, she could hear him. That she wasn’t scared.
His mind drifted again. Back to that afternoon in third year when Granger had punched him square in the face. Had he hated her then? He'd certainly felt humiliated, his pride stung by the blow and the gasps of onlookers. He loathed feeling vulnerable, exposed, and Granger, with her righteous anger and unwavering conviction, had stripped him bare. But had he truly hated her?
He'd escaped to the solitude of a bathroom. He had stared into the mirror, his finger gingerly tracing the outline of his bloodied nose. He'd expected to see rage reflected back at him, the familiar fury that usually accompanied any perceived slight. But as he peered into his own eyes, he saw something else entirely.
A flicker of... excitement? Intrigue? He'd felt something burning inside of him, low in his stomach, a sensation that had nothing to do with hatred and everything to do with a thrilling, unexpected jolt of adrenaline. He'd enjoyed getting under her skin, provoking her, pushing her buttons until she finally snapped. He'd enjoyed the fact that she cared enough, that he mattered enough to elicit such a passionate response. It had been exhilarating, intoxicating, a feeling unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. He'd looked into the mirror and smiled, a slow, crooked grin spreading across his face, blood trickling from his nose and staining his lips.
And then there was the Yule Ball. How could he have been so oblivious? He'd watched her the entire evening, his gaze drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He'd watched her transform from swot extraordinaire to a vision of ethereal beauty, her laughter echoing through the Great Hall as she danced with Viktor Krum.
He'd told himself he was consumed by hatred, his chest constricting with every twirl and dip, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. But even then, deep down, he knew it wasn't hatred that fueled his intense reaction. It was something else, something far more complex and unsettling. It was jealousy, yes, a bitter pang of envy that twisted in his gut. But it was also a profound sense of longing, a yearning for something he couldn't quite grasp, a desire to be the one holding her, the one making her laugh, the one who occupied her thoughts and dreams. Later that night, he had made excuses as to why he was thinking about Granger the entire time he fucked Pansy.
To his horror, the sun had begun to dip below the horizon. He was practically crawling now, his body failing him. He collapsed repeatedly, his frustrated cries echoing through the silent forest, his voice raw and hoarse. Each time he fell, it became harder to get back up, but he did. He kept going, kept thinking.
His mind suddenly traveled to a place he desperately wished to avoid. It was a memory so agonizing, that he had been burying within the deepest recesses of his mind for years, something he had tried so desperately to suppress. Yet, here it was, resurfacing with a vengeance, bringing with it a wave of shame and self loathing that threatened to drown him.
He saw the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, every intricate detail etched into his memory with painful clarity. He saw Hermione, screaming and writhing on the floor, being tortured by his aunt. He had sat by and watched as Bellatrix carved into her flesh. He had turned and left the room, vomiting violently as soon as he made it to the hall. He could have gone back, could have done something, but he didn’t. He had left her there to die.
The snow was falling relentlessly now, covering the world in a pristine white blanket. The only sounds were the rhythmic crunch of his boots breaking through the frozen surface and the shallow, ragged breaths escaping Hermione's lips. He felt like they were the only living things in this world of ice and shadows, his hope dwindling with every agonizing step.
"Malfoy?" Hermione's voice, a mere breath, cut through the silence.
He stopped abruptly, his heart leaping in his chest. It had been hours since she had last spoken, and the sound of her voice, weak as it was, filled him with a surge of desperate hope. But it was a fleeting emotion, quickly replaced by a crushing fear as he looked down at her. Her eyes were dull and distant, glazed with pain.
"Malfoy, I'm not going to make it," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I can feel... I can feel myself fading."
"We're almost there, Granger," he lied, his voice hoarse. He couldn't stop now, not when they were so close. "Just hang on a little longer."
"Please, Malfoy," she pleaded, her voice catching in her throat. "Can we please stop for a minute?"
He couldn't deny her that. He sank to his knees in the snow, cradling her gently in his lap. He was so exhausted, so weak, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get back up. But he held her close, as if his embrace could somehow ward off the death that hovered so close.
He gazed down at her, his heart aching. Her beautiful brown eyes, now clouded with pain and exhaustion, met his with heartbreaking sadness.
She raised a trembling hand, her touch feather light as she brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead. He closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of her touch, knowing it might be the last time he ever felt it.
"Malfoy..." she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Will you please... look after my parents?" A single tear escaped her eye, tracing a glistening path down her pale cheek.
"No, I won't," he said, his voice strained. "Because you are going to do that yourself." He tried to stand, to force his weary body to move, but her hand on his cheek stopped him.
The tears welling in her eyes, the despair he saw reflected in them, filled him with a rage he couldn't explain. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to break something, anything, to release the torrent of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. She was giving up. The last of her hope fading away like the dying embers of a fire.
"Granger..." he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Please... stay with me."
"I want to..." she sobbed, her voice breaking his heart into a thousand tiny pieces.
He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away her tears. "We're going to be at Hogwarts soon," he whispered, "I'm going to serve you roast chicken in bed while you recover. And after you've recovered, I'm going to keep you safe. I'm going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you... for all the pain I've caused you. For every evil thing I said and did to you, I am going to make it right. I promise you." He was struggling to keep his own tears at bay as he choked through the words.
"Malfoy..." she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "I forgave you a long time ago."
A wave of suffocating grief washed over him. He couldn't breathe. He didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve her kindness, her forgiveness, her love. He couldn't lose her. The very thought of a world without her, a world devoid of her laughter, her intelligence, her spirit, was unbearable. He refused to exist in such a world.
He looked up at the darkening sky, his eyes squeezing tightly shut. He swallowed the roar that threatened to erupt from his throat, the primal scream of a wounded animal.
He clung to the memories of the last month they had spent together, the happiest, most agonizing time of his life. He replayed those precious moments in his mind. Her smile when he managed to make her laugh, the way her eyes lit up when she discovered something new, the unwavering kindness and compassion she showed him, even when he was at his worst. He felt a warmth bloom in his chest, a flicker of light in the darkness. For the first time in his life, he felt a sense of serenity, a feeling that things made sense, that there was goodness and kindness in the world, and he had found it in the most unexpected place.
He wasn't sure what possessed him, what force compelled him to act, but he whispered the incantation, his voice trembling with emotion. He focused on Hermione, on the joy she brought him, on the love that bloomed in his chest, and with a flick of his wrist, he performed the movements she had shown him. A silvery white mist erupted from his hand, swirling and taking shape before him. His eyes widened as a small dragon, shimmering and translucent, hovered in the air between them. His first Patronus.
He whispered his message, a desperate plea for help, along with his best guess at their location, and the dragon, with a flick of its ethereal wings, soared off into the hazy white night. He watched it disappear, his breath catching in his throat, a fragile thread of hope clinging to his heart.
When he looked back down at Hermione, his world shattered. Her eyes were closed, her body still.
"Granger?" he whispered, his voice shaking. He gently shook her shoulders, but she didn't respond. Her head lolled back against his arm, lifeless.
"HERMIONE!" The name tore from his throat, a raw, guttural cry that echoed against the silent trees.
He pulled her close, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his fingers desperately searching for the faintest flutter of her pulse. But there was nothing.
"Please!" he sobbed, his voice breaking.
He clung to her, his voice a ragged whisper against the cold, still air. "I love you," he choked out, the words catching in his throat. "I love you. I love you. I love you." Each repetition was a desperate plea, a frantic attempt to breathe life back into her, to will her back to him with the sheer force of his love. His breaths came in short, ragged gasps, his chest heaving with the effort, but he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out.
He looked up at the unforgiving sky, a raw scream ripping from his throat.
He screamed.
And screamed.
He screamed until his voice gave out, until his throat was raw and burning, until all that remained was a ragged, choked sob. Tears streamed down his face, hot against his frozen skin, mingling with the falling snow. His body shook uncontrollably, wracked with sobs that seemed to tear him apart from the inside out. He was a shattered man, his world reduced to a pointless wasteland in one single moment.
When his screams finally subsided, he collapsed fully onto the ground, pulling her lifeless body with him. He kissed her cold face, her lips, her eyelids, her forehead, pouring all his love and grief into those final, desperate gestures. He lay quietly beside her, holding her tight against his chest, just as they had for so many nights. He wouldn't leave her like this, alone and exposed to the elements. No one would ever find her body. He would stay with her, forever.
He lay unmoving, his body numb with grief, his mind a swirling black vortex. The sun finally dipped below the horizon, casting the forest in an eerie twilight. As darkness enveloped them and snow buried them, he closed his eyes, his grip tightening around Hermione's lifeless body. He felt ready to embrace the eternal night.