heart slips and eclipses

WIP: Two Lungs (T) - Draco/Hermione

vexia — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 05:49:02 GMT

Notes: Expect nothing finished. My record is a disaster, and I would be disingenuous to formulate apologies for them now. I think this might be my way of wrapping up every story I left unfinished. I hope this will suffice for now. I adore the fact that this pairing is still flourishing after the series' end, and while I'm no longer an active participant, there will always be something about this particular sect of fandom that will have me coming back from time-to-time. | Non epilogue-compliant.

Date: 31 July 2010
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione, Others
Chapter(s): 1/2
Summary: Theirs is an ordinary love story. (Draco would beg to differ.)

TWO LUNGS

Draco is twenty-four winters old when he steps into the café one late afternoon, dressed in a finely pressed suit. As he approaches the front counter, he loosens his tie and orders two coffees and one milk, pays, and finds an empty table in a quiet corner to sit down. He follows the patterns etched into the wood and then leans back into his chair, closing his eyes. Hushed conversations float around him and beyond the atmospheric sounds, he faintly dreams of willow leaves and summer dust.

He remembers small details at first, relishes everything before pulling in the bigger pieces of his memory. It is empty by the lake. He pushes his sleeves up and sits by the old tree, falling on his back. The leaves flutter almost imperceptibly in the soft breeze, sunlight flickering through the branches in ghostly particles, and if he closes his eyes it's like the world is blinking down at him.

When she arrives, she kneels by his side and hovers over him for a moment, fingers tracing over his cheeks without really touching him and brushing the strand of hair that's fallen across his face. Like a spell cast over him, he stirs from his nap, his vision adjusting to the myriad of colors around him and finally sees her, acknowledging her with a subtle nod and closing his eyes again, feeling her move beside him. After a while, she nudges him and he looks up at her. She has on a pretty sundress and cardigan, hair pulled to one side over her shoulder. Sitting up, he leans in closer to her and tugs at her sleeve which earns him a look (he shivers at the sheer intensity and loveliness of her), but she nonetheless shrugs the article of clothing off at his earnest, but silent beckoning. One arm holding himself up close behind her, he rests his chin on her shoulder and waits until she props open her book.

He reads with her like it's the most natural thing on earth and reminds her of their seamless synchronisation when he reaches over and turns the page for the both of them. She makes a sound underneath her breath, as if to say he needn't show off, but she lets him turn the rest of the pages. Her hand searches for his and interlaces their fingers as her way of thanks.

The beauty of their wordless conversations and quiet gestures fitted the both of them perfectly, he recalls. No kisses, no bear-tight embraces – just slow and languid intimacy.

When the bell to the café chimes at another entrance, he turns his gaze to the door and stands up at the sight of Astoria walking inside with their little boy in tow, who is no more than three. Scorpius scans the floor and, when they find him, he releases his mother's hand and runs in his direction at full-speed. Though the War is not a distant memory, there is an unusual calm in the aftermath. There are certainly issues to address but, beyond politics, the Wizarding World find themselves hard-pressed to place blame on the once-young. And the younger Malfoy has proven himself equal, if not superior, to his senior in dignity, poise, manners and, most importantly, perspective.

To the surprise of many, Astoria Malfoy née Greengrass is the subject of envy.

Astoria approaches her husband as he lifts their son into his arms.

"Hello," she greets. Draco responds by kissing her cheek and invites her to sit down. The waitress brings them their drinks, to which Scorpius thanks her (because little boys must grow up to have proper manners, as all Malfoy heirs are in possession) and focuses all his attention on the white liquid, sipping it carefully and exploring the world that he's created at the table with the other two cups serving as enemies on the battlefield. His glass of milk is the safety zone, of course.

Draco watches his son for a moment, pleased at the way he is completely absorbed in his own imagination. Good, he thinks. When he looks up at his wife, she is as beautiful as the day he wed her. Though younger, she is wise and observant, and he is thankful that she was his first in many ways. He reaches for her hand, and she squeezes his.

"Shall we discuss the papers?"

With a purse of her lips and a heavy intake of breath, she nods.

It is a long process, one that drains them of energy and an enormous amount of time explaining to their son. He has been inconsolable, as expected, and the questions he's dealt them have been painful. But he gets it, or at least he's adjusted to the changes. Scorpius will be in his custody and is allowed as many visits to Astoria as he desires; she will be given an undisclosed monthly allowance; and she will be in ownership of a villa on a Grecian island while he keeps the Malfoy Manor.

Sorted.

When he and Scorpius enter the Manor by themselves for the first time, Draco feels a sense of loss at the same time Scorpius wails for his mother. It is, unquestionably, the longest and most difficult night to sleep through.

The day Draco breaks the news to Granger, they are laying down together on a hammock she's conjured for the both of them. At first resistant to the idea, he is glad she's forced it on him. While she reads, he notices her bare legs – lovely, really – and he wonders how he managed to oversee them back in school, though he doesn't bother sharing these thoughts with her. Those days are over, and the present is more important.

"Granger," he says.

"Hm?" she acknowledges, her attention still on her book. Rolling his eyes, he tears the book away from her grasp, and she fights him to get it back, huffing and obviously displeased at his method. In their ever-shifting weight, the hammock turns and topples them onto the ground where she's managed to fall on top, giving her leverage. She snatches the book back from him and snaps, "Serves you right."

He tightens his grip on her and repeats, "Granger."

She sighs and looks down at him, expectantly.

"Next month," he starts and trails off. He doesn't know how to finish. He thinks of their brilliant summer together and, despite their time spent mostly reading and rarely exchanging words, it's one he isn't prepared to relinquish just yet. Draco takes her hands in his and runs his thumbs over her knuckles while she tilts her head, perplexed. He is going to memorise everything he can about her – her soft and unruly hair, the shape of her face, the flush of her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes, the planes of her neck and shoulders, the pale of her skin, the small swell of her breasts and slim waist, the legs that seem to go on forever, and the complete breathlessness of her.

"Are you ill?" she asks. "You look like you're about to faint."

"No," he breathes, "no. I need to tell you something."

She smiles at him, and he is struck by how pretty she is. Really pretty, and it reminds him of opalescent shells and vibrant stars, things unearthly and wonderful and captivating, things that are beyond description.

"Would you marry me?"

She visibly stiffens. She laughs, unnerved, and tries to remove herself from his grasp to no avail. "Don't be silly."

"Would you? I'm being serious. And don't be thick, Granger, I'm only asking. You don't see me on my knees, which is how I'll propose should the time arrive. I want your answer, and I want the truth. Would you marry me?"

Her shoulders slump in resignation and she closes her eyes, thinking. His heart beats loudly, and he's afraid she can hear how vulnerable he is because this isn't the kind of question he normally asks of her. She finally takes a deep breath and presses her lips against his forehead, and it feels like wings and she smells like rain and something sweet. Time passes (it feels like months, but there is always something infinite about them) and were he not attuned to everything about her, he would have missed it.

She shakes her head. No.

He isn't surprised. Maybe they're too young. Maybe the idea is too soon. Maybe she isn't prepared for forever.

"Next month," he says again, looking past her to the endless sky. It's cloudless and bright blue, and he knows he could stay like this forever. "Next month, I'm getting married."

I'm out of appropriate subject titles.

vexia — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 03:29:47 GMT

Let's see, how and where do I begin?

I haven't been present at all in these past few months. As a matter of fact, in my absense, I often debated whether I should clear all traces of my presence from LiveJournal. When my virtual participation was at its highest, I used to say that there would be an end to my journalling, but I never really believed I'd see it through. The funny thing about this place is that I would miss it too much, as passive an interest I have in it. This is not to say that I am not interested in those I have friended in the past few years, but I definitely feel a kind of disconnect between this new world and me. I say new because it feels like I've been gone for years, I feel completely out of sorts, and it saddens me that I haven't shown active interest in your lives and you as people because of my disappearance.

I realise that many of you prefer a closeness with those on your reading lists, and I know I say this all the time with each entry I make these days, but I swear my feelings won't be hurt if you remove me. I'm not trying to encourage it at all, by the way (I would miss you, to be honest, especially if I've been following you for a good length of time), but if you feel our interests have become vastly different and you're just reluctant to let me go because you'd feel bad (like I would in the same situation), there will be no hard feelings. (Although I have noticed that there were a number of users who've gone and already done so, some of whom I already miss and have regrettably lost touch.)

Having said that, I noticed that there are newcomers to this journal. Hello. I want you to know that you are viewing a sparsely updated journal, which has recently become an archive for my stories only. If you want me to add you back, let me know and I'll gladly reciprocate, but be forewarned that I've become alien to the prospect of frequently writing my hopes and dreams on a public forum. However, I'm certainly not opposed to becoming acquainted with you.

The following are mostly things I found while browsing dramione and are mostly reminders for me to read. If you have anything else to recommend, please do so!

• Sucker Punch by riptey
• The Danger of Love by kozanryuusui (I've actually been following this for a while, and this is more of a reminder for me because I shamefully can never remember her name, which results in having to spend an hour trying to search for her. Yikes.
• Dark Bonding by margotlefaye

Things of which I am proud to mention is that while on extended hiatus, I've been editing a tonne of old stories. Not that they've improved, but it's marginally better than older editions. I'll be sure to make note of them in a future entry when I get around to it.

Now that's all and done with, thank you to those who manage to bear with me. I'd have assumed I was gone for good already and deleted myself.

X,
Ezra

Finished: Sunday Masquerade: Redux (M) – Draco/Hermione

vexia — Sat, 02 May 2009 21:00:25 GMT

Notes: Just a rewrite of the original because I was getting quite sick of it. Few details changed and a different ending for possible sequel. Double-posted at Fanfiction.Net for archiving purposes.

Date: 1 May 2009
Author: vexia
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione
Summary: It's only sex. This is what they keep telling themselves.

i. je suis solitaire

Monday.

Every night is the same, as if they were born to make ceaseless patterns, etched into rhythms.

Before the sun rises, she struggles upright and clutches at the blankets around her torso, sometimes shivering even when the weather is too warm for covers. Cast in silver moonlight with metallic skin, she blinks once or twice and stares through the wall, as if her answers are just beyond the granite bricks. She is forever unaware that his sleep is disturbed at the slightest movement – that he remains awake for as long as he can with her. He commits the outline of her figure to memory, pretending to catch her silhouette in his upturned palm as if she were to fall into him. Une étoile filante. Her face is perfectly shaped, body gracefully curved and willowy, not beautiful but simple and pretty.

He watches her stare at the wall for minutes, maybe hours. They have an unusual arrangement and, despite her willingness – their obscene exchanges – he can sense the regret, the guilt, and the booming trepidation of her heartbeats.

But in true fashion, he doesn't care.

Can't.

It's only sex.

ii. je suis faible

Tuesday.

She stares blankly at her food, her posture uncharacteristically hunched over, as if something unbearable is sitting on her shoulders. She tunes out the conversations all around her, except one.

He leans in close to Parkinson, their elbows touching (too close, too close and her breath quickens, and she quivers in nervousness, anxiety, possibly-maybe-perhaps envy). His hair is falling into his face, and she gently sweeps them away with soft fingertips as he regales her of his summer of grandeur at the French Riviera (and he enunciates this carefully and loudly), describing in vivid detail the beauty of the sunset-streaked waters, and how it would be just lovely if she could accompany him on his next vacation to France.

Paris, peut-être? he suggests with a smirk.

Helplessly, she watches the other girl gasp, squeal, and cling to his arm and kisses his cheek in excited gratitude. She shakes her head, knowing quite well that Malfoy has never stepped foot in France nor does he have any intention to in the future.

He charms, embellishes the truth – a man of gloire méprise. He attracts his audience with false stories that seem too grand but grand enough for the believers. In the eyes of others, he is king.

She looks up when Ron addresses her, worry etched into his features. You should eat, he says with his mouth full of food. She restrains herself from grimacing and instead catches the look he gives her over his shoulder, nodding at the rosewood doors of the Great Hall. She reluctantly stands and pushes her plate toward her friends.

I'm not hungry, she says. I'm going to the library to study.

Everyone believes her and some ignore her. As they see it, she is Hermione, and she is the epitome of predictability. The conversations that resume overshadow the flash of blond that follows her.

ii.i et je suis puissant

He holds her against him, her face between his hands, as he bends down for a bruising kiss. He licks the outline of her lips, traces it down to her neck and sucks at the crook just there, and she shudders in his hold. She slips and clutches at his robe to keep her balance, and he wraps one arm around her waist and runs his hand through her hair and pulls her closer. She is better angled for him like this, and he is aware of nothing and no one else but her.

Her hands are moving to untuck his shirt, and his fingers are quick to unbutton the latch of her skirt. They're too frantic, consumed by what little time they have together in search for release. He shoves her hard against the wall and turns her around, bunches her skirt at her waist and pulls her knickers aside, and thrusts into her. Hip to hip, and she muffles a scream into his hand. He moves back and pushes forward, more forceful than the last, and bites at her shoulder, and he momentarily forgets about restraint. Growls and slips his fingers between her thighs, finding purpose, and allows her two seconds of vocal expression, just enough to send him over the edge.

When she cries out, he leans against her and licks at the marks he's left for her.

It suits her.

iii. mais personne ne sait

Wednesday.

He has his back to her when she shifts around the bed, and he keeps his eyes closed because he's satiated and too tired to care what happens. She's an open book, anyway. She'll stare at the wall forever, deciding whether to leave and will ultimately stay. But he is surprised when the space beside him sinks beneath her delicate weight, and he can feel her hovering above him and pushing strands of hair away from his face. He feels his face contorting into some vague expression, something resembling pain and confusion, but it's too dark in his room for her to see.

I can't keep up, you know. We can't be like this. She loves you, perhaps more than I can.

She rests her forehead on his arm before retreating, pulling on her wrinkled uniform, and leaving him alone for the rest of the night.

There's a sudden draft in the space where she should have been.

iv. je veux sentir

Thursday.

A game of Quidditch is starting, with players rounded up by their respective captains, and students milling around the school before filing into their proper seating. He finds himself standing in the courtyard, waiting for her, despite knowing the impossibility of such an occurrence. But she's lucky to have around.

Elle est chanceuse. Lucky, lucky, lucky. Tréfle à quatre feuilles. It takes some convincing that that is all she is to him – to justify his being here.

He scowls, unaware of the shadow creeping up from behind him. He reacts slowly to the hand that shyly slips itself into his left one, responds too late at the gentle squeeze of his hand, and taken aback at the kiss placed on his knuckles. Granger is dressed warmly today, scarf wrapped snugly around her neck, face flushed with her hair tied in a fancy ribbon.

Good luck, Malfoy.

He blinks down at her, stunned. She smiles up at him and stands on her tiptoes, kissing him on the cheek for extra measure and disappears in the throng of students that surround them. And for one brief second, he is uncertain whether he's still sleeping or awake because she's nowhere to be seen.

Hours later, after the game has ended, he stands proudly amidst his Slytherin peers. He tells his story of how he caught that Snitch with his left hand – don't forget! he insists.

As they talk over one another, he looks over their heads in search of a familiar silhouette and is disappointed to see she isn't alone. All he hears is background noise – easily ignored – focusing intently on the scene laid before him. Weasel is tired, leaning back against a pillar with Granger dusting off his uniform and lightly touching his fingers with her own. You and Harry will win next time, she assures, and leaves a chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. Weasel pulls her in for a tight embrace and kisses her forehead in return with a bright grin on his face, directing her away from the crowd with Potter and She-Weasel trailing behind them.

His anger momentarily subsides when she looks over her shoulder and briefly catches his gaze. She frowns and returns her attention to something – something potentially stupid – the Weasel has to say. Laughs, the sound like silver trinkets jangling against each other. It bothers him.

She never smiles like that with him.

v. mais vous m'avez oubli

Friday.

She struggles to get out of bed, feeling a little too sore. He had been harsh with her the previous night, grazing his teeth along her sensitive skin and pulling her hair, paying no heed to her pleas for him to stop. I won, I won, he had said over and over again, and she's not sure what to think of him anymore. Between the two of them, someone had crossed a line and she isn't sure who took the first step.

She breathes in and exhales. It hurts. She crawls away from him when an arm snakes around her chest and pulls her closer to his frame. It's warm here.

Stay with me tonight.

She bites her lip and shakes her head slowly, removing herself from his grasp.

We ... had an arrangement. I can't – the implications ...

He glares at her. Despite her logical conclusions, it's impossible to stand the sight of her anymore. Always right, always right – never wrong. He reaches over the edge of the bed and picks up a few garments, tossing it at her.

Go, I don't need you here.

When he hears the soft click of his door shutting close, he exhales loudly.

She was wrong tonight.

vi. brûler ce masque

Saturday.

He glares at the moon until he sees stars in his eyes. It's brighter than ever tonight, and she's leaving before they've even started. But it doesn't matter because he thinks he was never up to it since last night. There's a weight in his chest – unfamiliar, unsettling. Annoying.

He tenses when he feels her lips on his shoulder, when she tells him good night with a certain finality that makes his spine curl. For her to make the deciding factors of their relationship – unforgivable. He feels her pull the blankets over him, even though he knows that she knows he hates being fully covered.

I feel imprisoned, he had once said to her at the start of all this.

In bedsheets?

I'm claustrophobic.

Should I be even near you?

Yes. Always.

But it doesn't matter because it seems colder tonight.

vii. pour j'ai aucun

Sunday.

This has to end, and she makes it a point to visit him tonight. She has her words rehearsed, that her part of the deal is finished, and their one-week trial period has made her realise that this isn't what she wants. There are other girls who would love this, she plans to say to him.

Taking a deep breath, she knocks on his door. The sight of him when he opens it for her is one to behold. His shirt is undone and his trousers unbuttoned. His smile is faint and mocking, as if he doesn't know what to make of the state of their situation. They've come at a standstill, a dead end. He leans his head against the doorframe.

What do you want, Granger?

She hesitates, curses to herself when she forgets what she wants to say, what she's meant to say.

I – I don't know. Do you need me toni–

No, he interrupts softly. I don't need you.

Her heart catches. Stops. She reminds herself she still has air to breathe, but she holds her breath when he strokes her cheek with his knuckles, still smiling. There's nothing warm or cold about it. It just is, and she isn't sure what to make of it.

I have a replacement. You can go back now.

He begins to shut the door, and her reflexes get the best of her when she holds her arms out to stop him. He tilts his head, and she thinks he knows what she's going to say. He knows everything.

What do you want, Granger? he repeats.

One – one more week.

He looks at her expectantly.

... please.

For every game, there's a victor, and he wins every single time. Kings always do.

Good answer.

WIP: The Moment That It Stops (T+) - Draco/Hermione, Others

vexia — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 06:02:11 GMT

Notes: Takes place four years after the War, relatively non canon-compliant. Pictures courtesy of free image-based websites, most notably WeHeartIt. Songs by various artists. Edited and added content from condensed version at dmhgficexchange.
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione, Others
Chapter(s): 1/?
Summary: It's like they're almost friends, almost ex-lovers finally meeting for the first time after a break-up. It's much more complicated than that.

THE MOMENT THAT IT STOPS
sidewalks : the morning paper

It is a crisp and blue evening with dusty stars and slow-moving clouds when Hermione stands at the open doorway to her newly rented flat. The walls are an off-white colour with black trim, wooden flooring with a varnished finish, one large window in the sitting room. Vacant and drafty and too big of a space. With only a small bag to her name, she enters her new home with caution and shuts the door, swiftly locking it behind her.

By the end of the week, she settles herself in dreary monotony, lethargic and somewhat dazed. Her bedroom is decorated with a mattress barely slept in, blankets folded neatly at one end, an unplugged Japanese-inspired floor lamp, and several, carefully selected books she reads over and over again when nothing else suits her anymore; in the sitting area, there are two mahogany chairs and a matching table with a slim, white China vase in the centre with a single crimson cyclamen she replaces every three days out of habit; there is nothing in her refrigerator except cheese, grapes, and white bread she occasionally forgets, and her kitchen setup is as bare as it was when she first rented the space.

On the second Monday of a cold January morning, four months after moving in and having woken up from a sleepy stupor at the sitting room table, she forces herself upright and staggers to her windowless bedroom. There, he is sitting at the edge of the mattress, shirt unbuttoned and trousers wrinkled, flipping through the pages of one of her books. His hair is disheveled as always, his glasses forgotten at his side, and his skin is pale and the green of his eyes the only colour of her room.

"Harry?" she addresses lightly, and her breath is caught in her throat the way he looks, the way sorrow and beauty go together hand-in-hand.

He looks up and smiles a weak, lopsided smile at her. Barely there. Unsure of how to make of it, she crawls onto the empty space behind him and huddles beneath the covers she has laid out, and only closes her eyes when she is certain the light is working well enough so he can read, and her hand resting a mere distance away from his own.

She is conscious for fifteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds, inhaling and exhaling slowly like every butterfly breath counts – two hundred and ten and a half or a fourth – listening to the endless sound of silence before she opens her eyes. Empty. With a halfhearted stretch of her arm, she severs the power of the lamp and buries herself beneath her blankets again, turning to face the blank wall and cocooning herself so tightly that she can barely breathe.

Hermione watches his silhouette pacing one way to another outside, how he pauses and tenses at the slightest breeze. He thinks she's asleep, but she remains conscious. She has to stay awake because she can't afford to lose another and she might if she is distracted even for a second. Her heart is burdened, struggling with gravity and forcing its way down as if there's a hidden space in her stomach to settle. She counts to three, murmuring fractions in between the seconds and her breaths as if all the numbers must be accounted for before settling on a whole figure. On two, another silhouette stops in front of Harry, and she can see the both of them gesturing to one another and whispering like their soft voices will be the ones to wake her instead of the sporadic blasts of light and sound in the distance.

She holds her breath when one of them move towards the opening of the tent, and shuts her eyes. She feels his presence beside her bed and when he holds her hand, she sighs and exhales.

Draco manages to unlock the door after three minutes of verbal coercion and gentle pleading for her to open the door. She's sitting at her favourite table on the terrace, legs tucked underneath her and hands folded in her lap, staring into the dense, grey mist. Her eyes are bloodshot, but she looks as pretty as she did yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. Her grief is desperate and more palpable with each passing day, like a brick weighing her down until she runs out of oxygen.

He pulls up a chair next to her and sits down, reaching out to hold her hand, fighting through tired eyes. He hasn't slept for days. Fresh tears fall and land on his skin; it burns him, and he wishes he could have been more than this.

Pansy, I'm sorry, he thinks. He apologises over and over but it doesn't come out, conveniently stuck in his throat. He grazes his fingers across her knuckles over and over, and he thinks that maybe the more he does it, the more he'll put colour back into her skin, and she'll be brighter and happier than the day before yesterday. Maybe.

She is slow to look at him but when she does, she forces a smile that's hypnotic yet lacking a sparkle, no emotion fusing her moods together. There is nothing but a distant sadness in her expression, but she insists that she's fine, just fine, I'm fine, Draco. Pretending. And then he looks away and when he does, like the sudden flick of a light switch or a wand, she grips his hand tighter and she cries until she's nearly breathless.

"They said it was a boy ..." And she repeats this until her voice fades, until she becomes unresponsive to him and his hand brushing through her hair, in her own world forever, and Draco can no longer look at her without feeling like he's shattered into a million, irreparable, glass pieces.

She sits in his lap, face buried in the crook of his neck, and he holds her hand. She's much smaller than she's supposed to be right now, but it all makes sense now. If there is one thing he knows, he hates doctors, Muggle or magical. They give you hope in the form of potential baby boys or girls and take it right back just because – just because ... He knows better. But for now, the doctors can afford to shoulder the blame; they're too heartstricken to accuse themselves of not amounting to enough.

It's well past midnight, and he continues to walk down the pavement, avoiding couples his age murmuring musical lovenotes to each other, skipping past him. Everyone else is snug in their coats and mittens, and he has on a damp oxford and a scarf wrapped around his neck. He can see his breath – frosty, as he exhales – and he can barely feel anything else, just the cold nipping at his cheeks and the heaviness of his eyelids. He walks and he walks until he stops in front of the building he saw her enter many months ago. He doesn't know why he remembers, why he bothers, why it even matters where she lives and what she does, but he hasn't seen her since they parted after the War despite being aware of her very presence everywhere he goes.

Seeing him standing in front of her, outside of her front door, is neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It just is, and their existence is, in itself, a wonder and a curiosity. She still fancies living on the notion that there is no one else in the world but her; it makes the missing spaces in her life a little more bearable. He mumbles a greeting, and he's shivering, so she steps aside and lets him in, not really knowing what to do. Instead, she makes her way to the kitchen and prepares a tea kettle. She doesn't know what to do with visitors, most especially him.

"How are you?" he asks. It's like they're almost friends, almost ex-lovers finally meeting for the first time after a break-up. It's much more complicated than that. Hermione shrugs, concentrating a little too hard on the kitchen counter.

"I don't have much. I'm sorry."

It doesn't matter. It's her home, but she feels like she needs to apologise for not having anything better than white walls and no heat. She's cold but he looks colder, and she regrets her lack of provisions. She excuses herself for a minute and reappears before him and wraps the blanket she's used all day, every day, around him. He says it smells like limes, that it's oddly nice.

Hermione pours the tea into two chipped teacups and carries it to the table where they both sit across from each other. She looks at him for a long while and says, "It's Harry's."

And he doesn't blink, doesn't look at her, just takes a sip from his cup and nods.

"I know."

Time is unseen in her room. It wraps around, and there's nothing but darkness, and they both prefer it. He's lying down on his back, breathing heavily, and it's the first time he's slept in a while; she sits on the floor and rests her head on the mattress, listening to the synchronicity of their breaths, and it's the first time she's fallen asleep without a light to help her.

When she opens her eyes to darkness, her hand is holding his, and she curls her fingers and refuses to let go. It feels nice, her veins are pulsing, and the familiarity is comforting. He sleeps for half the night or day, and she completes the rest, and it does not go unnoticed that they're taking shifts again. This is how they were, and this is how they are.

He kisses her forehead, trails down to her chin, across her collarbones until she sighs deeply and loosens her grip on his shirt.

They settle into a pattern. They barely talk. They exist as two entities united for something, for each other. Maybe not. He observes her, though doesn't mean to. She moves around and eats to sustain herself, and there is little pleasure in her eyes. Every day is a struggle, sometimes getting better, sometimes getting worse. Her mood fluctuates frequently from extreme sadness to extreme madness, and he likes it better when she settles somewhere in the middle of functionally sane. And she's always outstretching her arm, reaching for something or something that isn't there. She has rituals, including leaving the lights on sometimes, or making tea or food for two people even after he says he's not hungry, and he knows it's not for him.

She observes him, wary but slowly accepting of his presence. She still thinks it odd how they came to be like this. Together but still separate. When they're outside, she notices him looking sadly at children who cross them, who sometimes smile at them when they walk past. And sometimes he turns inside himself, lashes out at unassuming little boys who get in his way. Sometimes he drags her to carnivals in towns like this one and buys three balloons. That's all, nothing more and nothing less. He always buys for three, like the number constantly haunts him or needs to be with him.

One day she comes into her flat and finds him sitting at her table in the same manner she adopts when she's there. In this room, there's a pressing need to be alone, and it's consuming and peaceful but not. She likes to believe there are spirits in the room. She doesn't say anything, simply walks up to him from behind and innocently presses her lips to his crown, finally retreating into the safety net of her bedroom.

"I have a kid."

"How old?"

"He isn't."

And she understands.

When she walks into the bedroom, they're asleep. Draco sleeps on his back and Harry on his stomach with his face turned to the side, arm hanging off the mattress. She changes out of her clothes and into a familiar shirt that's two sizes too big for her, and she crawls in between them. She likes the feeling of three that evens out like symmetry cut down the middle.

Draco is alert and opens his eyes, briefly looking beside him. His eyes grow accustomed to the darkness, and he sees Hermione on her side, her bare legs touching his trouser-clad ones, and her right hand is clutching tightly at air. He nudges her awake until she shifts and looks over her shoulder at him.

"You have too much space on the other –

And before he can finish, she's turned over with minimal effort and cries into his shirt.

"Sometimes I see him."

"You see him all the time."

"He's alive."

He nods. "Just not here."

It sometimes feels like they're eighteen again with one less person:

Someone is always outside, awake and watching, and the other two are inside and huddled underneath the same covers. Neither of them can really sleep; they either worry for each other and mostly for the other on guard. And they take turns until it starts all over again. Out there, at least one person is killed every night, so they depend on each other like they're safety nets, blocking out the screams and the chaos with their own sounds and song until everything else becomes nothing more than background noise.

moving and other things.

vexia — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 20:11:42 GMT

MOVED

enavant

Well, not quite. Personal things over there, everything else (see: fandom-related) here. Briefly skimmed my current list and added a few people. The rest I wasn't so sure because either the journal hasn't been updated in a long time (sometimes longer than I have) or because I've only known you for a short period of time before I disappeared, so I didn't know if the abrupt switch would be an issue. Lots of things, really.

I'll still be posting here. In fact, if you start seeing consecutive posts, I'm moving posts around, re-posting stuff that's been deleted without my knowledge – that sort of thing.

vexia — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 00:10:34 GMT

Cuqui beige is such a doll. :)

Typing out the code for the LJ usernames was a bit difficult there for a while! I had to look it up because I wasn't sure if I had written it out correctly. I don't know why. I can typically remember how to do things after long periods of time.

I submitted a gift entry to dmhgficexchange, which has been my only contribution in a long while. Reading it over, I plan on doing more to it because in my mind it was so extensive. And I also am quite aware of We Are the Sea just sitting there, collecting dust. This is why I make no promises for anything anymore. My interest in fandom comes and goes, mostly goes.

Oh! I did forget to mention one thing. basicaquatics? You're amazing! Yours was one of two stories that I read – or had time to read, anyway – and as soon as the reveal was posted, I scoured for yours and was pleased to discover it was you. Congratulations, that was really excellent!

Life has been busy. Or has. It's slowed down considerably, but I still have work. I visited my brother for two weeks in France, and that was a lovely vacation. Um, I think that's all? I'm no longer keen on talking about my life as extensively as I used to, so this journal is mainly for fanworks, I suppose. It wasn't that interesting, anyway. :)

I have a lot more time on my hands, so we'll see what happens. I do know that I may have to repost older works in their respective entries. Originally I transferred quite a bit into the fic site that was hosted at Eternal Glory, but it shut down during the time I was no longer active here. It's such a pain. I almost cried when I realised I hadn't saved any copies for myself, but I'm lucky that I can still find comments made on the entries in my e-mail because it has the original post with it. That's going to be a great deal of work, trying to sort through them.

Anyway, that's all for now. Lots of love to everyone! ♥

WIP: We Are the Sea (T+) – Draco/Hermione/Pansy

vexia — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 22:28:11 GMT

Notes: This was an idea that I had during my hiatus. I posted an excerpt a while ago mainly for my f-list but have now decided to run with this idea. Hoping to update this weekly since the chapters are purposely short. I apologise in advance; I'm a little rusty.

Date: 30 June 2008
Author: vexia
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione/Pansy
Summary: Love's no sympathy.

He came towards her with that aristocratic smile and aura about him, the kind that made her knees tremble and left her heart fluttering until she gasped for air. Once in front of her, he held out his hand towards her.

She felt the breeze on her fingertips when she reached for the Asiatic lily he held between his fingers. He bought things for her because he felt like it, but he would never admit that to anyone else. It was the way he was raised, she would often tell herself. Out of sheer politeness. She could never tell if he did things for her because he wanted to. Draco had his hands in his pockets, elegantly poised, staring into the glittering twilight. The waves rolled onto shore, barely touching their shoe-clad feet, before it pulled back.

Repeat.

Did you get this flower for me? "I know."

He turned to look at her and smiled a little, the one he always did for her because she said she liked it. It was a subtle tug at the corner of his lips, and yet it lit up his entire face. He looked better when he wasn't always pouting.

She cleared her throat and mustered a small laugh. "But I reckon I knew it all along. I just – I thought ..." Say it, just say it.

And she felt his arms wrap around her before she had a chance to say anything. She knew this feeling. It was deep in her gut, the heavy weight in her heart. He meant well, she knew, as he hugged her so tight it was difficult to breathe; she didn't care. She knew he loved her – loved her, like she was all he had left. Yet there was the lingering of something, and she didn't dare hope.

"You love her more," she whispered silently.

He inhaled deeply and buried his face in her hair.

He smiled, and held her tighter before holding her at arm's length to look at her face. She felt herself blush, eyes welling up with moisture, and she laughed it off by pushing him away for a brief second. All too soon, she was up against him, her forehead against his chest as she stared down at their feet intertwined together like a complete puzzle. Hold it in, hold it in.

It began with one fallen tear, followed by two and three and more until she could count no longer.

I love you. "Go."

And she expected him to stay, to rethink his decision, to hold her and never let go. She had been convinced that she was it – that polished red ribbon that tied him next to her. That's what her mother had said. Her mother, who had comforted her in the knowledge that she was a raw gem in any man's life and that they would be lucky to have her. She sparkled and basked in that new revelation but never used it to her advantage. She had saved it, reserved it for the person she thought would never stumble upon her after all those years. And now that he had, he wasn't hers to keep.

She felt him kiss her cheek – and it was so sensitive, the shivers that ran down her shoulders and pooled at the small of her back. It remained there, collected and multiplied, while she watched him slowly walk away from her.

Excerpt: We Are the Sea – Draco/Hermione/Pansy

vexia — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 22:43:15 GMT

Notes: A snippet of a story that has yet to exist. I started this excerpt today with the intention that I could start it whenever I wanted to, and also for the fact I needed to practise. The last time I ever wrote something was whatever I had posted last, and it seems such a shame not to write at all. I haven't had the opportunity, really, but I'm hoping I can attempt to start a few projects, now that life has settled down a bit. No guarantees, though.

Date: 30 June 2008
Author: vexia
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione/Pansy
Summary: --

She felt the breeze on her fingertips when she reached for the Asiatic lily he held between his fingers. He bought things for her because he felt like it, but he would never admit that to anyone else. It was the way he was raised, she would often tell herself. Out of sheer politeness. She could never tell if he did things for her because he wanted to. Draco had his hands in his pockets, elegantly poised, staring into the glittering twilight. The waves rolled onto shore, barely touching their shoe-clad feet, before it pulled back.

Repeat.

Did you get this flower for me? "I know."

He turned to look at her and smiled a little, the one he always did for her because she said she liked it. It was a subtle tug at the corner of his lips, and yet it lit up his entire face. He looked better when he wasn't always pouting.

She cleared her throat and mustered a small laugh. "But I reckon I knew it all along. I just – I thought ..." Say it, just say it.

And she felt his arms wrap around her before she had a chance to say anything. She knew this feeling. It was deep in her gut, the heavy weight in her heart. He meant well, she knew, as he hugged her so tight it was difficult to breathe; she didn't care. She knew he loved her – loved her, like she was all he had left. Yet there was the lingering of something, and she didn't dare hope.

"You love her more," she whispered silently.

He inhaled deeply and buried his face in her hair.

He smiled, and held her tighter.

Public Update

vexia — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 07:28:55 GMT

Just a quick update to let all of you know that I'm still alive, though I reckon it doesn't matter at this point. Quite obvious I haven't been particularly active, except I have noticed that the Harry Potter fandom is a bit more inactive than it used to be. It feels strange that the one reason I created this journal is, suffice it to say, no longer.

I am still working and, if it's even possible, a lot busier than I ever could have imagined. Of course, it should go without saying that I hope to make a proper update a few more months from now as soon as everything begins to mellow.

Three things I do need to address:

1. My last entry was focused on this particular issue, but none of you are obligated to keep me on your lists. I'm not exactly responsive as I could be. And if you want me to remove you, you're welcome to let me know. No hard feelings at all.

2. I've noticed quite a few have added me and have, in the process, asked me some questions regarding the stories I have locked. I have absolutely no intentions of unlocking them anytime soon, at least not right now. You can send me a message if you have any other questions about them, but I can't guarantee I'll respond as quickly as you might expect, considering I don't check on my 'fandom' e-mail as frequently as I used to. Nonetheless, it's an option.

3. Current f-list – I really do adore all of you. :)

Finished: Waiting (K+) – Draco/Hermione

vexia — Fri, 31 Aug 2007 17:27:19 GMT

Notes: For Heleen derryere. The style goes back to my Vanity days; I thought it was quite fitting. And, admittedly, this was fun. I urge everyone to proceed with caution – silliness abound and all that.

Date: 31 August 2007
Author: vexia
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione
Summary: Hermione Granger decided she rather fancied Draco Malfoy. Preferably dead.

It was completely unexpected.

It began with Luna Lovegood, wide-eyed and dreamy as always, who noted something about misalignment and curious creatures with peculiar names that were unimportant. By this, she speculated that everyone should very much consider staying indoors for the remaining weekend. Much to her bemusement, many students who remained for the holidays sniggered and ignored her warnings, opting for a winter stroll in Hogsmeade.

A perfectly regular occurrence, really – to ignore the mad one – but it was also acknowledged that Luna Lovegood was never to be laughed at for she was relatively good at them, it seemed. Astronomy and relatives of the nargles notwithstanding, Luna was correct with her weekend forecast: a snowstorm had conveniently passed over Hogwarts and, therefore, heeded any notions that frolicking down charming Hogsmeade would be better than spending the time indoors.

Except for Draco Malfoy, who was smart as a whip and not privy to Loony's weather interpretations. He left the grounds hours earlier because he was Draco Malfoy. Not one to be alone on such grand adventures, he spotted her – Hermione Granger – making her rounds, immediately incapacitating her with a spell and dragging her along with him.

When she was fully mobile again, already far from the school, she screeched and harped until his ears bled. He stared blankly at her, then, and continued on without her, knowing full well she would follow him anyway to lecture him on the importance of morals and personal spaces and other silly things that only Hermione Granger cared to rant. It was his good fortune that they were well acquainted with one another and on the way to becoming friends.

Somewhere along those lines – the edges were blurred quite a bit.

Not that it mattered, of course.

The details of their budding friendship occurred exactly one year ago on Christmas Eve. He remembered because there was a little bit of alcohol and snogging indulgences – "It's the wine!" they declared – and she was his first kiss. Always something to remember. Their relationship – or whatever it is they called it – was rather awkward the first few weeks in the aftermath, but it mellowed and they agreed they would forget about the event, parting on Very Platonic terms. Granger punctuated this with a crack in her voice, but he pretended to ignore it.

The technicalities with Potter and the Weasel was something he didn't care to remember. A bit of yelling and kicking and biting – the usual. Though he was suspicious of the Weasel after he distinctly felt a hand on certain areas of his person. But – neither here nor there.

It was precisely their history and their growing together, so to speak, as a unit that Draco decided Granger was a perfect partner to his winter whimsies. She was also the better alternative to Crabbe and Goyle – even Parkinson – but he would never tell her that.

So he led her straight to the Shrieking Shack.

"Why in Merlin's name –

"– because I feel like it!" he said loudly, and proceeded to drag her by the hand.

As fate would have it, the snow started in, and it was here that Hermione Granger decided she rather fancied Draco Malfoy.

Preferably dead.

• •

"I am going to stab you in your sleep."

Draco leaned away from the window, although there was nothing much to see. A wall of snow blocked out what would have been a grand view of, well, nearly everything. Mostly trees and a bird or two.

He glanced at her with an annoyed expression.

"If you're going to threaten me, do it properly – like actually saying something you intend to do. You've not a drop of murderous rage in your system, so let's please be realistic, Granger."

"Realistic!" she shrieked. "You want realistic, Malfoy? Okay, we are going to die in here! And now we're bloody stranded here because you're spectacularly daft –

"– I fail to see how my range of intelligence has anything –

She interrupted him immediately. "By forgetting your wand, thereby leaving us stranded here in the snow with nothing but nothing to keep us warm."

Draco blinked. Stark raving mad, that one.

"You didn't bring your wand?"

"Well, I obviously don't have it!" she huffed. "I suspect it must've dropped in the halls when you accosted me. You know, dragged me here against my will –

"Shut up already, woman! How was I supposed to know this was going to happen? I merely took you because –

"Were you not listening to Loo – Luna?"

He arched a brow and expected her to retaliate even further. Really now, only very few people believed O' Loony One; it was well-known that her predictions were more or less coincidences. Even more, he highly doubted Lovegood actually meant to warn everyone from going outside based on dodgy weather patterns. Snow, sun, rain – all unpredictable. She probably meant to keep students inside to save their socks from being stolen or some other ridiculous thing like that.

Except he was missing two pairs of his favourite –

"You are impossible!"

Granger cursed beneath her breath – he was astounded by her range of colourful words – and sat near the empty, and therefore useless, hearth.

"What, are you not going to talk to me now?" he mocked. "Very mature of you, Granger."

"Oh you're one to talk! When Harry and Ron seek you out – oh, when they do!"

And he could've sworn he saw a malicious glint in her eye, but he pretended to ignore it. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. And to be quite honest, he was afraid of those two idiots – well, one of them anyway. If he allowed himself to be honest about it, Potter had the potential to be frightening, what with all his unusual mood swings for a boy and his mummy complex.

As for the Weasel? Well, the bloke towered over him, and Draco was already tall by general standards. He attributed Weasel's growth spurt as compensation for his mind – or lack thereof. He sniggered.

"What exactly do you find funny about our situation?"

He refocused his attention on her. Granger's cheeks were flushed, her hair wild, and she was sitting tensely upright. Legs crossed. Very Prim and Proper. If she wasn't comparative to a harpy at times –

"Get over yourself, Granger. I'm merely biding my time here. You, on the other hand," he paused and appraised her current state of distress, "I don't know about you. In fact, I don't care about you. Keep whinging for all the good it can do; no one will be able to hear us anyway. You'll eventually lose your voice, my ears will be saved, and we'll both be happy."

Upon catching her glare, he shrugged. "At least I'll be happy."

"Well, I'm glad one of us will be while the other is rotting away in the cold because –

"– and people call me melodramatic. Look at you!"

"I'm well-aware, thank you." She snapped.

The moments ticked by, and he fidgeted while she paced, sat down, and repeated the tedious process of human motion. Watching her made him dizzy – too dizzy, really. He just wanted to yank her by her skirt, pin her down, and keep her there. Knowing Granger, however, she was incredibly stubborn and no amount of glue could keep her still.

And it only reminded him how stupid he was for leaving his wand – well, it was somewhere. He wasn't always this forgetful, but he was too excited to start his day and his brief encounter with Granger made waiting all too unbearable.

He didn't know why, and he didn't care about the specifics; it only made him irritable. What he did know was that Granger was an interesting and favourable companion. That was all.

"I'm freezing."

Draco watched as she shuddered and hugged herself tightly. Perhaps he had been too hasty in borrowing her for the rest of the day. Or maybe –

"You know, we do have enough warmth in our bodies to –

"You stay away from me, Malfoy," she cautioned slowly. "You've caused me enough grief as it is, and I would just – I just want to go back, okay?"

"I just thought –

"No more thinking!"

"But –

"Stop!"

"Bloody hell, Granger! Can't I get more than a few words out before you –

"No! Shut up!"

"– interrupt me? Your manners are terrible! Kind of like Weasel –"

"I absolutely loathe you –

"– and the way he crams his mouth with all that food and –

"– and your stupid face –

"– chews with his mouth open, and what about my face?"

"– and equally stupid hair –

He balked. "That was low. If you want to talk about hair, maybe you should take care of yours for a change. It might be soft and shiny, but it's too wild, too much like you've had a nice sh – oops."

"'Oops?' Really?" she responded dryly. "Because it's not as if you've anything more to offend me with, right?"

Draco buried his face in his hands. His next words were muffled.

"If you wanted me to hear, you best speak louder."

"This was a right disaster."

"Yes."

"And to think I did all of this because I wanted you to accompany me of all people! That had been a grand mistake."

The following silence was deafening. It was probably worse than Granger yelling at him. He raised his eyes to look at her, and she stared open-mouthed at him.

"What did you just say?"

"That this was a mistake? What, are you going to hit me now?"

"Before that, you prat!"

"Oh, now we're name-calling, are we?"

"Draco!"

That had stunned him to silence. In another world, Granger calling him by his first name might have changed something about their relationship. It would grant him an epiphany of sorts, make him realise that there was something more between them than childish banter and petty arguments.

Unfortunately, this was not another world. The first name basis – well, it was actually rather awkward. He gathered she knew it too as her eyes widened at the sudden outburst, nibbling her bottom lip as she gazed everywhere else but him. To be sure, he said her name in order to catch her attention. It did, but she paled.

"Let's – let's not do that again, shall we?"

"Agreed." She let her response hang in the air before continuing, "So, what was that all about?"

Something changed, definitely.

"What?"

"The, um, you know," she stammered, "you bringing me here. And such."

"Now is not the time to be shy about it, Granger. Just say it already. I don't understand what you're trying to ask me."

If there were any objects in her reach, he was certain he would be running away from her right about now. Her hands were balled into fists, and it seemed as though she were desperately fighting the urge to pounce herself on him as a last resort. Claw his eyes out while she was at it.

"You wanted me, personally, to accompany you?"

Oh, that.

"Yes."

"Oh."

"So."

"So ... I reckon it won't – it won't take long for people to notice that we're gone, right?"

"Right."

"So it wouldn't hurt to just wait."

"Waiting is good."

"Good."

"About our current situation and the cold and our bodies –

"There will no touching, Malfoy."

"Okay. Just clearing that up."

WIP: Stay (T+) – Draco/Hermione

vexia — Fri, 31 Aug 2007 02:21:31 GMT

Notes: The second installment. If you've ever read the original draft, you'll eventually notice that I'm making some big and fairly significant changes.

Date: 02 August 2007
Author: vexia
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione
Summary: You can't help the dead.

TUESDAY, 07:20

She sits on the edge of the bathtub, glaring blindly at the tiled walls, inhaling steam and jasmine from the cracked teacup balancing awkwardly on the rim of the tub. Scalding hot water continues to run from the bath tap, and the heat is damp, uncomfortable, and suffocating.

She struggles upright, stumbling and coughing in a haze of billowing black smoke. Hermione, Hermione.

And she turns her head to the left. Seamus is half-blind, half-disoriented but manages to hold her up. Helps her like he's promised truths to everyone else –

Help her. You have to help her.

He would demand it like he's desperate, like he has nothing else, and the other would wait in the background and urge him to follow. Time is running out; we have to go now.

And the first would continue to quake and clutch on to the collared shirt of the Irish boy with nothing left except his empty skin and dazed eyes. Nod. Like it would be the only thing he could do for someone –

– that wasn't dead. He holds and half-carries her to a refuge point, ignores her mumbled utterances devoid of logic.

She remembers a lot of things as her hand slips and knocks the teacup into the rising water. Her heart palpitates and skips, the rhythmic drumming loud in her ears. There's a sound from her throat, and she's clambering out, reaching the door and pounding on it. She forgets the lock and the handle and chokes on a cry. She looks at the tub and no longer sees translucence – only a luminous copper that stretches and engulfs.

He rubs his face with the base of his palms, unknowing what to do with the bones and image of a girl he no longer remembers. She's on the bed now after he sought her from the bathroom. She lies there, unmoving, neither awake nor fully asleep – only in a state of existing.

He stops somewhere at a halfway point between the Seine and his flat, at a dark alley he doesn't recognise. There is blue sky and the orange sunset, flanked by two buildings, creating silhouettes out of people, animals, and objects. His upper lip curls and he sets his sights on home, stepping forward without looking. The crash feels like an electrical jolt, a brilliant shock to wake the walking dead.

Watch where you're bloody well –

Sorry.

The voice is familiar and so is the hair, and he frowns as he observes. She's thin and trembling, reaching out for the scattered books and placing them back into her paper bag. She's dressed lightly with a thin shirt, a scarf, and a modest skirt. But she doesn't fit right and it looks wrong, but she clears her throat to distract and stumbles her way past him.

Granger, he calls out to her.

And she stops, turns back to him, and –

You look sick.

He blinks, stares at her like she's lost her mind – because she has – and scoffs.

He refuses to remember why he brought her in to his home when she only causes him grief. But, he figures, anywhere is better when there is two. He would rather die than confess this to her. In his head, it could only end badly:

I need you. Not you, but –

I don't.

And he doesn't want to deal with the consequences of honesty.

TUESDAY, 21:54

She maneouvers in his bed until she's upright, her back flush against his pillows. He's asleep now in an awkward position on his chair, hunched angles and bad direction, and he suddenly reminds her of people she's briefly locked in the back of her mind. She stretches her legs beneath the sheets and absently touches her hair. She frowns a little – a little bemused, a little worried, a little nervous about things she shouldn't be. But there's something else, and she thinks it's because she's around him, and she remembers other responsibilities and no longer likes this arrangement.

She reaches for her things folded neatly beside her and slides them on carefully. Her clothes feel less like starch and more like cotton, and she wonders what he used to wash them. She takes her scarf and wraps it snugly around her neck and looks around her for her bag of books. It crinkles and makes a sound like that of dry leaves, but Malfoy remains sound asleep. She picks up a throw blanket and tucks it around him before slipping on her shoes and departing.

WEDNESDAY, 01:03

Draco wakes up to the sound of loud bickering outside, and he silently curses the night owls. Suddenly, he groans in discomfort as he rearranges himself on the chair. He blinks once, twice, and a third time to keep the numbers odd and stares into the darkness. His vision focuses, and he glances at the bed expecting nothing. Though her sudden absense isn't a surprise, he feels slightly bitter and disappointed.

He exhales loudly and resumes his position on his bed. He contemplates his options available to him – most of which concern the daft girl and her silly hair, pale skin and thin frame.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat and tosses his notions away; they're all meaningless. He rolls on his side that faces the window and closes his eyes, forcing himself to sleep.

It is only until the moon has disappeared does he find himself scouring the town beneath a blanket of morning gold and pink.

Finished: Dead End Theory (T) – Edward/Bella | Jacob/Bella

vexia — Thu, 09 Aug 2007 16:55:20 GMT

Notes: A bit of wish fulfillment with pretend versus realistic conclusions, both of which are unlikely in Stephenie's canon world.

Date: 09 August 2007
Author: vexia
Pairing(s): Edward/Bella (Jacob/Bella)
Summary: There are lines now.

Their hands are intertwined, tangled like collapsed bridges and collisions. Her blood is humming, light twinkling chimes echoing in her ears like diamonds and silver bells. She misses catching suns in her palms, but her eyes are brighter now.

There are needles in her skin, thorns embedded into her bones. She holds her knees to her chest, rests her head between them, and distracts herself with piano chords to keep the hunger at bay. She bites her lip, and her vision is blurry. He rubs the nape of her neck, shapes her to his hunched figure, murmuring faraway words into her ear. She blinks.

She sits cross-legged in front of him and nuzzles her face into the base of his throat, nudging the dip of his collarbone and purring contentedly. She looks up and whispers into his lips, blood cold and electric in her skin. I love you.

Her breathing is unsteady and erratic, and she desperately clings to him. He reassures her, You're okay, you're okay. His regret is heavy here.

He's laughing with her, gold and ivory intermingling, as she cartwheels almost-not-quite perfectly around him. The world is spinning fast, dizzying, so she stops and strings together flowers and stars and the dreams that slip into conversation. For you, she grins and holds it toward him. He stares at her for a minute too long, inhales deeply and scowls, and drops the makeshift crown on her head. You need it more than I do.

They meet halfway; there are lines now.

They are a composition of bare skin and light. He cradles her while she cries.

She curls into him and tries to remember.

I love you, I love you, I love you, she sing-songs. She races with him through the trees, dancing and twirling like wood nymphs in folklore, and she diverts and rounds up to crash into him. He swallows loudly and, resignedly, rests his forehead against hers. Don't throw it around.

He smiles sadly. Bye, Bella.

WIP: Stay (T+) - Draco/Hermione

vexia — Sun, 15 Jul 2007 16:59:11 GMT

Notes: As promised, here is the first part of the revision of Stay. Expect major plot differences from the original, which is no longer accessible.

Date: 13 July 2007
Author: vexia
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione
Summary: You can't help the dead.

MONDAY, 18:07

She squints, batting at the sun sparkles that blink in her peripheral, tries to catch them with a pinch of her fingers. They rest in her palms, flickering honeysuckle yellow and a pale orange. The rooftop is scorching hot beneath her back and bare legs, bare arms; she's burning bright, absorbing the heat into her winter limbs and autumn flyaway hair.

The charms resting in the space between the base of her neck and collarbones burn imprints of silver and blue, remaining pieces of loved ones in a world best forgotten.

Here, they said to her, exchanging parting gifts and foolishly promising her their swift return. They said, Have a charm or two and don't lose them. One of them awkwardly embraced her, and the other squeezed her hand that she thought her bones might crack. And the rest of her life were a sequence of unimportant events that really did matter, but she tried her hardest not to care. It was composed of waiting, waiting, a letter or two, waiting, waiting, a letter, waiting and waiting and nothing at all.

A breeze brushes her cheek, and she opens her eyes.

She turns over on her stomach, crawls to all fours, and sluggishly stands on her feet. She sways lightly before catching herself, padding barefoot to the skylight, slid open just a scant to accommodate her willow-light frame. She climbs down the ladder, shuts the window, and finds her way back to bed.

Her captor, saviour, any word of choice under these circumstances, is on his side. And he barely moves, the bed shifting beneath her weight as she buries herself underneath the sheets, pretending to disappear. Shadows play on the floor, and she thinks about the fires and its chases and killings.

And there's a hand that barely touches the small of her back, warmth that emanates and electrifies between skins, callused fingertips that tickles and trembles and traces old scars, lulling her to dreamless sleep.

Finished: An Infinite Countdown to Light (T) - Edward/Bella

vexia — Sat, 19 May 2007 03:56:46 GMT

Notes: ~~An ongoing mini-project in 10 parts. Updated every Saturday for the next five weeks.~~ Finished.

Date: 19 May 2007
Author: vexia
Pairing(s): Edward/Bella
Summary: From dawn to dusk over the span of ten days, an examination of one's rebirth and another's final hours.

An Infinite Countdown to Light (We Are Infinite)

WIP: An Infinite Countdown to Light (T) - Edward/Bella

vexia — Sat, 19 May 2007 03:55:42 GMT

Fingertips touching, a caress of dandelions against their snowskins, and draped in a halo of gold. A canopy of bright coloured foliage waves above them, dapples sunlight, filters the breeze scented with tangerines and notes of apple blossom. He glimmers and breathes, autumn-edged lips to her cheek, stumbling with words spoken so rapidly she barely hears.

There's a sudden jolt in the space where her heart resides, fluttering wildly. Blinking diamonds, she shakes her head to rid herself of the prismatic glare while he continues to whisper, a buzzing hum of nocturnes in minor. She reaches out, clasps his hand in hers, and holds on tightly. Nails digging, choking veins, as she attempts to catch her breath.

And, past the haze of sharp euphoria, she can hear his final words with startling clarity.

Her eyes are heavy under the lidded moon, low and a dusky orange, light streaming over the mountains and through the large floor-to-ceiling windows. Patterns dance on his floor, elongated and striking. He's beside her, back straight, arm around her shoulder, and he's counting stars as she measures the gap between them in angles and lines, nudging herself closer until their bodies are parallel and zero degrees from each other.

She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her cheek upon them, staring still until he shifts in his seat and asks her the same question he always has since the beginning. And, as always, she replies with breathtaking honesty that allows him a settling of peace. When they realise the moon is going nowhere, he leans in close to her and kisses her eyelids until she flutters.

Drifts.

VIII

Early sunrise sheds, and she blinks away stars. The room is empty except the morning glow cast across his floor. She sleeps again and thinks about steeples and clock towers, powdered skin, and girls with red ribbons in their hair. Past the haze of a brilliant memory, she awakens, and finds herself staring into wide eyes. Alice tilts her head, rests a cold hand on her forehead, and tells her a story that Jasper has only ever shared once.

A silly story that Jasper is often reluctant to share – about castaways and endless horizons, willow trees and burning fireflies that gather and surround and illuminate. A boy and a girl hold crushed roses in their hands, thorns breaking skin as they share their lives with a simple clasp of their hands.

Jasper, she thinks aloud, might have been a good father in a different life.

Dreamland soon beckons, and she succumbs with one last sideways glimpse of the shadow in the doorway.

VII

They eat smoked salmon together, poking at leftover lemon rinds that find their way onto their plates. Curling, twining. She looks up and asks him a question that leaves his mouth hanging open. She smiles gently and pats her father's hand. Don't worry, she says, I'm perfectly fine. Pitching theoretical scenarios about her death only causes tension, so she changes the subject. About the woods, the game, and the Blacks.

And she regrets asking because her heart lurches at the thought of him, of gold and glimmer, and the eclipse of a waning moon.

She is better off without him.

She leans on a moss-covered rock in the woods near his house, the damp earth beneath her shoes giving in to her weight. It's slippery and wet out, darker here than any other place in Forks. She finds it strange how two places can be so different, thinking of the clearing far away from here. A dewdrop lands on her bare shoulder when she hears nothing.

So she tenses and waits for the long shadow that slides away from the trees, the perfect stillness of him continuing to amaze her. He sneers at her, the petulance of boyhood rising to the surface, and crosses his arms over his chest. The friend she no longer knows – him, burrowed deep within – towers over her. He could be larger than life, and she could almost swear he would still listen to her if she asked. Politely, sweetly, firmly.

Get out of here, he demands sharply.

She stiffens and refuses the urge to scream at him.

He clenches his fists, curls them away from her. There's still human left in him somewhere.

You remember – you remember what I said to you. If you – if he does anything to you –

With a shake, he suddenly tenses and punches a tree next to him; the earth shatters.

Would you hate me? If I did?

Hard lines and creases form on his face before he huffs, transforms, and leaves her.

She looks at the tree outside her window, forming shadows in her head in the shape of storytime nightmares. They look perfect and angular in her head, but the faces are blurry, and she realises there are decisions she has to make.

Burying her face into her pillow, she beckons for sleep to take her, the image of an eclipse forming behind her eyelids, so stark and bright. Moons shadowing suns, her heart beats rapidly.

Her dreams mean nothing at all.

Alice weaves flowers through her hair, cold fingers brushing the nape of her neck as she sings a hummingbird tune. Little porcelain doll, she says, like it's supposed to mean something. The lights on the ceiling flicker and dim, and she watches her skin turn sallow.

With a twist, Alice finishes and smiles. It looks cold on her, but it doesn't matter. Alice tilts her head and rests her chin on her shoulder like they've been doing this forever. You look pretty like that.

She doesn't ask whether it's the flowers or the colour of her face that reminds her of immortality.

III

Alice is gone, and he takes her place, materialises from nowhere. He's stiff but relaxed, and he's waiting for her.

Without a word, she takes his hand and allows him to lead.

I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready, she chants to herself.

What are you thinking?

She hesitates and holds his hand tighter.

Nothing.

She sits with legs crossed on the dandelion bed, sweeping her hands through the airy flowers. He carefully sits down, plucking one from the ground and twirling it in his hand. It spins twice one way and three times the other, and she wonders what its purpose is until he crushes it by accident. She tilts her head, palms sweaty as she tries to hide them from him.

He mumbles, I'm nervous.

And she nods because it's expected. I won't regret it.

Those who don't know never do.

She has to think that over several times, the anxiety overwhelming, and she only understands after she can catch her breath. By the time she does, she pretends she never heard him and inches closer toward his stiff frame. Hands intertwine, fingers brush, laboured breaths mingling. And she whispers something that she thinks she never said, but he smiles lightly and kisses her forehead.

I know, he says, and moves his lips to the curve her neck.

She closes her eyes and considers the beauty of life.

Wake up.

As per usual.

vexia — Sat, 05 May 2007 06:09:34 GMT

The beauty of fandom is that you can easily and involuntarily be forced to defend your stances on certain things to a rude fan who can barely string together proper grammar.

Fandom, in general, has left me slightly bitter about having been involved in the first place. Of course, it should go without saying that I never regret meeting the people I have over the similarities in interest. I don't know. Lately, meta and general discussion seem to pique my interests rather than the newest fiction or art, merely because I think I've settled into my comfort level.

Having done so, I've been more than preoccupied with work and other related endeavours. Much time has been devoted to expanding resources, connections, and clientele. While doing so, however, I've been admonished several times for not responding to my e-mails as quickly as I used to. No one is ever satisfied, really.

Meanwhile, in the days that I have been absent, I have so conveniently managed to dislocate my shoulder. Again. Same reason as usual. You start jumping on things and hanging from mortifying heights, accidents are bound to happen. The dislocation was still as painful as I remembered it. I talked to my doctor back home (a friend of the family) about my recent injuries and, as he learned the causes, he lectured me. Very funny. Reminds me of my grandfather, actually.

Anyway, that's that.

Finished: Revelation (K+) – Draco, Hermione

vexia — Thu, 29 Dec 2005 16:57:42 GMT

Notes: For Ashley oravannahka. As of 2 May 2009, this story has been revised.

Date: 29 December 2005
Author: vexia
Pairing(s): Draco, Hermione
Summary: She should never have asked.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

She rose from the chair in the early morning hours and surveyed her surroundings. Parchment and quills, crinkled and bent, were scattered around her, bleeding with black ink that never had a chance to dry; their books, pages clearly torn, were haphazardly tossed onto the floor. From the other side of the table, she could see Draco's eyes staring at her with a glaring intensity.

"If you want to prevent another accident from happening, I suggest you keep your filthy mouth shut."

Hermione clenched and unclenched her fists and regarded him with the deepest loathing she could muster in her eyes. Her own hatred was palpable, and she feared it. She wasn't sure how it started, but the topics built in reference to their sixth year and the inevitable questions that followed came to her with a renewed curiosity. Dumbledore this and Dumbledore that and why, why, why? He had to have had a reason, and she pressed on for an answer, even if she knew – she knew – that there were certain questions that shouldn't and couldn't be given any explanation. But that's what she did: she pestered others until she got what she wanted, and when her attempts were tried and failed over and over again, she would resort to verbal frustration and inadvertently say things that had merit, yes, but in retrospect would have never meant it.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she cursed Professor Binns for pairing them up in an assignment that required intense concentration and, logically, the ability to communicate without having to argue every other five minutes. It required that both parties have patience, given the extensive research that had to be done in the allotted time given to them, which was never much at the start. And she supposed that somewhere along the way, the tension between them had escalated and opened the gates to topics that weren't related to their essay.

And this was where they ended. His anger manifested itself in vengeance, grabbing anything within his reach and abusing them until there was nothing left. She was certain that their six-page research, of which both worked on three each, had been torn in the process without so much as a second thought. But that, surprisingly, hadn't upset or worried her. What did, however, prompted her to ask him the question that she was sure would ignite another argument of slurs and hatred.

"If – if there was nothing there, would you have killed me?"

Draco looked at her, minutes passing by before he stood up, his eyes focused on the mess that surrounded them. He looked everywhere else but at her.

"Threaten. I would have threatened you, Granger. I don't have it in me to kill." He paused and finally looked into her eyes, his grey ones burning with afterthoughts. "But don't presume to think that the desire isn't there."

She couldn't say what frightened her the most. Instead, she knelt down on the floor and began to collect the parchments, quills and textbooks, dismayed to learn that her eyes were burning with unshed tears. Her façade was slipping, her hands shaking, and she released a shriek of outrage, slamming the collected objects back down on the floor.

Hermione stood up to face him, defiant and angry and, most of all, hurt.

"Why?" she demanded, her voice catching in her throat. "Why do you hate me so much? What have I ever done to you?"

For the first time in her life, she saw a glimpse of shattered arrogance. With eyes softening around the edges, a sense of pity, his posture tense with the realisation that he would be giving her the heavy burden of truth, he replied:

"You exist."

Finished: Sunrise (K+) – Draco/Hermione

vexia — Tue, 20 Dec 2005 23:07:35 GMT

Notes: For Audrey amatsuki. As of 2 May 2009, this story has been revised.

Date: 20 December 2005
Author: vexia
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione
Summary: An observation.

Like wine, we'll slide over each other between the sheets and murmur secrets and smiles before the sun has a chance to watch through the flimsy curtains: a transparent maroon with a silver lining. Like a fabric tumble of clouds and sunsets. In a matter of minutes, the filtered light will enshroud us in red and the lust and desire will heighten from the surface of oceans to the infinite sky. We might play like this forever, skin on skin and rubbing friction, wide eyes with stars embedded in our silver and brown irises.

And then we'll laugh in our entrapment of arms and legs and fumble for cover. We'll kiss so sweetly and cling to each other like this will be the last chance for the rest of our lives. Dependence.

We were made like this.

We exist.

Finished: Routine (T) – Ron/Hermione, ref. to R/G

vexia — Mon, 31 Oct 2005 03:07:15 GMT

Notes: For G geewhiz. A fair warning – implied, perhaps unrequited, incest. As of 2 May 2009, this story has been revised.

Date: 31 October 2005
Author: vexia
Pairing(s): Ron/Hermione, Ron/Ginny
Summary: He loves her less and less each day.

This is how it goes:

He sleeps with his eyes open sometimes, burning fractured lights and jangled stars in the deep blue of his irises. Sometimes he wakes to the early hours of morning – traces of sunbeams climbing up the rolling hills – and he'll perch himself on the edge of his bed, hands clasped together as he counts the number of freckles that he can see on them.

He stays like this while everyone gathers in the commons, and he takes advantage of this time alone to think about nothing and everything. The thoughts that run through his head are too much to identify, to specify. When he collects himself, he walks downstairs with a lethargic gait, stretching his arms across his chest until he can hear the alarming crack in his joints. Everyone looks at him, with the girls squealing in disgust and the boys laughing, and when they realise that everyone has congregated, they exit the portrait together and chatter all the way to the Great Hall.

But there he stays, left alone with the pretty girl and her dusty book. He saunters in that swaggering way of his, no longer gangly but well-balanced, and looms over her, his shadow darkening the pages littered with text.

When she looks up, her cheeks are rosy and her eyes are bright. Her hair is wild and soft, and he finds himself tangling his fingers in them, strands curling and slipping away.

"Good morning, Ron," she says.

He mumbles, "Morning," and kisses her cheek in greeting. This is their routine, followed closely by:

"Where's Ginny?" His eyes light up at his own curiosity.

And she answers, "With Harry."

He drops his hand by his side and he stands there, almost awkwardly, and sighs. The electricity that they had built from day one of their first year together is slowly beginning to fade away. He can feel it humming in his bones. He wonders, sometimes, if she feels the same way. She's smart; she should know.

Curious, he bends down and touches her lips with his. There's a faint spark, subtle, but when he closes his eyes it ignites. He can see copper red waves and a smatter of freckles on peach-skin, and he has to swallow the excitement building up inside of him and the blood that roars in his veins.

He doesn't realise what's happening until she pushes him away with a sharp gasp. He looks down at her, her eyes wide with shock and her lips parted slightly. They're bleeding. She looks flushed and scared and confused – a swirling mess of emotions are flickering in the dark depths of her eyes, and he can't help but wonder what she thinks of him.

"Hey, are you two coming or what?"

The sweet, gentle voice floods him, and he looks towards the portrait hole where his younger sister is waiting for them. She's grinning widely, her eyes twinkling and her skin so very lovely.

He smiles back and jogs over to her until he's close enough to touch her. He looks over his shoulder at his best friend, his girlfriend, and cocks his head to the side.

"Coming?"

She stares at him, clutching tightly at her book, as a dawn of understanding settles into her features. She puts her book down beside her and stands, looking at the two siblings whose identical smiles are enough to light up the room. His happiness is petrifying.

"Of course."

Finished: 45 (T) – Harry/Draco

vexia — Mon, 24 Oct 2005 16:57:09 GMT

Notes: For Cami shecrows. Second attempt at slash-fic and more or less happy with it. As of 2 May 2009, this story has been revised.

Date: 24 October 2005
Author: vexia
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Summary: An exercise in geometric relations.

Lines are meant to be straight.

They are two separate bodies, side-by-side, tangled in white bedsheets. One quietly gazes at the ceiling, while the other clings to consciousness in his drunken stupor. This is their life now, and this is how they go to sleep.

Parallels never cross.

But unconnected lines can turn in degrees, and that's precisely what they do. Or what he does – the boy with the wispy golden-white hair. He crawls over his partner and straddles his hips, and he nearly chokes at the electricity that burns and crackles between their skin like fire embers – this hot, white heat that surges and bursts with lust and heart, the tingling sensation that teases his spine as he snaps upright, the explosion of shock rippling up and down his spine in jagged waves.

This is their right angle.

They are ninety degrees closer, grinding, skin on skin. They have the capacity to decrease numbers, and he leans in closer to the one beneath him, his lean arms on either side of the other man's head. His breathing is shallow and his is shallower, and he can only deduce that he's forty-five degrees closer to intimacy.

The suspense is unbearable.

But not so much when he feels strong hands grab his hips, fingernails digging into his perfect skin. He swallows, his heart beating wildly, reality thinning into his fantasy because this is not how it goes. He's supposed to take the dive – the initiative – to complete their unspeakable bliss. Not the other way around. It's unbecoming.

He has no time to think before his counterpart completes the gap.

They remain at forty-five, but that's okay with him.

This is their imperfect line.

Finished: The Calendar Hung Itself (M) – Draco/Hermione

vexia — Sat, 16 Jul 2005 23:54:17 GMT

Notes: In the aftermath of HBP, I needed to write something to clear my head. As of 2 May 2009, this story has been revised.

Date: 16 July 2005
Author: vexia
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione, ref. to (unrequited) H/Hr
Summary: The clock is ticking, the days are faster, and their hearts are slowly dying.

She is slowly unravelling on a sullen night like this, every piece of her wilting and weak as she recaptures images in her head of slow movements of black and red and soft kisses on freckled skin. The stars look duller through the window, but she remains focused on them instead of the lips that are tasting the skin in the hollow of her neck, the strong hands that are gripping tightly to her white oxford.

He hovers above her, grey eyes not as mercurial or silver or beautiful. They remind her of the stars, less luminous and opaque. Darker. Dead, maybe, as if his eyes carry secrets that are desperate to be shared. And then he does something he has never done before because they never saw it fit, or because it never made sense: his lips descend on hers, and the intensity surprises her as the tension in her shoulders relaxes, and she melts into the bedsheets, the material forming around her body and swallowing her whole as she allows him to take whatever he wants.

He kisses her, strands of his blond hair tickling her forehead, tasting her thoroughly and demanding that she respond by holding her head in his hands and pulling her closer. Her hands find purchase on his shoulders, her legs sliding up either side of him of their own accord, and there's a choking gasp lodged in her throat like she has many things to say, but it's too hot and it's too distracting. She pushes her body into him, frantic and desperate for the friction, the foreign pain of unrequited love and confessions to spill into him – to give him his fair share of despondency and aching lethargy.

His hands find hers and pin them beside her head, and he strokes the tender skin of her wrist where her blue veins merge and pulse, hoping he can stop the blood rush, stop time, hoping that the hours move slower and forever slower, and that the sun should never rise because he's too selfish for time. More and more. He pauses and rests on his knees above her, taking his time to look at her lifeless eyes and the willing curves of her body. It repulses him. He wants to give her back her passion, desire, blood, life, motivation – anything and everything.

She hates when he looks at her like that, like he lusts for something better in her that she can never live up to, scrutinising her like he's got a right to know every inch of her being, so she rips off her shirt and claws at his and now they're both half-naked and moaning, and they're vengeful.

That was my favourite shirt, he growls.

You have more like it.

He's annoying her, and she mutters something under her breath. He's going too slow, and she needs him, and now they're hungry kisses and groping hands and poetic movement.

He bunches her skirt at her waist and dips his head between her thighs, tasting her, tongue at her clit, watching her squirm and arching in his firm hold. She's wet and her breathing slow and heavy, whimpering and struggling, and he pinches the skin at the small of her back indicating that she wait or he stops. She relaxes but the blood rushing down is too much for her to handle, so she resigns to slip her fingers through his hair, tangling and pulling. Hard. He flinches and bites none-too-softly at her inner thigh with a deep growl. She screams, and then he's licking her here and there, moving torturously slow, fingers slipping inside of her and pulling in and out, the slick sounds drowned out by her throaty gasps and pleas.

She writhes against him and suddenly he's moving up, unbuttoning his trousers and pulling down the zipper, and he doesn't wait and she can't wait (don't – just, oh god, now, please, now) and without warning he's inside her, groaning and mouth moving over acres and acres of fair skin. Gives her passion and blood and life and liberation. She's pulling him in, tightening, fingers digging into his back like she's drowning out to sea.

They refuse to whisper words of affection and giving into calling out names as their muscles strain and release, seeing the same dull stars coalesce and divide like little flickers of peripheral diamonds. They give into the heat and the rage and tell each other they hate each other – that he'll kill her and she'll be happier, and they'll both die together at opposite ends of the universe.

They shatter, and she's shuddering, and he's holding onto her like he never wants to let her go. But the clock chimes, and he's holding her at arms' length, looking at her like he doesn't recognise her at all because as the sun slowly rises, all she ever saw was Harry.

• •

The fire is burning brightly, and Hermione is unaware of the loud chattering all around her. She can, however, hear the peals of laughter and wolf whistles as Harry and Ginny come back into the common room together, hands interlocked, glowing and dishevelled and different. From the corner of her eyes, she can see Harry kiss Ginny's crown and hugging her to his side. Ginny is beaming.

Morning, Hermione.

She doesn't glance up, knowing well who it is trying to catch her attention. She wants to be mean to him, wants nothing more than to stay this way and to keep equal distance from him and Harry. She thinks it will hurt her less. But he refuses to be ignored and sits down on the carpet beside her, poking her side and inching closer to her with a goofy, ever-like-Ron smile on his face.

Ginger hair, blue eyes, and a smatter of freckles across his face. It's clear what he wants, but she finds it difficult to accept. She laughs a little in spite of herself and playfully pushes him away. But he's hurt, she sees this. She didn't mean to do it. Not really, anyway.

Maybe.

An awkward silence passes between them and everyone else is moving out. Ron stands up and follows before stopping and glancing over his shoulder at her. He rubs his neck, uncertain and struggling to find the right words.

Do you ... want to go with me? With them, I mean? But ... you know, with me ...?

She didn't say, and he rushes, But only because everyone's left and –

I'd love to, Ron.

He smiles brightly, and she takes his hand.

It hurts her to lie.

• •

Draco is breaking things in the room when she steps in, concerned. His belongings are everywhere, her favourite flower vase is in pieces, and this is the first time Pansy doesn't know what to do with herself or how to help him. Frustration is clear in his features, his cheeks flushed from the stress and his eyes red, as if he's been crying for days.

He's never cried for her.

There's a long pause in his actions before he spins around slowly and catches her gaze. He's hurt, broken, and he isn't sure – doesn't know how to heal. She loves him and she knows he loves her, but is it enough?

There's always a void inside of him, always empty or always shy of full. She can never top it off for him. Instead, she embraces him, hoping, hoping, forever hoping. His arms wrap around her and clutch her to him like he's found revelations and epiphanies.

This will never be enough.