Chapter Text
When you lose your love, you can’t forget it. The sensation of blossoming in your chest, which seemed warm at the look of a dear person, starts to cool in seconds when a lost memory comes up.
It’s like you’re violating the memory of your beloved because you can’t remember her with the same gentle thrill she deserves. Sadness, pain and resentment follow every time you're imagining her figure in the bed, half of which was hers.
He cannot represent it without blue tones. It is no longer a dream, but a symbol of loss.
Malfoy always liked red more, so instead of burdening himself with longing for love, it was easier for him to cloud his vision with red color of anger.
She was different the last time he saw her. Her cheeks were pale and so was her whole body, which was swollen, not of gained weight but of water. Hermione’s belly was inflated and covered with stretch marks and colored vessels that were shining through stretched skin.
The pregnancy was hard. Her hair fell out, which was particularly striking when she washed her head. There was a constant micronutrient deficiency in her blood, which caused her to start every morning with a huge handful of vitamins. She suddenly became selective about food, but at the same time lost her appetite and suffered from diarrhea.
The fetus in stomach seemed to suck all life force out of his Hermione. Every time they were leaving the doctor’s office with an extended list of references and contraindications, the ultrasound showed that the child was only thriving. It literally devoured Hermione from the inside while she was dying out.
No one even hoped for a light birth. When the water broke, the fetus was in the wrong position, and it was decided urgently to do a cesarean.
Draco then breathed a sigh of relief, holding Hermione’s hand, that she would not have to suffer for hours, tearing her vagina apart, trying to push the baby out of her body.
Before the operation began, he was asked to leave the room, and he kissed her on the sweat forehead. Hermione gave him a faint smile before closing her eyes to the anesthesia. Only after making sure she was fully asleep did he leave the delivery room.
Twenty minutes later, when he was invited back and handed the bundle in his hand, the child was screaming. Hermione was silent.
He didn’t even realize it immediately, staring at the shriveled red face peering out of the pile of folded blankets.
Why was the baby given to him and not Hermione?
He didn’t drop the baby because the nurse was standing next to him the whole time, like she was expecting it.
Despite the child’s shrill scream, it seemed to him that the room was quiet. Malfoy could not hear Hermione’s breath, which usually left her body with a slight whistle. EKG was silent, not squeezing the temples with a measuring squeak. The midwives looked at him with their lips pressed tight.
Hermione’s face was pale.
In a sterile white room smelling of antiseptic, Malfoy learned what it was like to miss someone who seemed so close.
***
His life hasn’t changed much. That’s what he thought. It’s like he’s been on a six-month vacation, and now he’s back on full shifts at the Auror Office, sorting out a ton of paperwork, living in two locations - an office and an interrogation room.
Auror Office by day, dates by night, and hard awakening by morning. Sometimes he wakes up, and he sees the chocolate curls in front of his eyes which, a minute later, blur like the hair of a stranger American girl.
All you have to do is to take a cold shower, and go back to the wheel of life, which only paused on Friday when he was dating Blaise and Theodore.
It was easy - endlessly run somewhere in the place called «success». This success implied more money, which he already had, the influence he already earned to become department head, and a lot of responsibility. Success is when you are politely greeted in the halls and nobody dares to interrupt you at the meetings.
By all accounts, that success was in his pocket, but Malfoy kept running because it was easier. The system is convenient because life seems stable to you when you know what you’re going to do tomorrow, the day after, a month after and a year after.
You don’t feel like a puppet, as many imagine, but a permanent cell of society which works in a dedicated room and supports the mechanism because collective work allows each gear to spin.
Same events, different faces. Same mechanical movements - at work and in bed, which was almost never empty. Same words he listens to with enviable frequency, like it’s a morning radio weather report.
Malfoy was fine with it. The Auror Office was a safe haven, where he worked non-stop. The manor was a less secure area until he got distracted from the downward-facing pictures to the woman under him, whom he saw, like all others, for the first and last time.
When he walked past her lit closet in the bedroom, he told himself he was okay with it. When he found in the bathroom cabinet her old vanity makeup three years overdue, he told himself that he was satisfied with where he was. Ignoring Narcissa’s heavy gaze in the dining room, he became convinced once again that he was satisfied with his life.
Every time he looked in the mirror and flinched at the furious brown eyes behind his shoulder, he had to re-wash with cold water to look there again and make sure - these eyes had closed a long time ago, and now their remains are somewhere under the ground of the Malfoy estates.
Hermione Malfoy can go to hell.
If anyone has the right to be furious, it’s him. After all, she was the one who left him, not the other way around.
For the first year, when he drowned himself in grief, alcohol and work, he could not hear the baby crying at night. Ever since he handed over the package with the child to an elf named Trisha, she’s probably been doing her job properly and was keeping the baby as far away as possible so that Malfoy can forget about the only daughter.
He briefly thought about this decision and was guided by the argument that if Trisha cared for Hermione during pregnancy, and even shed a tear when she was allowed to touch her abdomen to feel the kicks, she would not let the baby die for hunger, cold or any other ridiculous reason that suggests that the child was overlooked.
His role as a father ended there.
Sometimes he could hear Trisha and Narcissa talking about something in the living room, and when he caught that ridiculous, tender intonation that only children had to talk to. At these moments, he would turn around and walk in the opposite direction.
And somehow, in the fuss, he forgot.
Just like he used to forget everything else.
His name, when he drank himself to death, Hermione, when he crashed into the fireplace with another woman, his principles, duties, his pride and grief.
Narcissa found it humiliating to be caught in the hall while Draco was with the company, and her health did not allow her to wait every night when he returned from the office in the middle of the night. And even the disapproving glances that she threw at him across the table during the meal, trying to spoil his appetite, and the persistent attempts to start a conversation about a new resident of Manor soon vanished.
Potter and the Weasley seemed to have gone the same way. Before his eyes flashed personnel memories of how uncultured they burst in unannounced during the first year after, shouting at him, sometimes grabbing his collar, but constantly turning and going deep into the house. Somewhere where the child’s room was now.
But they never came back. They didn’t even look at him in the Ministry cafeteria when they crossed the lunch line, but probably the former Gryffindors had just started communicating with Narcissa to get into the Manor.
And when all the people around him stopped insistently reminding him of the existence of someone he didn’t want, Malfoy could truly forget. It was as if the brain had thrown the information out of his head which it did not think was appropriate to keep, while neglecting logical holes.
Whatever he told himself, it was impossible to forget Hermione.
When a person occupies too much space in your life, the loss is felt especially acutely.
Friday nights, which were mandatory dates. Dinners they used to have at the cafeteria’s big table with her friends. Clothes in the closet that never went anywhere, photos and memories. Hermione still seems to walk around the walls of this cursed house.
Some moments are easy to replace. Draco now sits at another table in the cafeteria, most often alone. On Fridays, his destination depends on his mood - the bar or the Zabini Manor.
But certain details, which have almost become automatic, still suffocate him in awareness. Like when he comes out of a coffee shop next to the Ministry with two steaming cups and stops absurdly in the middle of the street, not knowing what to do with the second one.
Like when he puts extra quills in his briefcase, because Hermione used to forget them. Or when the first thought that pops up when he looks at the new flavor of ice cream at Fontescu’s pastry shop - would she like it?
Hermione Malfoy seemed to be his personal curse, affecting neural brain cells.
It is absurd how, in spite of all the hatred you seek to engender in your heart, it still trembles at the memory of what you no longer have.
Sometimes he thought he was going to vomit. As the sun went down, the moon rose outside the window, its light bouncing off the bright tiles of Auror office, and his breath felt short, because for a moment he thought he was standing in the obstetric room again, and saw the blue light of the devices fading ugly on Hermione.
Sometimes he had to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled, when in the crowd he caught an echo of a familiar perfume.
Sometimes he would cry in the morning when he had realistic dreams, after which you would get lost and dream of being back in Morpheus' arms.
Sometimes, in these dreams, Draco and Hermione sat on opposite sides of the table. He tried to get out of the chair, but couldn’t, so he tried to talk to her. But she sat back with the familiar gesture of folding her hands on her chest, and stared at him with disapproving eyes. And never said anything.
Sometimes they lay together in their bedroom, and he spent the whole night caressing the facial features he had last seen years ago. And then he woke up in the morning when the other half of the bed appeared to be cold and empty before his gaze.
When Hermione haunted him, he liked to joke in his head that she had broken out of his mind and was now seeking new victims.
On her chair, where she has an unpleasant habit of falling asleep and then complaining of back pains; in the garden, where she put the wooden swing, because have you even seen yourself, you look like you’re about to die from lack of vitamin D. Go outside. In the reflection of the mirror, standing behind his shoulder, but never hugging, as she used to do in the morning, when she sleepily sought a foothold to nap a little while standing.
He etched it all like weeds in flower beds with thorny roses.
***
The taciturn, chaotic bits that played in every club were a nuisance to his ears, but thanks to it, Draco didn’t have to pretend to listen to Notte - he couldn’t hear him behind the music.
He glanced at the swinging bodies on the dance floor, stopping at attractive women, trying to assess her accessibility.
The blonde looked in his direction, and winked flirtatiously as Nott waved to the bartender’s for more.
Zabini whistled Draco right in the ear, which caused him to pull back abruptly, almost falling off the chair at the counter.
‘She’s hot, mate,' he sang. Apparently, Blaze was the worst fucking friend who pretty quickly abandoned the idea of «straightening Malfoy’s brain» and started encouraging all his spontaneous decisions.
But that moment, as Draco headed for the witch with swinging hips, it was only to his advantage.
It was as if on command, a tipsy girl had wrapped her hands around his neck, drawing him deeper to the dance floor.
'I know you,' she shouted in his ear, her body pressed against him. She smelled of tequila.
'But I don’t know you,' purred Draco, wiping his fingertips down her narrow back, forcing the girl to pull closely. ‘Let’s fix it.’
She made a drunken laugh, and continued to move smoothly to the music without getting into any rhythm or style. Turning her back on him, she pressed her butt against his zipper, making out the simple eight.
'My name is Herel,' she threw her head on his shoulder, bare her neck, and Malfoy seized up.
It was as if the leash suddenly moved, and he froze like Pavlov’s dog, trying to remember something that was slipping out of his hands.
After noticing his stupor, Herel turned around, her hands resting on Malfoy’s shoulders with an empathetic face.
‘What’s wrong? Are you sick?’
No, he feels good. There seemed to be more alcohol in his system than blood, a beautiful lady was in his arms, and there were only drunk people around who paid no attention to him.
But there’s something that’s bothering him.
Herel...
He...
He slammed his palm into his face, covering his mouth, and sprinted out to the fresh air, leaving silenced hails somewhere among the crowd of strangers.
That night, his only companion on his return to Manor was nausea.
***
After all, it was meant to happen.
The gears of the system wear out and need either cleaning or replacement. It was just a matter of time before Malfoy wore out.
He was not surprised when he woke up, lying on the floor of his office with a lot of people surrounding him. Rather unpleasant surprise.
‘Mr Malfoy! Oh Merlin, you gave us all a scare!’ Auror Otis cried as she sat on her knees next to him, casting diagnostic spells.
'The doc hasn’t arrived yet,' said Kenneth, taking a step back when Malfoy rose up and sat.
'For Helga’s sake, be careful,' said Otis, ‘You hit your head hard.’ Her loud, shrill voice exploded small fireworks under Malfoy’s eyes as the throbbing pain struck him in the back of the head.
The Aurors have started to part ways and go back to work - something that these morons should have been doing the whole time, instead of taking the air from someone who fainted.
Looking at the dial of his wristwatch, Malfoy got up from the floor, grabbed Kenneth’s hand and turned to face him.
'The Regent Street case is on you,' he said unequivocally to his aide, patting him on the shoulder encouragingly, and turned to the exit, going home at twelve o'clock in the afternoon. Kenneth flapped his mouth helplessly like a choking fish.
Coming out of the green fire of the fireplace, Draco marched down the Manor towards his bedroom with a heavy step. The manor met him with the same overwhelming silence, reflecting the echo of his own footsteps. But he is confident that Narcissa will break into his bedroom as soon as she hears of his early return.
'It’s worth asking Trisha for a high-protein dinner and a restorative potion,' Malfoy thought, unzipping the cuffs on his elbows as an empty corridor was pierced first by a squeak and then by a bumpy tramp.
‘Grandma!’ A thin voice seemed foreign in this place and, morally, Draco was ready to faint for a second time. ‘You’re back!’
From around the corner came a small figure peering into the huge hallway space. Draco almost turned back to the fireplace to his destination in Saint Mungo until he remembered.
Oh.
She must be about four years old now. This little girl, dressed in a laughable gown with ridiculous ruffles - definitely the caprice of Narcissa, who always dreamed of a daughter. Blond, almost white hair was braided into a scythe, blue-gray eyes stood out against pale skin and were shining near the button-nose.
There’s nothing of Hermione in it.
'Oh,' said the girl, stepping back into the corridor.
Malfoy thinks he’s about to vomit.
‘Is your name Eve?’ suddenly burst from his lips as he swallowed nausea along with the sudden discomfort from this question.
‘What?’ The girl’s eyes clapped, and she snorted like Narcissa. ‘My name is Scorpiona!’
‘Merlin’s fame’, Malfoy thought. He wouldn’t have gone through it if she had the name Hermione often fantasized about.
At least she seems healthy and well-fed. There are no signs that the child is ill-treated. So Draco pulled the lapels of his jacket and walked by, towards his chambers, to fall into bed this time, not onto the tiles.
A scared gaze was burning his back, but he didn’t even have to try to ignore it.