Places In The Heart

Disclaimer:This story was inspired by the novel “The Things They Carried” Great book, read it! There are various rather foggy recollections of quotes throughout, though I'm sure I've completely altered them all to an embarrassing degree and taken them completely out of context. For these, I claim no ownership. The rest is all mine (Except for Harry Potter and company. Obviously:)





If Draco had to admit one thing under a belly full of veritaserum, it might be that the first time he heard Voldemort hiss his name in displeasure, he’d pissed his trousers quicker than a newborn babe dunked headfirst in a bucket of ice.



Or, perhaps, that his first time with a girl (Pansy Parkinson, fourth year) he’d disgraced himself so completely he still blushed at the thought of her, all wide eyes and sticky hair.



It might even be that he’d gotten an erection the first time he found himself in a locker room full of naked boys after his first Quidditch practice.



What it would absolutely not be, however, is that he was looking at Hermione Granger the first time he fully understood the difference between a woman and a girl. Every boy has this moment, this defining epiphany at some point in his life, and is changed for it.



Sixth year, Platform 9 ¾, his first day back from summer holiday. It had been exceptionally brisk, that day. Many students had bundled up in an absurdly overzealous manner, their young skin not yet accustomed to the sudden chill of mid-fall.



But there She stood, tall and defiant as always, standing out in a crowd for so many reasons Draco had lost count.



She wore a dark petticoat buttoned to Her chin, a delicate cashmere scarf wrapped around Her just once, pulled into a tidy bow at Her nape. Her wild hair had been meticulously pulled into a tight bun, but, defiant as Her nature, small wisps fell around Her high cheeks. She stood straight, still, composed. And for a moment, She, for all the world, reminded Draco of his mum.



Pansy stood beside him, shaking dramatically and whining about numb toes. Draco barely heard her insistent prattling over Granger’s shockingly loud composure. ‘This is what a woman is’ a small, unwelcome voice prodded him. Draco had scoffed at the notion.



But Pansy always looked too chubby, too soft, too graceless after that moment, no matter how many lessons on being a lady she had had at the age of six. He’d berated himself rather harshly when he considered, really considered, what had brought Pansy under such scrutiny. Or whom, rather. So he stopped thinking about it. About prim petticoats and calm composure. Stopped thinking about the difference between a scarlet streak across high cheekbones golden dusted, only hinting at the fact that Her cheeks would be unbearably warm on his cold hands; between that, and frostbitten cheeks, too chubby, too soft, too covered in the freckles of youth.



He stopped thinking about that, and fucked the hell out of Pansy Parkinson’s chubby arse at every opportunity. Pansy, who never seduced, but expected. Pansy, who moaned for the sake of moaning. Draco was 16. And this was more than enough.





“A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.”



Draco isn’t sure how long he’s been here. He does know that he hasn’t drunk a thing in three days, and that this isn’t good. He’s quite sure it has been longer since he’s eaten. He knows the room he is in is completely absent of light until THEY come, and that in this small fragment of time he has begun to dread light. Dread it so completely that the white he sometimes sees behind his eyelids shakes him. That he wakes, gasping, at the mere dream of a flickering candle. That he is amazed by the things that could nearly frighten you to death simply by association. He doesn’t know if he is alone; he isn’t capable of calling out and doubts anyone else in this predicament would be able, either. He does know he is no longer lying on the floor. At some point, in his unconsciousness, someone has taken his naked body and placed him on a cot, covering him with a coarse, damp blanket. He doubts the blanket had been damp when they’d covered him, though, and he very much shudders at the thought of someone, anyone here, showing the least bit of compassion toward him. Because fucking hell, the thought makes him sick, and he doesn’t want it. Where had it been all those years ago? He doesn’t want it, now.


Mostly, from sheer exhaustion, he sleeps. But few hours pass without him waking for small fragments of time, begging for the sleep to return, to take him away. And in these moments, Draco thinks about war. And about Her. Her. Yes; he’d been looking at Her the moment he had understood what it was. That he would never, ever understand what it was. In war, there is no clarity. Everything merges. Becomes indefinable. Your enemy is the very man most capable of your mercy. Your true, from the gut, have no fucking choice kind of mercy. And wasn’t that ironic? The truths you know, they are not true. Truth merges, shifts, and changes with fact. Right spills into wrong, order blends into chaos, love into hate, ugliness can be unbearably beautiful. Devastation can make you whole. You can no longer say, indefinitely, where you stand. Only in war, will you ever be asked where you stand. Such things are not so important in peace. There is no sense of urgency; your choices do not define you until they have been made. Experience: that most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God do you learn. In war, you lose all sense of definite. In true war, nothing is absolutely ever true. You can’t tell where you are, why you’re there, and the only certainty is overwhelming ambiguity.



~



She stood before him, Her infuriatingly empathetic eyes trained on his wand, and then him. His wand, and then him. Those brief glances to him held him captive.



“What the fuck do you know?” he spat.



The rain was thick. He couldn’t even blink the droplets away. Slowly, She stepped forward. And it occurred to him She was always stepping forward like that, toward him, like he was some caged, crazed animal.



“I know the difference between a murderer and someone who’s desperate,” she said firmly. With a conviction he thought he might envy. But also, pity, just a bit.



“You know nothing. I’m not a good person, Granger. I kill people. Innocent people, I kill them, and I sleep at night—“


“—And you don’t have to anymore.”



It was said with so much indifference, so casual, Draco thought She could have been telling him the time. It was said, was just said, like a common fact.


He sputtered.



“Granger, you stupid fucking cunt!” He exclaimed, desperately exasperated. She was practically begging for him to do this. So dammit, so why wasn’t he?



“I understand, Malfoy. It’s you who doesn’t!” She cut him off abruptly, suddenly losing Her composure. “You don’t have to anymore, because I’m here to get you. That’s the whole point of this mission, you fucking prat,” She hissed, as if She had been explaining this for several hours to a not very bright child and was at Her wits end.



And damn, but he felt a little floored. They had arranged a bombardment of Malfoy Manor … to collect him?



“What the fuck are you talking about?" he deadpanned.



Granger huffed, rolled her eyes, shifted, sighed, shrugged. Christ, She was melodramatic.



“They want you. There have been reports that you haven’t been torturing your victims. Just … killing them, like you had no choice but were obviously taking no … pleasure, in it. So, they think you can be converted. And I’m not fucking around here, okay? You either can or you can’t. I’m not here to beg, or plead or persuade you. You’re coming with me or you aren’t. So what’s it gonna be?”



It was raining. He was standing in the rain, having just killed Blaise Zabini’s girlfriend for selling information Blaise had shared with her to the Order, when suddenly a group of Aurors had set off the wards. His hands were caked with mud, there was no blood, but he could see it. And there She was. And She was offering him a choice. One he never thought he’d have again.



After Dumbledore, he had been certain, without a shadow of a doubt, such an offer would never be extended his way. But he’d been wrong. Because you can be certain and be wrong. And all he could think was, "this isn’t who I am.”



This isn’t who I am.



Draco Malfoy was looking at Hermione Granger. And he was beginning to understand things like pride be damned, and small redemptions, and yeah, the difference, the fucking difference, between a murderer and someone who’s desperate.



His wand dropped, slowly. She quirked an eyebrow, the only indication She was surprised by his choice, and suddenly, Draco found himself hysterical.



And horrible, gruesome, awful things, repressed things that should never be remembered were replacing his front lawn. There, where Granger stood, all black. But there was his dad, his dad, his father’s severed head. His mother’s eyes, the ones he shared, dug from their sockets. No. He’d never killed like that. Not like that at all. But could he? Would he?



So easy, to say those words and be done with it. The first few times, he screamed them like they alone would bring him peace. And then, they began to taste like acid in his mouth. Like a forced apology, but worse. He could never even look at the fallen body of his victims. Couldn’t survey what he’d done or even think about it too deeply. Draco Malfoy never cleaned up his own mess. He left it there, and he did not think about it.



“I killed him. I killed a man.”



That was it. It was never, “I killed the mother of my best mate. When I was seven, and my mother was hungover, and my father was still pissed, it was my birthday, and she came, and she took me to her home, and she made me a cake and next morning, when I woke, there were mountains of gifts from mum and dad at the foot of my bed. ‘Happy birthday,’ they said, clear eyed and smiling, and I smiled too. Because I’d had a nice birthday, after all, and this was nice too. A two-day birthday party. And I just killed her. Just like that.”



No. Draco never thought about it like that. Except he was now. He was absolutely letting himself go, because maybe, for this, he just had to.



And he’d done it. He’d done it again and again.


Maybe She was right.


Maybe he didn’t have to anymore.


But did he ever?


Have to?



He fell. He sobbed into the puddle that he landed.


“I chose to. I killed them. I killed them all. I chose to.”



The sounds of the fight behind them were dying down, but Draco didn’t hear. The world was only this puddle, this rain, this Woman, and his own pathetically suffering conscience.



“Yes, you did,” She said. Her confirmation was enough to cause him to sob harder, fall the rest of the way to the ground. He was pretty sure this was rock bottom. Kinda had to be, right?



“Who the fuck are you to—“ he started, but stopped, not sure where that thought had meant to go. Who the fuck was She to what? Judge him? She, with all her composure, looking only slightly tossled in front of his filthy, sobbing, broken mess of a person?



Suddenly, Draco didn’t give a fuck who She was. She was just a person for him to lay his filthy, guilt-ridden conscience in front of.



“Fuck, Granger. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What happened to us?” he sobbed into his hands. Hands caked with dirt. Stained with blood. A green school ring forever tarnished.



“What do you mean?” She asked hesitantly. Because maybe She thought he had lost it.

What a sight this must have been. So much for elitism. For hierarchy and his pristine pureblood propaganda. He was a goddamn disaster. So much for his greatness. Where were the mighty now?



“I mean, us. All of us. We’re fucked. We’re mad men. We’re dirty filthy muggles with big smoking guns. Hell, we’re lower. Don’t you see?”



Filth. Filth, everywhere. He was knee deep in a fucking puddle of mud and very nearly outright vomiting on himself. At the feet of a mudblood. The prince. The heir. The barbaric madman caught in a rainfall that would never wash him clean again.



“Of course I see it, Malfoy," She said, taking his arm. “I’ve always seen it.”

The only sunlight was a small patch, peeking through the dripping leaves of the thick trees that surrounded them. It fell on Her, consumed Her, a fucking halo of purity in all this mess.



He looked at Her.



“Come on,” she said firmly, lifting him. “You’re not staying here.”





“We cannot be sure of having something to live for unless we are willing to die for it.”





Anyone who has ever seen war will tell you, the feeling of life in your limbs is directly related to your nearness to death. Proximity is crucial. Sometimes, you see life so bright, it explodes in your eyelids and for a moment you’re blind, and every other sense is pivotal. Sometimes, you’re tempted, so tempted, to close your eyes and forget it. Life. It didn’t even happen. In war, there is no clarity. It all goes passing by, shifting and changing. It’s about sorrow. About people who never go back home. It’s about sunlight, the way it falls so pretty on the mountains, and somehow, miraculously, just as pretty on her eyelashes as she sleeps. Towers down, scopes past her refined bone structure, to her red, swollen, kissed and kissable lips. In the moment. In your memory. And sometimes, there is a great, aching love for how the world could be, and how you believe she sees it. You are filled with an aching need to bless and touch and bathe in everything that resembles this vision. To roll in it and coat your skin until it must seep into your very soul and become you. In the force of evil, you want to be a good man. You want decency and justice. You want everything you never knew you wanted, and there is a greatness to this. For the first time, you love what is best in yourself, and accept what is not. There will be time, time to work on things. And they will go on shifting. You are blinded by hope, and a part of you knows there is danger in this bliss. Because you have always tried not to think about the nightmares. How things, they can go terribly awry. That there is no indefinite truth, and sometimes, even the brightest stars are consumed by a darker sky. And it is more tragic for it. Draco knows his breath is becoming shallower, and death is coming near. And there are still so many things to figure out. It has been days since he has felt any form of human contact. He can’t seem to think about anything else. He’s thinking of times he did horrible things, things he didn’t want to do. Times he killed, and nearly died, and even so, he felt alive. But not alive enough to know it, like he does now. He’s alive, now, and he thinks of mountains and sunsets in auburn hair, and he feels a wonder at it all.



~





Potter’s eyes never faltered as he informed Draco he’d been chosen, to go alone, right into the Snake pit. Which was just classic, really, as he’d been the only one adamantly against the sodding plan at all.



“We voted based on your knowledge of the location, Malfoy. You know this is how we do things … everyone agrees it’s most efficient this way.”



Draco’s eyes never faltered as he scanned the room, daring the bastards to meet his gaze. None of them did. His eyes settled on Her, who seemed incredibly preoccupied with Her feet.



“Everyone?” He asked tersely, and he could swear She flinched, just slightly. Because She knew. The bitch knew what this was for him. What it would be like, what it all meant.



“It was unanimous,” Potter stated matter of factly. And this time, She definitely flinched. The words were sharp for as blunt as they were.



“Oh I’m sure,” he said dryly.


Slowly, Her brown eyes met his.



“No one has a better chance….” She reasoned weakly.


This enraged him.



“No one has a fucking chance in hell, period, Granger!” He screamed, standing abruptly and knocking over his chair.



“Oh, would you stop being so fucking melodramatic?”



Draco’s gaze finally left Her, to settle on a rather bored looking Seamus Finnegan. And fuck yes, this is what he needed. Leave it to a Gryffindor. Never mind, with the exception of a very few, they were all Gryffindors. Draco tried hard not to think about that.

He raised an eyebrow, breathing in deeply.



“Melodramatic? Finnegan, you bloody cuntrag, I was raised in that fucking house. Would you like me to tell you what happens to people who enter unwelcome? Any poor bastard stupid enough to get himself caught there alone? Want me to tell you what happened to Weaslette? Do you want me to tell you how painful stupidity can be?”



He was aware, under the currents of rage, this was a cheap shot. Potter stood suddenly, but Granger was faster. She ran to Potter’s side, halting him from jumping clear across the table and beating Draco to a bloody pulp.



“Harry, sit,” she commanded. Predictably, he obeyed.



“Listen here, Malfoy,” She said sharply. “We have all done things we don’t want to do in this war. But that doesn’t mean our job is done. That doesn’t mean we get a free pass. You had better decide if you’re fighting or you’re sitting, and you better decide fast. And if it’s going to be the former, I had better never hear something like that come from your mouth again.”



“What,” he said shortly, “The truth? I’d nearly forgotten how you goody fucking Gryffindors’ like that sugar coated.”



“What is it you’re afraid of, Malfoy?” Finnegan again.



“Oh, I don’t know! Perhaps the various assortment of ball shredding devices developed especially for your tortured pleasure? The fact that the place is crawling with Former Death Eaters just dreaming of revenge? Who, I might add, would take particular pleasure in utilizing said devices on me?”


Finnegan snorted.


“Who wouldn’t?”



“Or, is it that you’re too much of a coward to go back there and not stay, and you know it?”

Potter’s voice. Cold, calculating, precise.


Well that. That was just.



“Fucking ridiculous accusations, always, with you assholes,” Draco muttered, throwing down his papers and slamming the door as he stormed from the room. Granger, of course, at his heels.



“Draco, wait.”


And what was it with Her, that She thought She could just use that tone and everyone would just fall into place?



“Leave me alone, you fucking bitch,” he grumbled, not slowing a bit. Her hand reached out and grabbed his arm, and he spun abruptly.



“WHAT?” He yelled in Her face. “What the fuck could you possibly want?”

Her eyes were wide and not afraid.


“I want you to come back, Draco.”


She was crying. He looked at Her, a long, hard look.


“Why did you do this?”


She sniffled, shrugged.


“Because I believe in you.”





”There are places in the heart that do not yet exist; suffering has to enter in for them to come to be.”



He was certain She loved him back. He’d been such a fool. So fucking stupid, to say those kinds of things to Her. He had went back, but not before completely destroying Her. And it only later occurred to him She didn’t mean back to that room, that office. But, back to Her. And he’d said things. So many things, Things a man can’t say without knowing, innately, they can’t be taken back. Can't ever go back. And it was real. Had to be. After everything, all of it, if it hadn’t absolutely had to happen, it just wouldn’t have. And kept happening, refusing to end. It held all the shadings and complexities of an old, ancient love; perhaps even more. There were no words for it. He just loved Her. Her poise and great dignity. Her temper and indignation. Her resistance and light to his dark and temptation. Her eyes, deep brown like Her hair. Slender and quiet and strong on the inside. More heart than ever necessary, really. Even then, at only twenty. He wanted to live inside of Her. Melt and merge with Her bones, Her breath, Her mannerisms. It was that kind of love. Sometimes, he’ll picture Hermione’s face, and he’ll think, ‘you moron. You weren’t even listening to your own god damn story.’


Because it wasn’t a war story. It was a love story.


And it was his.


Even if he didn’t deserve it, completely.



~





Predictably, the war had not ended with the death of Voldemort. It had taken no time at all for the surviving Death Eaters to reunite and form a coalition. And they were some badass motherfuckers.



Somehow, Potter had managed not to lose his mind when, in the middle of the night, led by Rudulphus Lestrange, the Death Eaters took Ginny Weasley from his bed. And then tortured her, mercilessly, brutally, leaving her severed head (for that was a favourite of theirs, it seemed,) on his doorstep, the message ‘tit for tat’ carved across her pretty face.



Draco had been fortunate enough to witness her death. He thought himself fortunate because it had been the moment he’d first hated anyone for the sake of someone else. It was a big, huge, monumental step.



The thrill they’d gotten from her pain, from trying to break her, had made him vomit on his shoes countless times. Draco had been the one assigned to watch her. In her last hours, she spoke to him. Nonsensical, incoherent ramblings, about how she had finally given Potter her virginity. That they’d spent three wonderful days together as a couple. That she’d finally felt that he was hers, completely hers, and thank God, thank God above, she finally got to feel that before….



She sobbed. Wept. Cried hysterically. Told him Harry would blame himself, would never forgive himself. Draco marveled at the fact that she could even find it in herself to give a shit what the fuck potter would do in this moment. Potter was safe, and she was about to fucking die.



He’d swallowed, thick, when she asked him.


“Malfoy….”



He’d heard her voice only after several moments passed from when she’d spoken.



“Will you kill me?”


And meek, was the word that came to mind.


“Kill me,” she pleaded.



Her throat was too hoarse. He could barely hear her. They had come several hours ago, stretching her torture on and on for what felt like forever until they grew bored with her refusal to react.



There were moments where Draco wished she would just scream, cry, beg, already. Just give them what they want. But then they gave up, and left, and in the quiet triumph that followed, that secretly, he shared with her, he thought for a moment he understood.



“…What?”



“P-pretend I’m Pansy. And that you care for me. Love me. I’m, I’m your girl, Draco. You don’t want Pansy to suffer, right? You don’t want her to hurt anymore, do you?”



She was breathing raggedly.


And so he tried. Tried imagining his lifelong friend in this state, but promptly choked on air.



“Fuck Pansy,” he spat, because it was easier. Than explaining that he was too weak.



“Okay….” she whispered.


“Okay. Pretend I’m Hermione, then.”



Draco had started, appalled by her insinuation, horrified at the notion that she thought—


“You hate her, right? She’s filthy. A … a mud… A-a mudbl--, Oh, God. Oh godohgodohgod, I can’t believe I almost said that.”



(What was it with people and that fucking word?)



Suddenly, she broke.


Perhaps she’d known that it was coming. Perhaps she had asked for one ounce of mercy from him. Had not been able to bear witnessing it, not even herself. And predictably, he failed.



She was crying pathetically now, her hands ripping at the ropes that tied them behind her back, still sitting bolt upright in the wooden chair they’d placed her in seventy-eight hours before.



And so he did. He did imagine it was Granger, sitting there, too weak to hold Her head up. No more defiant tilt of Her chin. Filthy. No more Lavender. Just, breaking, like this, in front of him, and for a moment he realized it just as easily could have been. And he felt absolutely compelled to act straight away.



It shook him, a little, when he found himself standing before Her, his wand pressed tight to Her neck.



“Do it,” She pleaded. “Please, God, do it. Don’t let them be the ones to do it, please, Draco please, God please….” She was pressing Her neck closer still into his wand. Digging into it as if for comfort.



He closed his eyes. And it was all wild brown hair, and long lashes. Prim petticoats and quiet composure. Sunsets over mountains and it was all disgraced. It was all broken and falling down in front of him in a crumbling heap of golden dusted cheeks.



Draco Malfoy was looking at Hermione Granger when he killed Ginny Weasley, and he never heard her thank him. Tell him he was good, that he did know mercy. That he would be just fine.





“One day your life will flash before your eyes. Make sure it’s worth watching.”



He hears the noises long before he recognizes what they are. Battle cries, screaming, stone being hit with curses, and he thinks maybe this is it. The final battle, truly and really this time. He thinks maybe he will just die here, just wither away, and be the last to go. They’d all kill each other, and he would be the last. It lasts’ many, many hours, and he falls asleep several times throughout. Always waking to the continuous sound until it becomes almost natural. It is a long, long time before he sees the light. And then Her. He swallows, thickly, as he feels his last bit of consciousness ebbing away.



He remembers.



~




Their first time had been … so. Different. From everything he’d ever known. The way She tasted, smelled, felt, moved. Just so different.



She was looking at him like the answer to a prayer.



“Look at me Draco.”


“I am.”


"No, I mean … look at me.”



He nodded. Licked his dry lips.



“Okay.”


“Tell me what you see.”



Her chest was heaving. He saw firm, delicate flesh and flushed pink nipples. He saw a creamy valley he wanted to lick.



“ I … looking at you, I see … all the things I never wanted to. And so it’s hard. It’s so fucking hard to look at you.”



A tear was making its slow journey from Her eye down to Her hair.



“I see Courage. And choices. And mercy, and strength, and dignity. Maturity and innocence. So many fucking contradictions it drives me insane. “



He breathed in deeply as she guided him inside. But he kept talking, even as her hips swirled and she moaned and he grunted, he kept talking.



“I see power, and beauty.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek, the saltiness of her tear tingling his lips. He licked it away.

“I see bravery and intelligence, and, oh god yes, that feels good.”


Perfect. It felt perfect.



“Touch me, Draco,” She murmured, slowly tossing her head back and forth, thrown back slightly, eyes shut tight. And that flush.



His hands found Her perfect, round breasts.



‘”You feel so good,”


He knew she would.



He gently massaged Her breasts as he slid in an out of Her, the most delicious amount of friction as he did so. It was all like in slow motion. And hot. So warm on his skin. They were fevered.



“You feel better,” She murmured, gasping slightly when he delicately pinched a nipple.



“Look at me,” he said.



She did. Their eyes locked, and he quickened his pace, giving it more meaning, never letting Her eyes leave his. Overwhelmed, he suddenly grabbed Her hip, his other hand already tangled in Her hair, and leaned down, all the way to Her, to kiss her lips completely.



His tongue met Hers like an explosion, and they moaned into one another’s mouths. It was the most incredible feeling Draco had ever known.



‘Yes, that’s It,” She panted, Her hands, which had been sliding slowly up and down his back suddenly gripped his shoulders, Her fingernails digging into his skin. He grunted, the mood in the air changing as they both found the ultimate pleasure in one another and forgot all else.



Draco found he could no longer hold his head up. He fell down on Her, still thrusting into Her. He tucked his head deeply into Her neck. Breathed Her in so deeply, as he felt Her walls suddenly convulse around him. And Glory be, She was crying out his name.



He shuddered, bit down, refused to show his face lest She see him crying, and came into Her.



For long, never-ending moments, he stayed like that, heavy on top of Her, and when he went to move, She told him no, that she liked it. And so they sat like that until She fell asleep, him holding Her tightly, kissing Her. Her lips, Her eyes, Her golden dusted cheeks.



No words exchanged. There usually weren’t between them, for most things. They both knew each word to get under the others skin, just as well as they understood the silences between them.



When he was sure She was sleeping, he slid from Her, a sweaty, tired mess, and smiled. He looked at Her, watched the sunrise over Her face, and Draco thought of mountains.



He’d climbed so many in his life. He thought that this might be the only view he’d ever climbed to reach.







“Every man dies - Not every man really lives.”



The door creaks open slowly, and he thinks he smells Her first, and then realizes She’s there. She’s hovered over him, weeping into his bare chest.


“I’m so sorry,” She murmurs. “Draco, I’m so sorry, but I’m so happy, and oh, God.”


She’s crying completely now, entirely overwhelmed.


“I’m so happy you’re alive.”


He smiles. Opens his eyes, and realises, he is too.



“They all thought…. But I knew, Draco. I knew.”



Draco Malfoy was looking at Hermione Granger. And this whole life thing? His, and Hers?



Yeah, he knew.