Reviews: 12 | Table of Contents | - Text Size +
Ugh, there’s Malfoy, the son of a bloody Death Eater, probably a Death Eater himself according to Harry. There’s no one around, not his entourage, not a teacher in sight; he’s all alone. What can he really do to me? All I have to do is stick my foot out and...
As Draco Malfoy’s foot touched the bottom step of the staircase, someone else’s foot caught his ankle, sending his arms forward to catch his fall and all of his books and quills flying. He landed with a thud a split-second before all of his belongings crashed onto the stone floor around him. He heard his ink bottle smash in his bag. Sure enough, a large black stain began to grow in size in the corner of his expensive leather school bag.
A snarl ripping from his throat, he pushed himself from the floor and pulled his wand from his robes in one swift motion. Before he even pointed in the direction of his attacker, he heard words in a female voice and knew, merely from the hex being used, who had been the one to trip him. She had used this jinx on him once before, and he wasn’t keen on experiencing it again.
Instead of wasting time with a block, he ducked to the side. Ginny’s eyes widened once she realised his bogies had not turned to bats and attacked his face, and he was now pointing his wand at her. This was not how it was supposed to go.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to buy me a new bag then, eh Weasley? Might just empty the old family vault,” Draco said with a sneer, though half-hearted.
She still had her own wand pointed at him, and she was hardly the type of girl to back down. She opened her mouth and began to lift her arm to strike the air, but Draco’s empty hand came up so fast, she had hardly begun to make a sound before his fingers wrapped around her throat. Quickly dropping his wand, he grabbed her raised right wrist with his left hand and brought it down to her side, digging his slim fingers into her closed ones until she lost her grip. The sound of a thin piece of wood clattered against stone. Her other hand hanging uselessly at her side balled into a fist and she brought it up with the intention of bashing the side of his head, but he pushed roughly against her neck until her back hit the wall beside the staircase, hard. She gasped in surprise, her fist loosening, and he grabbed her other wrist and held her hands bound in front of her in his own.
And then she looked into his eyes.
He held his face six inches from hers, his pale skin flushed to a light pink, his pointed features scrunched into an expression she had assumed to be anger. Until she saw the red of his eyes, setting off the icy grey shades that retained so much distress, her strangled breath caught. His face was contorted into a shape of agony.
“See what you made me do?” he whispered, his hold on her strong.
And still he held her there. She didn’t know what to do. His hold on her neck made it too difficult to speak. His eyes bored into hers, pleading with her for something. So she did the only thing she could think of.
Lunging forward against the burning pressure of his fingers on her neck, she brushed her lips to his. His eyes widened a fraction, and to her relief, his grip loosened. Having thought she would start screaming bloody murder once her voice was free, struggled, kicked, anything at all, she felt mildly surprised that all she seemed able to do was to continue standing there. Their eyes were still locked, his pain calling to her, rooting her to the spot. He looked at her as if he had found something, something he needed so desperately that she didn’t dare take it away. His fingers ran up her throat, over her chin, and lightly touched her lips. She took in a quiet gasp as he lingered, and then slid his fingers over her cheek. His other hand had long since released her wrists and had come up to capture her other cheek. Her face in his hands, she gazed mesmerised into the frosty layers of intensity with bated breath.
How long they held their breath she couldn’t tell, probably a few seconds, but in the eternity of relief that he found in her eyes, a class was released, and the noise began to make its way towards them. Their spell broken, he abruptly let her go, grabbed his books, and walked away swiftly without another glance her way. She watched him leave, her fingers coming up to touch her lips, and was startled by the relief she felt from the pressure.
That was when it had started. Through the climax of the Second War and the downfall of Voldemort, they purposefully forgot about one another, about the moment they shared. It was insignificant, unimportant, and entirely inappropriate. Ginny put aside the pain and fear she saw in his eyes the year he terrorised Hogwarts with his assassination attempts on Dumbledore, and Draco put aside the absolute calm he felt in his heart when he forgot himself in her still gaze. Calm he had never felt before, and would never really feel again.
Denying himself any thought of her, his needs were released in his sleep. One night, he wrenched himself once again from the dream he had been having for years and realised that he was in love with her. She had been there again, beautiful and pure. It was as if he slept in her essence, in the idea of what her warmth would feel like wrapped around him, combing theoretical fingers through his pale, blond hair.
He sat up abruptly in the darkness, drenched in a cold sweat. Astoria stirred beside him, turned her back to him, and settled back into a rhythm of deep breathing. He couldn’t face another day without seeing her, to drink in her face, touch her hair, finally feel her lips to his – apologise for their last meeting if nothing else.
He pushed off the comforter and swung his legs around to the side of the bed. His feet touched the expensive Turkish rug that had been a wedding gift from his mother. He crossed the room in darkness, not bothering to cover his bare torso in his own house. Through the wide and lavishly decorated corridor, down the sweeping staircase, and through the two French doors on the right, he came to his study. Sitting down at his mahogany desk after he lit his lamp, his heart began hammering in his chest. He took a clean piece of parchment from the drawer, uncapped his ink, and picked up his favourite eagle feather quill. Dipping the white tip into the murky blackness, he raised it, and then set it to paper.
Ginny, he began, and it felt all wrong. He couldn’t remember a time he had ever called her by her first name, but how else should he start? He crumpled up the piece of paper, pulled out a fresh one, and then wrote, Ginevra. That was more appropriate. Skipping to the next line, he wrote simply, I’m sorry. He stared at the line. She would never accept an apology from him, especially in a letter. Maybe if he explained? Balling up the parchment, he pulled out a third piece, wrote Ginevra at the top quickly, and then paused. She would want to know immediately who sent this, and would probably look at the bottom for his name before she read further. Would she immediately toss it? He then wrote, Please, don’t throw this out.
Pathetic. He sighed deeply. He knew from observing her that she was compassionate, understanding. If he played to her ability to empathise, she may hear him out; if he told her everything. Could he lay it all out for her, on paper nonetheless: his hatred of his existence, his cowardice? Maybe he could plainly ask her to meet him, and then she could see for herself. Would she come?
He wrote, Meet me at the Muggle pub on Byrne Avenue today at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I have something to tell you that you need to know.
There. He signed it Draco Malfoy, then read it a few more times. It sounded desperate enough that she might just comply. What then? He’d worry about it when it came to that. He folded the note, sealed it into an envelope, and then set out to write her name on the front. He started with Ginevra, and then realised before he set the point of the quill to the parchment that he had been ready to write a ‘W’. Her last name was no longer Weasley, hadn’t been for quite a few years now.
He revised his movements, writing out Potter very slowly and deliberately. The named burned into his eyes, making snakes of misery writhe in his chest. She was living her life, as he was living his, completely separate, nothing to do with the other. The world was as it should be. He hadn’t blinked for a few minutes, and his eyes began to tear. He put the quill down and held the letter with both of his hands. With a sudden rip, he tore the envelope in two. Staring at each piece in turn, one that said Ginevra and the other that said Potter, he came to understand that they must never meet under these circumstances. He spent the next ten minutes ripping the letter to shreds.
Pulling out yet another piece of paper, he wrote one simple line in the very centre: If you love me only in my dreams, let me be asleep forever.
Folding it into thirds, he sealed it with a charm that would only allow her to open it without nasty consequences, and then wrote her name hastily across the front. He thoughtfully glanced at the pile of shredded parchment. Picking up his wand, he twirled it downwards over the small mound. The tiny pieces began to swirl and change colour, until he had transfigured them into one fresh rose, the petals a deep green, with a silver ribbon tied around it. He knew this rose would never die, would always look as if it had been just picked, until the day he himself died. For a moment, he entertained the idea that she might keep it that long.
Attaching the rose to the note, he walked to the window and opened it. He called to his owl, which came promptly from the black night sky. Giving it explicit instructions to deliver its message only when the receiver was completely alone, he sent it on its way. Collapsing back into his chair, he felt as if a small piece of a large burden had been lifted from his shoulders. She was a smart woman, she would probably figure it out, and that was all he really wanted. Disrupting her life was no longer his intention, as long as she was happy with it.
“Daddy?” said a small voice, and a young boy three years of age with platinum blond hair pushed open the door a few inches. He sidled in so that half his body was still obscured, a thumb in his mouth, and he looked to his father with uncertain grey eyes.
Draco’s heart began to melt, and his own unhappiness was no longer important. This little boy in footie pyjamas was his life now.
“What’s wrong, son? Why are you up?” he said kindly as he stood to walk over to Scorpius.
Scorpius’ eyes filled with tears, his thumb still partially in his mouth. “I had an accident,” he whispered, and he looked down at the floor.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Draco soothed as he put his hands underneath Scorpius’ armpits to lift him up. Small arms encircled his neck, and he carried his son out of the study.
As Draco Malfoy’s foot touched the bottom step of the staircase, someone else’s foot caught his ankle, sending his arms forward to catch his fall and all of his books and quills flying. He landed with a thud a split-second before all of his belongings crashed onto the stone floor around him. He heard his ink bottle smash in his bag. Sure enough, a large black stain began to grow in size in the corner of his expensive leather school bag.
A snarl ripping from his throat, he pushed himself from the floor and pulled his wand from his robes in one swift motion. Before he even pointed in the direction of his attacker, he heard words in a female voice and knew, merely from the hex being used, who had been the one to trip him. She had used this jinx on him once before, and he wasn’t keen on experiencing it again.
Instead of wasting time with a block, he ducked to the side. Ginny’s eyes widened once she realised his bogies had not turned to bats and attacked his face, and he was now pointing his wand at her. This was not how it was supposed to go.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to buy me a new bag then, eh Weasley? Might just empty the old family vault,” Draco said with a sneer, though half-hearted.
She still had her own wand pointed at him, and she was hardly the type of girl to back down. She opened her mouth and began to lift her arm to strike the air, but Draco’s empty hand came up so fast, she had hardly begun to make a sound before his fingers wrapped around her throat. Quickly dropping his wand, he grabbed her raised right wrist with his left hand and brought it down to her side, digging his slim fingers into her closed ones until she lost her grip. The sound of a thin piece of wood clattered against stone. Her other hand hanging uselessly at her side balled into a fist and she brought it up with the intention of bashing the side of his head, but he pushed roughly against her neck until her back hit the wall beside the staircase, hard. She gasped in surprise, her fist loosening, and he grabbed her other wrist and held her hands bound in front of her in his own.
And then she looked into his eyes.
He held his face six inches from hers, his pale skin flushed to a light pink, his pointed features scrunched into an expression she had assumed to be anger. Until she saw the red of his eyes, setting off the icy grey shades that retained so much distress, her strangled breath caught. His face was contorted into a shape of agony.
“See what you made me do?” he whispered, his hold on her strong.
And still he held her there. She didn’t know what to do. His hold on her neck made it too difficult to speak. His eyes bored into hers, pleading with her for something. So she did the only thing she could think of.
Lunging forward against the burning pressure of his fingers on her neck, she brushed her lips to his. His eyes widened a fraction, and to her relief, his grip loosened. Having thought she would start screaming bloody murder once her voice was free, struggled, kicked, anything at all, she felt mildly surprised that all she seemed able to do was to continue standing there. Their eyes were still locked, his pain calling to her, rooting her to the spot. He looked at her as if he had found something, something he needed so desperately that she didn’t dare take it away. His fingers ran up her throat, over her chin, and lightly touched her lips. She took in a quiet gasp as he lingered, and then slid his fingers over her cheek. His other hand had long since released her wrists and had come up to capture her other cheek. Her face in his hands, she gazed mesmerised into the frosty layers of intensity with bated breath.
How long they held their breath she couldn’t tell, probably a few seconds, but in the eternity of relief that he found in her eyes, a class was released, and the noise began to make its way towards them. Their spell broken, he abruptly let her go, grabbed his books, and walked away swiftly without another glance her way. She watched him leave, her fingers coming up to touch her lips, and was startled by the relief she felt from the pressure.
That was when it had started. Through the climax of the Second War and the downfall of Voldemort, they purposefully forgot about one another, about the moment they shared. It was insignificant, unimportant, and entirely inappropriate. Ginny put aside the pain and fear she saw in his eyes the year he terrorised Hogwarts with his assassination attempts on Dumbledore, and Draco put aside the absolute calm he felt in his heart when he forgot himself in her still gaze. Calm he had never felt before, and would never really feel again.
Denying himself any thought of her, his needs were released in his sleep. One night, he wrenched himself once again from the dream he had been having for years and realised that he was in love with her. She had been there again, beautiful and pure. It was as if he slept in her essence, in the idea of what her warmth would feel like wrapped around him, combing theoretical fingers through his pale, blond hair.
He sat up abruptly in the darkness, drenched in a cold sweat. Astoria stirred beside him, turned her back to him, and settled back into a rhythm of deep breathing. He couldn’t face another day without seeing her, to drink in her face, touch her hair, finally feel her lips to his – apologise for their last meeting if nothing else.
He pushed off the comforter and swung his legs around to the side of the bed. His feet touched the expensive Turkish rug that had been a wedding gift from his mother. He crossed the room in darkness, not bothering to cover his bare torso in his own house. Through the wide and lavishly decorated corridor, down the sweeping staircase, and through the two French doors on the right, he came to his study. Sitting down at his mahogany desk after he lit his lamp, his heart began hammering in his chest. He took a clean piece of parchment from the drawer, uncapped his ink, and picked up his favourite eagle feather quill. Dipping the white tip into the murky blackness, he raised it, and then set it to paper.
Ginny, he began, and it felt all wrong. He couldn’t remember a time he had ever called her by her first name, but how else should he start? He crumpled up the piece of paper, pulled out a fresh one, and then wrote, Ginevra. That was more appropriate. Skipping to the next line, he wrote simply, I’m sorry. He stared at the line. She would never accept an apology from him, especially in a letter. Maybe if he explained? Balling up the parchment, he pulled out a third piece, wrote Ginevra at the top quickly, and then paused. She would want to know immediately who sent this, and would probably look at the bottom for his name before she read further. Would she immediately toss it? He then wrote, Please, don’t throw this out.
Pathetic. He sighed deeply. He knew from observing her that she was compassionate, understanding. If he played to her ability to empathise, she may hear him out; if he told her everything. Could he lay it all out for her, on paper nonetheless: his hatred of his existence, his cowardice? Maybe he could plainly ask her to meet him, and then she could see for herself. Would she come?
He wrote, Meet me at the Muggle pub on Byrne Avenue today at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I have something to tell you that you need to know.
There. He signed it Draco Malfoy, then read it a few more times. It sounded desperate enough that she might just comply. What then? He’d worry about it when it came to that. He folded the note, sealed it into an envelope, and then set out to write her name on the front. He started with Ginevra, and then realised before he set the point of the quill to the parchment that he had been ready to write a ‘W’. Her last name was no longer Weasley, hadn’t been for quite a few years now.
He revised his movements, writing out Potter very slowly and deliberately. The named burned into his eyes, making snakes of misery writhe in his chest. She was living her life, as he was living his, completely separate, nothing to do with the other. The world was as it should be. He hadn’t blinked for a few minutes, and his eyes began to tear. He put the quill down and held the letter with both of his hands. With a sudden rip, he tore the envelope in two. Staring at each piece in turn, one that said Ginevra and the other that said Potter, he came to understand that they must never meet under these circumstances. He spent the next ten minutes ripping the letter to shreds.
Pulling out yet another piece of paper, he wrote one simple line in the very centre: If you love me only in my dreams, let me be asleep forever.
Folding it into thirds, he sealed it with a charm that would only allow her to open it without nasty consequences, and then wrote her name hastily across the front. He thoughtfully glanced at the pile of shredded parchment. Picking up his wand, he twirled it downwards over the small mound. The tiny pieces began to swirl and change colour, until he had transfigured them into one fresh rose, the petals a deep green, with a silver ribbon tied around it. He knew this rose would never die, would always look as if it had been just picked, until the day he himself died. For a moment, he entertained the idea that she might keep it that long.
Attaching the rose to the note, he walked to the window and opened it. He called to his owl, which came promptly from the black night sky. Giving it explicit instructions to deliver its message only when the receiver was completely alone, he sent it on its way. Collapsing back into his chair, he felt as if a small piece of a large burden had been lifted from his shoulders. She was a smart woman, she would probably figure it out, and that was all he really wanted. Disrupting her life was no longer his intention, as long as she was happy with it.
“Daddy?” said a small voice, and a young boy three years of age with platinum blond hair pushed open the door a few inches. He sidled in so that half his body was still obscured, a thumb in his mouth, and he looked to his father with uncertain grey eyes.
Draco’s heart began to melt, and his own unhappiness was no longer important. This little boy in footie pyjamas was his life now.
“What’s wrong, son? Why are you up?” he said kindly as he stood to walk over to Scorpius.
Scorpius’ eyes filled with tears, his thumb still partially in his mouth. “I had an accident,” he whispered, and he looked down at the floor.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Draco soothed as he put his hands underneath Scorpius’ armpits to lift him up. Small arms encircled his neck, and he carried his son out of the study.
Author notes: Please review!
The quote, "If you love me only in my dreams, let me be asleep forever" is not mine, and was said by someone unknown, but I wrote this one-shot around it. I hope you like it!
The End.
CrystalM is the author of 3 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 5 members. Members who liked Let Me Be Asleep Forever also liked 1261 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 5 members. Members who liked Let Me Be Asleep Forever also liked 1261 other stories.
Leave a Review