Promises

Promises

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He had promised to kill her, and she knew it would happen eventually. She knew she would be dead by those hands, those beautiful, silk hands. The hands that she knew as well as her own would be the ones to slay her.

"One day, I will kill you" he had said. "One day, I will kill you with my bare hands." And she had smiled and kissed him, because she knew he was joking. But, he was not joking; he would kill her, and she knew it. She knew it at the time, when he said it, too, but she refused to let herself believe it.

But now, she had to believe it, she had to know it would happen. The day was getting closer. What was the point of fighting it? She knew it would happen, no matter what she did to stop it; to run away, to try and kill him before he killed her, it would never work. He said he would kill her, and he would. He had always kept his promises.

She leisurely washed the her own blood off her hands. The whole house was empty and quiet. It was eerie, she couldn't stand it. She screamed. It was just something she had to get out of her, or that's what she told herself. Truthfully, she was scared. Scared of the silence, not him, the silence.

When the blood was more then gone, she was forced to look in the mirror. Her head went up, lids tightly shut. She gingerly opened her eyes, dreading what she knew she would see. And she saw exactly it. There were scratches and cuts all over her face. Dried blood and dirt covered her cheeks and neck. The gore extended to more than her face, but she did not have the will to stay standing much longer. So, gradually and delicately she cleaned and nurtured her face.

"How are you doing?" The sudden sound made her jump slightly. She had thought the mansion empty.

"Okay. You?"

"I wasn't injured," he said calmly.

She nodded, continuing to clean off her face.

"Let me help you with that," he said and walked out of the door frame to stand behind her. He gently placed his hands on her upper arm and slowly moved them down toward her hands.

She tried to stare at the wet cloth in her hand, but when his hand reached it and attempted to take it out away from her, she gulped and turned her head around to face him. "I got it," she said, quickly.

He backed away slowly, nodding. "Okay."

She turned back to the mirror and put the damp rag to her face. She delicately washed for another five minutes, every few seconds daring a glance at him through the mirror standing behind her. All he did was wait there, staring at her with a glint of lust in his eye.

She had saved the cut on her lip for last, so that it would be longer before he took her in his arms and kissed her. But now that he was watching her, and she had cleaned the rest of her face, she knew she had to start on it. She took a deep breath and began on it.

"Is something wrong, love?"

"Huh?" she turned completely around to look at him.

"I said is something wrong," he stated again.

"Oh. No, nothing. Everything's fine." She turned back around.

"Yes, there is something wrong. I know you too well, darling," he responded, flashing a sweet smile. "You know, you can talk to me about anything."

"It's nothing!" she snapped back at him.

"Right, sorry," he said and left the bathroom.

She sighed in relief, glad to be rid of him. She finished cleaning her face and stripped for the shower. Then she locked the door.

She joined him in the bedroom with wet hair. She always felt better after a shower. It was almost as if she forgot all that had happened, ever.

Smiling slightly, she made her way to the bed where he lay. She always liked him in this position, he was the vulnerable one, instead of her. He lay on his back, no shirt, only khaki slacks. The white sheets were tattered underneath him and the candles, oddly enough, were set to dim. The Old Victorian aged room was beautiful, even though she knew it all was fake; she didn't care. He was there, that was all that mattered.

They had laid next to each other under the sheets, he had held her close to him, smelled her freshly washed then mangled hair, wanted to memorize the aroma. She had whispered to him:

"You remember how you told me you would kill me with your bare hands?"

"Yes."

"Do you promise?"

"You really want me to make that promise?"

"Yes."

"Then yes, I promise."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

This night, they lay next to each other, her holding him, because she did not want to lose him. She did not want him to lose her, either, but she knew that would happen, regardless. He whispered to her:

"You remember how I promised you I would kill you with my bare hands?"
"Yes."

"Do I always keep my promises?"

"You really want me to answer that?"

"Yes."

"Then yes, you do."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Later they moved to the library to read. But he couldn't concentrate, not with her there to distract him. Just her being in the house was enough to divert his attention from the task. And here, was worse, they were in the same chair. He was curled up on her lap, more comfortable then he had ever been before.

"Promise me something," he suddenly said

"Promise you what?"

"Anything."

"I promise you will not kill me with your bare hands."

"But that would mean me breaking my promise. How can you make that happen?"

"I have my ways," she smiled.

He smiled back at her and kissed her. He knew she had never kept a promise in her life, and he had never broken one. He was safe in her arms, that's all that was important right now, being in her arms.

Draco Malfoy stood at her funeral dressed in all black. His face was solemn; he never gave a thought to the many other dismal faces staring at his. He just wanted to be alone with her. He just wanted to stand there, staring at her tombstone. He just wanted to read it over and over until it was the only thing written on his brain, the only thing he would ever think of. He never wanted to forget her, never wanted to forget her promise.

'She always kept her promises'

Hermione Granger

1989-2016

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fin