The Gift Of My Thoughts

Draco,

You once told me you never knew what I was thinking, how I felt. I always did find that rather ironic coming from you. I pondered those words so many times - I found it so hard to believe you truly wanted to know.

For some reason I felt I had be careful with you, I feared that if you only knew the truth, that one day you would change your mind. That you would decide I wasn't pretty enough, or smart enough, that I wasn't pure enough - that I just wasn't enough.

So I never did tell you. But you told me. You once said you both hated and loved me at the same time. I knew how you felt. I felt it too, and yet I never said it. I'm sorry, Draco. I am.

It kills me to think of what you did for me. I, who accused you of indecision, made the wrong choice. And you, you who I feared would one day hurt me, saved me. You made your choice and sometimes I wish you hadn't.

If ever you read this, if ever you awake and read this, if you still remember me and even if you don't; I need you to know that I love you. I hate you and I love you.

But I do love you, and to prove it...

A solitary tear stole down the hollow of her cheek, splattering onto the wet ink of the page where it pooled over one loopy letter letting its blackness bleed into the parchment. The quill in her shaking hand stilled as her body fought to control the shuddering bleakness that threatened to overtake her.

Her bleary gaze scanned the inscription page at the front of her diary, tracing the dark curves of her penmanship. Writing in it had always brought her clarity and contentment - now it served only as a painful reminder of all she had gambled and lost.

Its worn pages were filled with her thoughts, her life was in that diary - he was in that diary. Her anger, her frustration, lust and admiration for him bled through the pages. Everything she never told him.

The girl laughed bitterly at the thought, recalling how he had first come to grace those pages.

They had both been Heads of the school, reluctant to be civil in any capacity. Heated arguments and veiled threats had bounced between the two. Oh, how she had hated him. At the same time, however, and much to her irritation, a grudging respect had formed. He may have been a git but he was an intelligent git nonetheless.

She had quickly learnt how considerably she had underestimated his intellect. Somehow their arguments had developed into long discussions and intense debates. They had by no means bonded over these talks and their mutual hatred for one another had not been alleviated.

In truth it was more the idea of the other that they had disliked, for honestly, they had known so little of one another as to warrant loathing in its purest form. How could a person truly hate someone they did not know? Slowly, though, those feelings too passed.

They discussed books and music and politics. Neither was eager to admit the extent of which they thrived on those stimulating dialogues - for in that regard they were most definitely equal.

Despite insisting they could care less about one another, neither could resist the urge to scan any room they entered for a familiar pair of cerulean grey or chocolate brown eyes, respectively.

There had been something deliciously thrilling about their secret interactions. She was never quite sure when she had stopped loathing him entirely. In any case, she had. She could have consulted the swirling ink-filled pages of her diary to establish that, but even then she was not sure it was truly definable.

Somehow the days had blended and her feelings of contempt and frustration had dissolved into curiosity and intrigue, which in turn became something else entirely.

The girl closed her eyes, attempting to halt the salty pearls which threatened to track down her cheeks. She recalled the first time he had kissed her;

They has been arguing, as they always were, nothing would change that. They had been standing very close to one another, each taking turns to yell in indignation about some trivial issue. His vastly more imposing stature had done nothing to intimidate her. Stubborn as she was, she never knew when to back down.

So he kissed her.

Suddenly, swiftly and surprisingly gently considering the rage his demeanour had expounded mere seconds before. He had later told her it had been instinctive - the only way he could think of to shut her up. Needless to say; it had worked.

In the months that came to pass there had been more yelling and more kissing. It seemed for the two of them those actions were intrinsically linked. She remembered his touch; and the way his feather light caress could make her ache and whimper. And he too would dissolve into gelatinous incoherence when sated.

Oh, how she hated him, hated that he had that effect on her, hated the irony that it was Draco-bloody-Malfoy and not someone else - anyone else. But mostly she hated the fact that she loved him, painfully at times. But she had never told him that.

Fear had that effect on people. And she had had much to fear. She had feared what he would have said in response. Feared he would tell her he did not love her. Feared he would tell her he did. This was a man that fate had cruelly destined to be the one she would always want and could never possibly have. Not in the way she would have hoped, not in the way she could have had someone else.

After all, what would it have mattered if he had loved her in the end? She was Harry Potter's best friend; he was Lucius Malfoy's only son. They lived in a world where the line in the sand was cast; good and evil.

She had always known her place, where she belonged, where she wanted to stand. He, on the other hand, was caught in the middle of a war he did not believe in. In truth he cared not whether the entire Order of the Phoenix (and with particular vindictive pleasure; Harry, died). Though he would not have been the one to raise his wand and utter the curse.

And so they had been left - a pureblood and muggleborn - in quite the predicament. She had known the struggle he fought with her heritage. She had also known that despite his views on the purity (or lack thereof) of her blood it had not halted his feelings for her.

But that had been very well when secured within the cushioned parameters of the castle; beyond those secure walls it would have been very different indeed.

And that was why she had ended their affair.

It had been on the night of their graduation ball. Her and her fellow sevenths year students were official graduates of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. They had graduated to the real world, and she had known she would not have been able to cope with seeing what they had had being destroyed in that kind of volatile environment.

She had thought it better kept as a perfect and untarnished memory. She had thought she could escape then, before she got hurt. Oh, how naïve that notion had been. They had argued - their last argument - but there had been no feverish kisses and impassioned responses to follow. No. Instead there had been tears. It seemed she had not saved herself from the pain.

He had been shocked, she recalled; winded rather than angry at first. As though he had been punched in the gut, it was a wrenching kind of pain. She had known because she had felt it too.

He had almost laughed at what must have seemed to him to be a highly ironic situation.

'I fucking love you,' he had said, still reeling from shock. 'Where the fuck have you been for the last year, Granger? Was it just me? Was I in this on my own?'

His voice had broken slightly as his anger had dissipated; giving way to weary disbelief as he frantically dragged his hand through his hair. 'Dear God, was I?' He had whispered, as though to himself.

She had only managed to choke out a feeble apology before fleeing the room, lest her anguished tears betrayed her.

She had felt his presence in the Great Hall that whole night. Merlin, how it had nearly killed her. Time had passed in a blur and so she could barely recollect the moment when her world had began to come apart at the seams.

There had been no warning. No clue. Death Eaters had just erupted into the Great Hall, wands at the ready. There had been no time to think as the screams and shouts of curses both offensive and defensive had echoed in the vast space.

She knew not whether it had been minutes, hours or days since their arrival when that one moment had stilled and the very edges of her world began to fray. The pixelated image seemed to run slowly in her mind.

There had been a laugh from behind her, a wand raised and a curse muttered and then blocked by the lithe, black robed figure which had suddenly shielded her. He had raised his hand grazing her cheek. His steely gaze had softened and held hers before his body slumped.

Her heart rate had stopped and her blood had run cold. Gazing up at the culprit, a witch who by that stage had looked horrified at having accidentally cursed the son of one of Voldemort's leading henchmen, she retaliated before crumbling in a heap beside him.

She had laid her head on his chest, shaking violently before she felt the faint thud of his heart beat.

The girl took in a steadying breath before gazing across the clinical little room to where he lay prostrate in the white, hospital linens, still unconscious. That night had been a little over a month ago and she was still unsure as to how she had managed to get the two of them out of Hogwarts alive. All she knew was that luck and determination had seen her drag the dead weight of his body, ducking curses that had not been aimed at her, until she had reached the grounds and eventually the first point from where she could apparate them to safety.

And so there he was, and there he had been for the last 32 days. Asleep. At peace; she hoped - for she would not wish on anyone the anguish and turmoil that stewed within her. The war was over and tomorrow Draco Malfoy would be taken back to Malfoy Manor where he would receive further care under the watchful eye of his widowed mother Narcissa.

She knew she would never see him again and gasping for oxygen at the thought, she felt a final tear slide down her chin before dropping on to the open page. She dipped the quill into the jar of ink once more and wrote the last lines of her letter before sealing the diary and burying it at the bottom of his trunk. Approaching his form she placed a silver key locket around his neck, pausing to brush a strand of hair off his forehead before running from the room.

She thought about that final goodbye. The words which had been smudged by tears, though still legible had read;

...Draco, I give to you the gift of my thoughts.

Yours Now and Always

Hermione