Burning Eden

//So if you want to love me, then darling don't refrain

Else we'll both end up walking in the cold November rain//

She follows her daily pattern as routinely as ever. Breakfast is eaten, dishes washed, she washes and dresses herself and then goes off to work. Outwardly she is the same woman she's always been. Inside, her heart is bleeding and her emotions hang in tatters. It has been one week since she left him alone in that alley, walked away from him and the only touch of a man who could ever make her feel alive.

Her mind is constantly lost in her memories of that night; the words they had whispered, the soft touches of his skin against hers, and the burning in the paradise of his eyes as she had walked away from him. But he'd not asked her to stay with him, and so she hadn't.

Hermione knows that it's quite possibly her Gryffindor pride that is preventing her from seeking him out and resolving their differences. It could, of course, be fear. Fear of him rejecting her in the same icy cool manner that had prevented him from asking her to stay in the first place. And so it remained a solitary night: abandoned from becoming anything more because of an incredulous fear, or a stubborn pride.

And two lost and unforgettable November nights, divided by one year, are acceptable because of their grievances, like a dream or a salacious fantasy... Lost in the depths of a rain filled night, she and Draco were allowed to touch like lovers, to let quivering lips fall upon trembling flesh and join together as if they loved each other. Two lost souls illuminated by the stars and protected by kisses in the shadow of night. But now, in the harsh and cruel light of day realities must be faced and choices considered for the practicality's sake, and not just for the hearts of two broken lovers.

Hermione lies on her bed and knows the tears she is crying are useless even as they run salty rivers down her face, yet she cannot stop them. A year ago she had wept over the very same man, and her latest encounter with him has cut deeper than ever before-- a sharp knife twisting in her gut, replacing the dull ache that had poured from her heart since the last time they touched.

A knock at the door drags her away from her numbing thoughts, and Hermione makes her way through the narrow hallway to answer it. She pastes on her best smile on her face because she assumes it is one of her friends and they will ask questions to which she won't have the answer should she look morose. She opens the door slowly, but abandons it half open as her eyes meet those on the other side of the doorway. Her heart hammers in her chest and her faux-happy expression melts into one of shock.

"Draco," she greets her visitor softly.

**

Draco's facial expression is blank, but his eyes are burning with anticipation, and something he doubts even he could place. He exhales nervously, and berates himself for his unusual behaviour. Isn't it enough that he has swallowed his pride to purposely seek her out, let alone to be nervous about it?

His posture stiffens as he watches her taking him in. His own eyes widen as he assesses the change she has gone through in just a week: Gone is the sleek and somewhat ambiguous beauty of the woman she had been. The Hermione before him is sad and soft with wide-open and honest eyes, her soul seeping from the very depths of those chocolate brown pools that Draco can feel himself getting lost in. Her hair is bound in a loose braid. Her eyes are glistening with unshed tears. Her face is slightly drawn, but a soft blush reddens her cheeks. Had their encounter affected her as much as it had him? His heart leaps at the hope that his efforts in coming are not completely futile.

Draco realises, slowly, that he has been staring at Hermione for several moments, but has yet to say a word of greeting. He tries to speak, but fails to find the words. He motions towards the half open door, and Hermione steps aside to let him pass. Her eyes do not leave his.

They move slowly into the lounge, and stand facing each other, words elusive between them; lost somewhere between heartbreak and hell.

She licks her lips self-consciously, unnerved by his presence and her own anxiety. It isn't like the first time, where they'd shared an unspoken agreement that they would meet again a year on. This was unprecedented, and his presence unexpected in a place that was her territory.

His eyes slowly regard hers and his own breath hitches as he watches her nervous intake of breath. It seems an eternity between one breath and the next, and still they do not speak.

Her mere presence causes his heart to beat heavily in his chest, and plunder his mind with incomprehensible emotions. He surges forward until they are only breath apart; one daring dart of his head would leave his lips brushing against hers. Hermione closes the gap for him; tilts her head to the left, slightly, and sweeps her lips against his.

The sweetness of her lips against his is too much for Draco. For too long they have been separated-- or so it seems. Like star-crossed, fairy-tale lovers whose hearts had been long denied, they are once again allowed to indulge in the taste of each other's love. Her lips are soft and pliant beneath his, and her body moulds against his. She moans as his tongue delves between her lips, and for a moment she indulges in the feeling of the once-lost lust between them.

Draco sags into her. Only then does she despair, and realise the lunacy of the situation. She pulls away, and her breath hitches. "Draco..." she whispers, yet he doesn't reply. Pulls her closer to him again, cradles her in his arms but doesn't kiss her. Despite his desire, he knows it's not what she needs. She needs words, comfort, reassurance that he won't leave her. He knows that she is too blinded by fear to feel those in his kisses.

Draco can't find the words, though. Can't tell how much he wants her, needs her, and not just in the now but how he wants to be with her for the rest of eternity. Years of apathy have now given way to an expanse of emotion, and he is ill equipped to deal with it. Words escape him, but not her, apparently.

"You can't do this to me," she tells him brokenly. "It's not fair." She remains standing in his arms, stiff, uncomfortable. He does not release her.

"You're the one who does it, Hermione," he whispers against her hair. "You're the one who doesn't stay."

"You never truly meant it when you asked me to," she accuses desperately, and her body sags against his. She has nothing left in her to fight him with.

"Stay with me," he asks, almost sure it is an already futile question. Her brief silence is answer enough. He releases her, slowly, trying to relish the last moments with her in his arms. He is dreading goodbye.

As his arms fall to his sides, she does not move. Statue-still she stands, her eyes downcast. Their relationship - if one could call it that - lies in her hands now, she alone can decide whether they attempt to be together. All of a sudden she understands why Draco never asked her to stay; it is too difficult to ask him to fight years of loathing her kind, too difficult to imagine how her friends might react, too painful to try and adjust to each other, to know each other without pain-lanced quills inking upon their relationship.

Draco, upon seeing her lack of reaction, slowly steps back and begins his walk out of the flat, his journey out of her life. It is only because of his own deathly silent melancholy that he hears her swallow harshly and rasp out his name. He spins toward her slowly, almost unsure as to whether her quiet whisper was real, or the own masochistic nature of his mind. He would not doubt either.

Her eyes meet his, and she watches him cautiously from beneath wet lashes. She waits for a moment, still unsure, terrified of what a life with him may bring, but equally afraid of the idea of her world without him. She's not sure she could survive either.

Draco's eyes remain locked with hers. He knows she knows what he wants, he knew from the moment he stepped through the threshold of her home that he never wanted to leave. He waits for her answer, unable to move toward her or flee.

"Draco," she whispers again, and takes a small step forward. "Stay."

His eyes widen in a disbelieving hope, and he steps forward to meet her and holds his hand out to hers. He is not a romanticist by any means, nor a poet or a man fond of insipid ideas of starry-eyed splendour, but for her he is sure he would rearrange the stars to spell out sonnets, if only to keep the wondrous hope in *her* eyes from fading.

She falls into his open arms, partly because she doesn't think she can hold herself up on jelly-legs, and partly because she longs for him. She lifts her head and offers her lips to his, falling further into his embrace when their lips touch. Softly. Lovingly.

Draco gives himself unto this kiss like no other he has shared with her because this holds something more, promise. His tongue brushes her lips and begs entrance, sweeping expertly into the warm cavern of her mouth. A throaty moan escapes his lips as he indulges in the warmth of her. Draco slips his arms around her, holding her tighter still and she allows his arms to encompass her softly, letting his embrace extend to her whole body. Her eyes close as she sinks into him.

They fall -- half stumbling, softly whispering -- into the bedroom. They make love, and it is the first time. Not the first fuck, as the sheets on his bed still remember the echoes of frantic movements of flesh on flesh beneath satin sheets, and a dirty wall in Soho still has crushed rubbish at its feet. This is the first time they make love, with the intimate whisperings of skin moving softly against skin in a world lost somewhere between love and elation.

Hermione trembles as he enters her, through nerves or love or arousal neither know but both delight. Their wavering hands caress one another and desire engulfs them like a flame. Their caresses give way to frantic movements, and it is not long before he is shuddering atop her, his hand working feverishly to bring her to climax before him.

When he finishes, they do not separate, finding a soft pleasure in the most intimate of touches. They fall asleep, embracing peacefully.

**

When they wake, Hermione smiles and brushes his sweat-damp hair from his forehead. The smile Draco gives her in return is something of a rarity, though she hopes she will see more of its brilliance. It is still dark. Though Hermione feels well rested, the clock on the wall tells her that it is still before midnight. If all time spent with Draco is drawn out in this long, wondrous haze, then, she decides, she will gladly spend her every breath with him.

In a moment of idiocy she suggests they go out for a walk. "Just for a little while," she insists.

Draco is silent for a moment and listens to the constant pitter-patter of the rain outside. "We'll get soaked and freeze to death," he protests.

"Don't be quite so melodramatic." She smiles easily and realises this is what a proper relationship is like, bantering, playful. "If we do get cold then we'll just have to warm each other up when we get back."

Draco's answer is a laugh and a kiss. It is not until a further hour as passed that they eventually leave the warm comfort of Hermione's flat. Both leave their cloaks, with wands in the pockets on the bedroom floor, content to find warmth in Hermione's earlier suggestion when they get back.

They hold hands as they walk out into the street, whispering softly to one another. Hermione cannot remember a time she has felt this good, this free. She laughs when he whispers in her ear how much he wants to be back in bed with her, a feels a tingle of delight creep up her spine when he kisses the back of her ear.

The sweet November rain continues to fall from the sky, but neither dislikes the cool wetness against the skin. Hermione releases his hand momentarily to step forward, her face raised towards the heaven to feel its tears against her face. She smiles as Draco grasps for her hand and pulls her towards him. She allows him to do so and cannot find it in herself to object as he pulls her back towards her flat, even thought they have just left. They do not make it. Their clasped hands part through their slippy-wetness, and without the support pulling her towards the building, Hermione stumbles backwards, staggering into the dark road.

Draco spins around, half amused and half concerned. "You ok, Hermione?" he asks. Her name is still on the tip of his tongue when Draco's world begins to crumble amongst the terrifying reality of a scream, the screech of wheels and a dull thud of a body falling to the floor. Before his eyes, Draco watches as Hermione's body is struck down by a red muggle automobile, and slumps to the ground. The damned muggle vehicle continues speeding down the quiet street, and Draco is left staring at Hermione's prone body.

Draco falls to his knees within seconds of the car speeding away, though it feels like a lifetime of waiting for her to move. Without the aid of his wand - locked upstairs in her flat - he has no idea as to the extent of her injuries or how to salve them. Slowly, he rolls her over so she is lying in his lap, cold from the suddenly chilling rain. He has not the words to ease the frown on her face, a sign of her discomfort. He holds her securely and brushes her curls from her face. It is the longest moment of his life in which he waits for her to move.

Hermione stirs slightly and opens her eyes. Her vision is blurred; her head is pounding. Draco's eyes - filled with fright - and her own blackening vision tell her she has little hope left. "I'm sorry," she chokes and lifts her hand to wipe a tear from his face. "I'm sorry for not having a chance to love you."

"Sshhh, don't say that," he tells her, but he knows it is hopeless. She is dying in his arms and there is nothing he can do to save her.

"I'm so sorry, Draco." Her hand slumps to her side. Her eyes glaze over and she finds it hard to focus on his tear soaked face. Her last thought is that she wished to see him smile.

**

It is early December, and from inside a muggle pub a man is watching snowflakes fall outside. His face is young but his eyes are old, dark with unshed tears. There are no words to console his broken heart.

-- finis.