Dwindling Pieces

Disintegration

Part 1

It was a cool hand that awoke me this morning, that brought me out of my drowsy slumber. It was a smooth hand that pushed back my hair and lush lips that whispered the morning's greetings into my skin. It was a reminder of where my life is at this point, an offer of happiness given to me by the person who loves me.

But the silk voice that tells me "I'm yours" shatters any hope of this morning being a part of the life I desire. The voice does not belong to the person I love. You never told me that you were mine - no, I was yours and yours alone.

As I opened my eyes, finally startled out of my sleep, light brown hair and even lighter brown eyes invaded my vision, and it took all my might to keep from closing my eyes in disgust. I forced myself to look up and offer the woman sitting on my bed a fraction of a smile, afraid that if I extended it any farther that it would become a grimace. She beamed down at me, reminding me that breakfast would be served in half an hour, and that she was leaving afterward to take our daughter out.

I was tempted to correct her, to remind her that it is her daughter, and not mine. No daughter of mine would have brown eyes; grey like mine, yes; green like yours, yes. But not brown, like hers.

I sat up, allowing the sheets to pool around me, and looked out the window, glaring against the bright morning rays. The weather this morning was completely contradictory to my mood, and I slid grudgingly out of bed and made my way to the washroom.

My wife, for she prefers that I call her so, always complained about my bathroom; she says it reminds her of a Quidditch changing room, complete with several unnecessary shower stalls. She doesn't see the need for multiple sinks and cracked mirrors that are too small to be of any use. She doesn't understand the significance of the whole setting, with lockers in a corner and benches all about the place. She's a fool for not realizing that it is a Quidditch changing room; that it is an exact replica of the changing rooms back at Hogwarts. But then again, she never did attend Hogwarts.

As I stood in the second stall, letting the water beat down on me, I was reminded of our last moments together. We had stood there, hidden in the showers of the Slytherin changing rooms. You had come to me in the dead of night after I had finished flying. You reminded me that I was yours, filling me with your intoxicating desire.

I cannot believe I allowed myself to live through the torture of remembering the way you caressed me as I stood in the shower this morning. The cold tiles against my back and the warm water smothering my face were reminiscent of every touch; every bead of water was your finger tracing my back, feeling every inch of me.

But then her voice pierced my silent torture and echoed throughout the room, and she called me down to breakfast.

*

The sun was high over head when my wife and her daughter arrived back at the Manor, the clouds stirring and dimming the atmosphere. I sat in the dining hall, slowly eating the food the house elves had provided, ignoring the piles of paperwork that sat on the table next to me. I had notified the office yesterday that I would not come in during the weekend to work, but they had insisted on owling me the work that needed my immediate attention. Lawsuits, letters from my clients, inane amounts of files sent by the research department; all were muddled up in my head, and I occasionally took the time to glare at them as I ate.

Footsteps approached, the clicking muffled on the Persian rug lying decoratively on the stone floor, and I was suddenly confronted with brown hair flying in my face and a cool kiss on my cheek. I mentally choked as my wife sat in the chair beside me.

"Good afternoon, Darling."

I nodded, taking the newspaper in her hands. "Afternoon, Wilone."

She smiled softly as I opened up the day's copy of the Daily Prophet. Wilone knew not to disturb me as I read, past experiences of her interruptions still evident in her controlled posture, ready to flee if needed. I scanned the leaves of paper, looking for a name. I skimmed every word of every article, relieved that I couldn't find it. But just as I was about to fold the papers over in triumph, I looked down one last time and saw it. In the corner of the last page, in small print, they dared type your name. I snarled, relief draining and replaced with scorn, and I chucked the paper at the wall.

Even after ten years, they couldn't stand to leave you alone.

Wilone stood up, her dress fluid as she made her way to my chair, placing a hand on my shoulder. I was momentarily surprised that she did not escape to her own place. She must have thought it was comforting, the knowledge that she was there for me. I wanted to shrug her hand off, the heat from the contact like ants invading my skin, the itch nearly unbearable. I wanted to reach up and scratch it, claw at the skin that she contaminated.

After several long, agonizing moments, Wilone had claimed she heard her daughter cry, and I did not stop her from leaving me. But as she walked out of the dining hall, she stopped to pick up the newspaper, setting it lightly on the corner of the table, far away from my reach, but not far enough from my gaze.

I leaned back in my chair, my eyes trained on the paper. It marveled me how the Ministry still mentioned you, ten years after the Dark Lord's defeat. Their hero, you had never failed to be mentioned - you were first on the front page, probably for months, with the news, the excitement and the mystery all entangled in articles that appeared every day. But as the news got old people wanted to hear of newer events, and the editors moved your story to the second page. Then the third, the fourth, the fifth, up until the articles on you dwindled and disappeared. But they never forgot you, and they had to let the public sit and endure their insanity as well - they would always, always name you at least once.

I have wanted to see you fade away - I wake up every morning to make sure you aren't mentioned. But you are, and every day I live in agony, wishing I could eradicate your existence from my life. But every night I fall asleep dreaming of you, and awake every morning thinking of your memory.

For ten years, you've been plaguing my life with your disappearance. I have searched for you everyday since we left Hogwarts, after you ended the war. You left me and I looked for you. I have always thought it was ironic that it was I who was looking for you, when it should have been the other way around.

What kind of owner were you, to have left me hanging?

I have never found you, and after several years, I could no longer think that you were even alive. Your friends hadn't heard from you, and even they had given up on finding you. They claimed that if you wanted to be found, you would be. But that hadn't stopped me, or the Ministry. Nevertheless, we failed to locate you. As the years rolled by, we all simply gave up, though some were content to live with your memory, and constantly reminded the rest of us of that. I had to move on because I couldn't stand being alone, not after being with you.

I sat and stared at nothing in the dining hall this morning, questioning my past choices and decisions. Why had I married Wilone? Was it simply to fill a void that I knew would never be properly replaced? Maybe you would be here at the Manor and not her if you had never disappeared.

But was my life all that bad now?

It confuses me; I had everything I wanted, from an excellent career to a loving wife. Though I didn't necessarily love her back, nor care for her daughter, they still were a part of my life that I thought I could live with. They were routine, and I hated it when routine was broken.

The summons from a house elf startled me out of my thoughts, and I grudgingly made my way to the foyer. It took all my strength to not sneer at the people I found waiting for me there.

Weasley, his towering height included, turned to me as I had entered. His side-kick, Hermione, stood next to him, her arm linked with his. I mentally gagged. It sickens me to see the two of them together. Hermione I can live with in my presence, as I work with her almost daily, but Weasley is the same stubborn, lowly being I have always known him to be.

He had not looked pleased himself as Hermione detached herself from him and had come up to hug me. Though the gesture had caught me off guard, I did not back away. The sight of disgust on Weasley's face made the embrace far more worth the trouble, though I had to remind myself that I didn't mind her anymore.

"Darling, who are these people?"

I groaned inwardly, turning to see my wife standing on the stairs. Wilone's eyes were narrowed dangerously as she took in the sight of Hermione and I embracing. Her disgust nearly matched Weasley's, and I disentangled myself quickly.

"Wilone, this is Hermione Granger, head of the research department at the firm." Wilone nodded curtly, eyeing Hermione's state of casual attire in distaste.

A muffled cough reminded me of the other presence in the room.

"Oh, and this is Ronald Weasley; former peer at Hogwarts and husband to Hermione."

Wilone did not take notice of Weasley's presence. If I have done anything right in my lifetime, it was to have trained that woman well. She knows high class and plebian status by the sheer smell of it.

"What, may I ask, are you doing here, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione glanced scathingly at Wilone, and I had to quirk an eyebrow. Hermione has never been one to be hostile, but it was evident that she did not approve of Wilone. It may have been because she had already met Wilone once, but my wife obviously did not remember her. I coughed slightly, drawing her attention back to me.

"Hermione, what are you doing here? You can't possibly want back the files you sent me this morning; you would have had me owl them to you."

Hermione glanced back at Weasley. He was rudely ignoring both my wife and myself, and I didn't know if I should have been glad at his disapproval of Wilone, or insulted that he dared pretend I wasn't there. He nodded to Hermione, and swiftly made his way toward the doors, letting himself out.

I could hear my wife stop breathing as Hermione stepped closer, her head bowed. She whispered to me, but I could not hear, and had to tilt her face upward to mine. I acted as indifferent as I could when saw her eyes fill with tears as she repeated what she had said. Her voice was unsteady, shaking with over-whelming emotion. I dropped my hand from her face, and had backed away from her, disbelieving. With her head lowered, she nodded and told me again.

Everything that had ever happened to me would never have prepared me for that moment in my life. It was breaking routine, a routine I have tried to hold together alone for nearly ten years.

You were found, and they wanted me to come and see you.

*

This morning seems so far away as I stand here now, behind a glass wall. The atmosphere is bright, the artificial light blinding me as my eyes try to adjust. I close them to keep from hurting, much like how I've closed myself off most of my life, to keep from getting hurt.

But that didn't stop you.

You once told me, as we sat in the sun by the lake at Hogwarts, that people are fickle. You told me that what people want is only what they want until it's theirs.

I had asked you if you were like other people. I asked you if you wanted me and if you would no longer want me once you had me.

You turned to me then and grinned, a mischievous sort of smile playing at the corners of your lips.

"But Malfoy," you said, as your hand took hold of my chin, your eyes leveled with mine, "I already have you. And I don't want you, I need you."

But as this artificial light confronts me now, its lack of life twisted in with the illumination it gives, I'm reminded of how you hurt me, how you left me. And after all these years, despite my desires, my dreams, I may be as fickle as the people around me.

Because if I want you, want you to be the one that makes me happy, why does the sight of you disgust me?

I glance over at your friends that are here, all that have come to see you in your state. Why any one would want to see a half crazed lunatic is unknown to me, but being your friends, it doesn't surprise me that they're here. They probably came to reassure you and make you feel like you have returned home. The gesture is pointless, though, seeing as you are unable to understand any of us. You simply see through us, and instead see a world we can never comprehend.

I see a large basket filled with what are undoubtedly cakes and pies, carried by Weasley's mother. I roll my eyes; they're only here to reassure themselves, because none of them want to believe what they've been told.

I scan the rest of the crowd, and I am not surprised to see Weasley, biting down on his fingers. He occasionally turns to glance at his sister who is pale with shock, her small hand covering her mouth. It doesn't amaze me that she's mortified by your appearance, because any sane person would be. Hermione stands next to me, chewing on her lip the way she has for years. She hasn't changed in the past ten years; her hair is still frizzy, she's still not extremely attractive, though having worked with her for several years I can appreciate her finer points. That look says one thing; she's contemplating the universe. But as I turn to look at you again, an unknowing specimen locked behind a glass wall, I cannot understand why she dares contemplate anything. The simple truth is hard enough to bare.

Hermione looks over at me as I glance at her again, and I know she's aware of my gaze. She offers me a ghost of a smile, and turns back to face the glass.

"Draco," I hear her whisper, "We can't let him stay here."

I nod, unable to move any other part of my anatomy. I follow her gaze to look at you, and my throat constricts. What was once a hero is now a skeleton of a man, weathered in all ways, frail and broken. You mumble to yourself, your voice low and barely audible. You hang your head, and we all wait for you to look up, to prove to us with your eyes and your face that you are real. My stomach knots and sinks as I watch you scratch yourself, for your fingernails are black and caked with dirt. Your hair is long and matted, falling stiffly about you, and I shudder uncontrollably as I watch something crawl out of it and down your arm. I feel nauseated and I have to turn, step away in order to regain my balance.

I don't dare look back at you. But then the Weasley girl screams and Hermione grabs my shoulder, and I look up. It's her turn to become deathly pale, and I hand her over to Weasley as I make my way back to the front, pressing my hand to the glass. But as soon as I've made it there, I want to be as far away as humanly possible.

Your eyes are hollow, a green so dark it cannot exist. They're lost, searching the room, and then looking at me, as if you know I am here. But you shouldn't because the glass is a one way mirror, yet still you look in my direction. I gasp as I study your face, realizing it is you, and that there is no room left for doubt. Those are your eyes, no matter how dulled they are, and it's your nose, your jaw, the angle of your cheek bones, the stretched, sallow skin; constructing the face we all once knew.

Even on your forehead, if I squint and imagine hard enough, is the faint outline of what was once your lightning bolt scar. It's hard to make out, seeing as how there are so many more covering what was once beautiful skin.

I chastise myself for thinking that.

The doctors come in, their white robes as white as the light over head, followed closely by the Ministry officials with their stern faces. Everyone seats themselves, except for me, and I lean against the glass as they address us. The doctors tell us that there is no doubt that the person in the other room is you, and I snort; we already knew that. They continue, informing us that you must be kept here, for the sake of not only your safety, but ours as well. A general uproar of arguing voices commences, but I stand back and watch, thoughts reeling through my head.

Hermione looks over at me and I know she's devising her own plans. She stands up, making her way over to me as quickly as she can. She grabs my arm and faces me as she steps forward to whisper hastily in my ear.

"Draco, only you can get Harry out of here. You're the only one with enough ties to get him out without the uproar and complications." Hermione takes a quick breath, her face flush as she glances over her shoulder at Weasley, who begins walking over. I scowl at him as Hermione continues.

"You're the only one with enough resources to take care of him, Draco. He'll need medical attention; he'll need to be constantly watched. Please, do this for him, otherwise none of us will be able to see him ever again." She steps back as Weasley grabs her arm, pulling her away from me. I scrutinize her and her words. But as she looks up at me hopefully, I turn my head away, closing my eyes. I feel her hover, and then turn away, following Weasley's guidance back to her seat.

I ask myself if this is what I want. I wanted peace, and for so long I had it in my grasp. But your constant memory, locked in the back of my head, has never let me experience that peace. Now, as you sit behind me in a room you may never leave, I don't know if I want you with me.

"What would I lose?" I murmur to myself, opening my eyes to find Hermione watching me. "What part of my new life would I lose in order to restore what I haven't had for so long?" I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "I'd lose routine, that's for sure."

Hermione must have read my lip movement, as minute as it had been. Her eyes grow sorrowful, and her shoulders slump from their proud posture as she looks away. I in turn look away, spinning back around to look at you through the glass.

Your head is bowed again, but as my gaze settles on you, you start, your head snapping up. Your eyes meet mine and for a second I'm being pulled in, the hollowness in your stare sucking me dry. The tug in my chest is undeniable, and a prickling feeling that is tormenting the back of my eyes causes me to tear my gaze from you. I shudder as I realize that my arms hurt, that I feel weak and my knees are about to give in. I want to slide down the wall now and curl up on the floor, taking my thoughts with me, burying myself and resist the restraints the world has on me.

I want to hold you and make it all go away. But I can't give in to foolish desires. It's amazing how you've always had this sort of effect on me, and even in your schizophrenic madness, your unhealthy appearance and psyche, you still do.

I step forward, still resisting the urge to fall to the ground, and I wait for the room to fall quiet. As everyone turns to look toward me, I straighten. There's no doubt by the look in Hermione's eyes, her posture proud again, that I've become the image of arrogance she's used to, commanding everyone's attention.

"I will provide the money needed for the medical expenses and such for Potter," I say defiantly, getting straight to the point as I look pointedly at your friends gathered here, "On the condition that he returns with me to the Manor."

I leave no room for argument as I back up, waiting for their reactions.

There are several gasps, exclamations of surprise, and Weasley starts forward, pointing a finger bitten down by anxiety at me. Hermione grabs his arm, forcing him into her chair as she takes his place to approach me. His eyes narrow in suspicion, but Hermione offers me a grateful smile, touching my arm in passing as she turns to question the doctors. Both she and I know that the officials are aware that we are able to convince anyone of letting you go with me; we've been known to take matters into our own hands when times have called for it.

It comes as no surprise when the Ministry officials look to one another and hesitantly nod their consent. In turn, your friends glance at each other and give their silent permission, though Weasley is the last of all to do so. I hear Hermione sigh in relief, stepping back to lean her head on the glass wall. I turn back around to speak with her, but bite my lip and muffle a cry of surprise instead. Hermione searches my face and then turns to face the mirror she has been up against. Her hand shoots up to her mouth in fright, and she bites her knuckle as she backs away.

From where you were sitting, a spot five meters away, you've suddenly appeared in front of the mirror. Your grimy forehead is pressed up against the one-way-mirror, and your hollow eyes bore through what should be your reflection into my eyes. Your lips move but no sound is made. That tugging comes back, and I feel myself start to lean forward, the sight of you having a magnetic effect on my body.

But Hermione begins to grasp my arm, pulling me away from the glass, and your mumbling grows rapid now as your lips move faster. You start shaking your head, your fist coming up to pound on the mirror that is your barrier. Your eyes; they're wide and they flicker with recognition. The dark green hue floods away and a more familiar emerald bleeds in.

You see me.