Darkness is My Light

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Chapter 8

Draco sighed. Hermione had always been inclined to share her emotional feelings...with her friends. And he was definitely not one of those. Or hadn't been. Who knows what he'd be after this. Not like he cared whether he was or wasn't something remotely like to a friend to Hermione. Of course not.

"Shall I begin?" Hermione looked up, startled, but did not speak. Her eyes widened a fraction, and Draco had the feeling that she was preparing herself to literally absorb the conversation. "When I was four, my father gave me a stuffed dragon, which I named Tolletanensis. My father never cared about Tolletanensis, because he was a very quiet pet. When I turned five, my father took Tolletanensis and threw him out, because I was far too old for imaginary friends.

"When I was six, my mother told me that father was an alcoholic. I wasn't sure what an alcoholic was, so I asked him. I spent the next month in my room. Actually, most of my life was spent inside, which is evident by the pale ghost I was during my adolescence. My mother had a beautiful garden on the roof, but I never went up there. I spent most of my childhood hiding in the house. The walls between rooms are very thick here, but they are, in fact, quite hollow. When my grandfather built the house, he made sure that there would always be four ways out of every room." He noticed Hermione looking back at the house more and more with each word he spoke. And continued.

"My father drank at night, or early in the morning, so my afternoons were safe. When I was ten, I overheard an argument between my parents through the hallway wall. My mother wanted me to go to Durmstrang; my father insisted on Hogwarts. My mother said some things father did not like. And he threw a glass vase at her. So I went to Hogwarts."

He paused for a moment, and noticed Hermione's hands were shaking just slightly on the coffee cup he had given her. "When I came home from my sixth year at school, my mother was half blind. It was noted as an accident, but it's easy to figure out when an injury is caused by a spell...or a serious beating." He stopped and smiled almost wistfully, "My mother has never been an independent person. And father took advantage of that."

"Draco, I must say your father is quite scary, and I only barely met him three times in my life," Hermione said, unlocking her tongue.

Draco looked at her face, etched with pity. "I never said I did not love him. I never wanted for anything in my life with him. He taught me many things, Hermione. But we all have our downsides, now don't we?"

Hermione stared into her coffee for a moment. And then, she abruptly looked up. "Sorry. But your father, he's dead, is he not? What happened there?"

"The day after the second war ended, father was shipped to Azkaban. He spent two months alive in the prison. The month before he was convicted for the Dementor's Kiss, I went to visit him. He would never live a lifeless existence, and that's all it would give him, as he had no soul to begin with." Hermione quickly dropped her gaze, visibly shaken. "Yes, Hermione, I killed him. With a very nice curse, I may add," he said nonchalantly, examining his nails. "Killed him slowly, from the inside out. It was the best thing I've ever done."

Draco fell silent, finished. He smiled at himself wistfully, remembering the killing, Hermione supposed. She could not look at him any longer, could not keep her eyes dry if she did. She averted her eyes to her coffee again looking at the vague traces of her black eye. Her face had almost healed; it was her heart that was still bruised. She was surprised to see how much her hands were shaking. She was afraid that if she held the cup much longer, she would spill it; yet her throat had gone dry, and she assumed it was her turn to tell her story.

She took a drink of the coffee in her cup before setting it down. "Well, I guess now I give you the brief run-through of my story." Draco looked at her and blinked. Once.

"When I left for Hogwarts, my mother cried. Every summer when I got back, my parents gave me the whole 'what are you going to do in life?' speech. And every time it was really a 'what Muggle things will you do with your life?' When I went to Hogwarts for seventh year, I talked with Harry about it. He and I chose to get an apartment, as his family did not want him--they never had. The week of Easter Break, we moved in to the two-bedroom apartment. Ron refused to share an apartment with us, though I still don't know why. I doubt I ever will.

"The war went on, and during sometime Harry and I simply became more. It happened over time, nothing too rash. We spent three years together before he battled Voldemort. When Voldemort died, Harry...changed. He was suddenly thrown out of balance. He clung to our relationship for his life, but he clung too hard. I started being distant. And that's when he started using force to make me love him."

She paused to swallow, hoping to push the emotions back down, but only succeeded in making herself feel sick. "But somewhere inside me, I cannot be sure if I ever loved him in the first place." With those words her tears began to fall as a wave of unadulterated regret and loathing washed over her. She ran her hands through her hair, allowing her hands to hold her head up to finish her thought, "But he needed me, and I had no reason not to let him have me."

Draco placed a hand on her forearm gently and looked into her eyes. "What do you want, Hermione?"

She turned from his gaze, afraid of what she may trick herself into believing was there. "I want to leave here. I don't--don't know why you keep me here," she said drying her tears to replace them with determination.

"I am not keeping you here. You can leave whenever you would like to." She looked at him for a single moment before yanking her arm away and getting up from her chair and straightening her dress. Then with a flip of her skirt, she was gone, back inside.

Draco stood up and looked out at the wet countryside. He saw Mrs. Jettersimin, his next-door neighbor, let in a tanned man through her back door. Mr. Jettersimin was away for the week, and she was bedding a boy younger than he himself was. Typical.

He picked up Hermione's cup and hurled it in the general direction of the Jettersimins' yard. It would land sadly short for on that side of the manor there was almost a hundred feet between their yards. But that did not bother Draco at all; better to stay somewhat civil with the other old wizarding families. Not as if they didn't hate him anyway, but no one expected otherwise from a Malfoy.

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