Dramione AU » Victory through Surrender [WIP by gryffndors]
This is kind of like a sneak preview of the one-shot I’m currently writing which will probably take 10 years to complete because I’m really slow and incompetent when it comes to things that don’t have a deadline. It’s based off a photo-set I did ages ago and I got some anon and non-anon messages that encouraged me to continue and write something based off the drabble I’d written, SO I had a bit of a yolo moment and just wrote a quick (severely incomplete) draft of it in half-an hour.
[if you literally have any ideas to suggest for this story, such as plot devices or whatever you like really, I encourage you to send them to me either anon/un-anon because I never plan anything (such as this, like i have no idea where I am going with it) and I’m basically just an unorganised individual who needs some ideas because I always do things half-done and not up to my own standard. again, this is a really rough draft and I read over it and I sort of wanted to cry but whatever I HOPE YOU LIKE IT]
It begins with the enraged slam of a carriage door, sharp like a whip against the still air. There is strangled yell of a man down the aisle and the rising chords of a red throat from which words of the most pungent kind are torn. Then there is a splintering of wood, the shattering of dusted glass, and the spray of Firewhiskey the colour of a Galleon against the monotonous carpet of the train.
What follows is a repulsive crunch beneath a worn boot, half-ruined with age and now stained by the fresh splatter of blood that looks like a child’s artistic play. There is a rattle, a cough, a heave and a spit of venom on the cheek of the blonde that lies frozen on the floor of the train, his bones shaking and his lungs stretched. Then the husky tenor of a voice returns, and it is low. It is threatening velvet, polished under the fresh warning of more violence. There is anger trapped within the ribbon of the voice, red and white-hot, but there is pain too, seeping cold against the heart and rich with the kind of devastation that permanently embeds itself in the chest of those who are privy to the mumblings of despair.
Then there is a proceeding of silence, the buzz of fear pushing, pushing, and pushing through the web of violet under her skin. A cloying press of shock and a groan of the injured trembles in the air as a soft click of a carriage lock completes the scene as though it is romanticized smirk of victory.
Hermione is scared, gripping her wand with a clammy hand and fingers leached of colour. The book she was holding drops to the floor with a muted thud, and her mouth becomes dry as her eyes follow a blurred shadow moving towards her. The silhouette of a man passes her, and she looks out to see him tilt his hat in her direction, the gleam of teeth peeking out from the shadow of an unshaven face. He is gone by the time she is able to breathe again, and she will learn later that his name is Timothy Burbage, and his attack was laced with revenge - a concept which she can only pity.
Hermione remains still and tense for another thirty-six painful thumps of her heart, her spine locked as though her vertebrae has been fused together, and her body pushed against the back of her seat with a corrosive type of fear. One hand remains curled around the wand in the inner pocket of her coat, clutched so desperately that she can feel the eager hum of magic beneath that pads of her fingertips. The other is digging into the cushion beside her, and a flare of pain burns from her fingernails to her moon-white knuckles.
Her eyes are now pinched shut, and her ribcage vibrates unsettlingly as she peels them open once more, her body trembling. Another faded groan meets her ears and she flinches slightly because god, the war changed her. Because though Hermione Granger holds the admirable trait of bravery, she is not fearless, and people often got the two mixed up into a knot of invincibility. And she is not invincible. There were times like these where she freezes up, forgets to push the air into and out of her lungs, and shakes as though a permanent tremor plagues her insides. There are times like these where war will come rushing back, and her eyes cloud with blood and bodies and broken bones.
Shaking her head as though to disengage the poison that clings to her mind, Hermione stands, her bones clicking into alignment as she quickly slides open the door and rushes down the aisle of the carriage, drawn by the smudge of crimson against the wooden frame of a window three seats down from her own.
Her body locks as she immediately stops at the doorway, her eyes falling to meet grey when she unlocks the door and gently pushes it open. It is as though someone kicks her in the lungs, and she steps backwards with clumsy feet, her back hitting the side of the carriage as she stares at him with wide eyes, the left side of his face swollen and his platinum blonde hair ruffled and unkempt.
A blurred gaze meets the draw of a brow, and his face, though marred with the blossoming of revenge’s aftermath, holds the smallest snick of relief as she shuffles nervously towards him, wand held aloft as she mumbles a quick finite beneath her breath.
His arms unlock from their twisted positions and a strange noise emits itself from his throat as he rolls onto his side, gagging as a syrupy line of scarlet runs from his lips, staining the floor. Hermione watches on, her features drawn with uncertainty and curiosity before she tucks her bottom lip between her teeth, and rests herself on the corner of the carriage seat, eyes roving over his form.
She will laugh later at how cliché it sounded in her head when she speaks to Harry, but he is different somehow, though there is still a gaunt ghost in his eyes that melds his face a little too thin. Her thoughts are interrupted and an odd surge of fear hits her between the crux of her ribcage as Draco looks up at her while getting to his knees, resting himself on the heels of his shoes and using his thumb to catch the remnant of blood at the corner of his mouth.
There’s a painful gap of silence when he gets to his feet, and Hermione half expects him to ignore her, swear at her, or simply tell her to leave, but instead he stares at her before a single words breaches his lips.