Yours in Mayhem |Dramione

37 yours in mayhem| pt. 1

...and everything else in between.

Draco Lucius Malfoy

He watched as the words slowly sunk in the cream colored parchment, the blackness seeping into every single fiber. It was several pages from a journal he found in his bedside. He didn't bother looking through the contents, of the haphazard messy words of somebody else. It wouldn't matter. Yes, he is still quite the self absorbed bastard who takes what he wants-- even he wouldn't deny it. The paper was coarse and the left side was crumpled from being forcibly taken from its brothers in a tight sewn bind. He folded it in half and then half again feeling the crispness of it in his cold fingers, he was careful not to cut himself-- cautious-- extra cautious-- but just the image of blood in his head...

Splattered.

Grotesque.

Visceral.

Red.

Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. No more. No more No more. No more.

Scrawny fingers pressed hard into his eyeballs in attempt to stop himself from thinking. Maybe if he push himself harder back into the darkness he will not be able to think of the red so much. So much red. Red stuck in the insides of his fingernails, the fringes of his light hair, his skin-- every crease, no spot left untainted-- the lines of his palms so much so that he has started believing that there was nothing left but red in his destiny.

He's destined to bleed.

No. No. No. No.

He had been repeating it so much in his head that his lips started to follow.

-------------

Hermione wanted to stay with Draco as much as she could but there are other pressing matters. Such as it is in youth. More so when you live your youth in the dire times of war.

"He's coming, isn't he?"

She was the one who said it.

The words are written in Harry Potter's face. No joke of Ron's can lighten the ambiance, none of Dobby and Kreacher's homemade meals helped-- no one can speak of lighter things when Voldemort will come to them the moment you spoke his name. Nothing helped. Not if your best friend-- your brother is in dire peril. Not when the boy you love hasn't woken up yet, not in two days. Not when you're not sure if you or any of the people that you have come to call family will survive the night.

"Then we'll face him. I'm with you, Harry."

Hermione reached out her hand to touch his, they were scratched up-- rough and sweaty just like hers. Harry looked down, green eyes filled with stark sorrow, her face reflected in his dirty slightly lopsided spectacles. She can't remember how many times she has repeated it to Harry and she means it, she always does, just as sure that she'll always repair his lopsided spectacles.

"Then we have to go now," Harry pressed on her hand. "You have to leave him." His voice was apologetic. And he is. "I'm sorry."

He motioned his head to the door where Draco slept. Harry's eyes were soft and emphatic. He knows how it is to love and let go. Harry has known things way beyond what a seventeen year old should experience.

"It's alright. It's not goodbye," Hermione stood up from her creaky chair in the cluttered common area. She wished that she believed what she just said but the stakes are against it. "I'll just get some things from my room and be out in a moment."

All of them knew that she has everything on her person, always ready to go. They all knew she hasn't left anything. It's the fair haired boy with the pointy face. The same one they all liked to hate-- but Hermione just a little more than them. Hate amongst other emotions.