Drawn ( A Dramione Story)

War's Trauma

A sheet of black blanketed his eyes. The more he rubbed, the darker it stayed.

Draco reached for his wand and ignited the tip in blistery blue light. It penetrated the black with ease. The room was the same in which he'd been shown upon his arrival to Italy. The suite that Blaise prepared for him and Hermione.

His heart stopped. Mione! Where was she?

Suddenly a figure emerged from beneath the comforter with a nest of curled, frayed hair twice the size of a normal head. It was his Hermione, deep in sleep. Her jaw hanged lax from its seat. A slight part in her lids with only the white visible.

He touched her gently, assured that she was alive. His magic calmed when he felt hers stir under his probe.

"Turn it off," she moaned, then rolled away from the light of his wand.

She was gone.

What was it that woke him?

He ground his palms into his eye sockets until fizzy white dots overtook his vision. An involuntary yawn escaped his lips. Sleep sounded nice. Why wasn't he still in it?

Draco took stock of the room. There were a few plastic shopping bags in the corner. It was not like Hermione to take to shopping, but it was easy to believe that Pansy roped her into an outing. That was the way Pansy dealt with any kind of stress.

He returned to bed, intent to curl against Hermione's warm body, when he saw a biscuit on the bedside table. It was small, flat, pocked with little squares. Warmth spread through his fingers as he held it. Pride filled his chest as he stared off at the mass beneath the comforter that he was going to marry. Thoughtful to a fault.

Draco nibbled at the biscuit as he lifted back his half of the comforter, ready to dive right in, when a loud clatter shook the ceiling above. His fingers clenched against the wood of his wand.

Somehow, Hermione was unbothered by the noise. She stayed beneath the covers and blankets in her cocoon. He watched a moment before he planted a kiss upon her exposed flesh.

There was no way for him to sleep with a circus on above his head. Whoever it was shall be asked to quiet down. Once. Then his wand would do the rest.

It was not easy to sleep for Draco. More often than not, nightmares kept him frozen awake in his bed for hours. It was not easy to chase the land of sleep. He tried and tried. Hermione made it better. When she laid cuddled against his skin, often after a shag, sleep was found easier. More peace.

But that wouldn't happen if a banshee was above his head.

The hall of the mansion was eerie still. He slipped a robe overtop his silk pajama set as he headed toward the stairs. He hadn't been shown much of the place. Blaise wasn't as good a host as he claimed.

"Prat," he muttered as he ascended the winding dark stair.

A potion-induced rest had done Draco's mental state well. He felt relieved, under control, for once, since the start of Hogwarts the past autumn. His life had been a whirlwind the past few years. The war left his need for brooding more prevalent than ever. Hermione was his one savior. She was the grace he needed to find himself back, dusting back the bullshit of whom he built himself up in shield, ready to accept some happiness for himself. For once.

It was his time.

The afternoon before dropped a bit of a load on his comprehension. Pansy had no right to bring that up after so much time, so much loss. It was dead and buried with Voldemort.

Or, at least, that's what he thought.

Salazar. His fiancé had pulled him away from murdering a friend of theirs. What had he been thinking? He was lucky she even looked at him after that.