Title: May Second
Author:![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
sdk
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Draco/Hermione, implied past Draco/Severus
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst
Length/Word Count: one-shot, 617 words
Summary: Once a year, Draco was absent from their bed.
Notes: This was inspired by a prompt frominell who gave me Hermione/Draco/Severus and moonlight and garden, despite the fact that there is no Hermione/Draco/Severus or moonlight or a garden. But somehow that prompt led to this, so thanks inell! Also, according to a recent interview with JKR, May 2nd was the date of the final battle, which is helpful info for this ficlet. ;) Special thanks to quite_grey for the beta!
Disclaimer: The following is based on fictional characters that I don't own doing fictional things in a fictional world that I didn't create. No copyright infringement intended, no money's being made.
May Second
Once a year Draco was absent from their bed.
It had taken Hermione three years of living with him to notice that night fell on the same date each year. Draco often worked late in his personal lab in their cellar; his obsession with potions development rivaled her own tendency to get caught up in her work, and she never denied him that as other wives might, never fussed or complained from a lack of attention. If he missed a late supper here and there, she would spend it with a book and a warm cup of tea. Sometimes he appeared halfway through, an apology in the kiss of her jaw, his hand cupping her shoulder. And even if he missed dinner, he always came to their bed, slipping under the covers quietly to hold her from behind. She dreamed peacefully with the sharp angles of his hips pressed against her, his chest warm and hard, curved around her back, his breath stirring the messy curls at the crown of her head.
Except for May second. Every May second.
On the evening of the sixth May second of their marriage, Hermione, cloaked in a disillusionment spell, tip-toed down the stairs to the cellar, careful to avoid the one stair that creaked, third from the bottom. Once inside though, she realised her precautions were for naught. Draco was bent over a Pensieve, his head fully submersed in the silvery light swirling in the basin, oblivious to the reality around him.
She perched on a nearby wooden chair and watched her husband disappear into a memory.
At dawn, he emerged, eyes rimmed in red. He normally would never allow her to see him like this, but she didn’t leave. She couldn’t leave, despite the fact that her cloaking spells had long since faded.
And eventually, he noticed her.
“What are you doing here?” His whisper cracked the silence, hard on her ears after hours of only listening to her own breath.
“It’s May second,” she answered, though it wasn’t an answer at all; it was the only answer she knew.
He ran a tired hand through his blond locks, his focus on the Pensieve once more, like a magnet he was unable to resist.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
His finger skirted the lip of the basin the way he traced her lower lip when they made love, when they kissed, when they shared secrets and fears. A worn path of silent comfort between them, his finger and her skin, and he shared that now with stone, mapping out the same curve over and over.
She’d already risen to leave when he spoke again.
“It’s not-” he faltered, a silvery glow over his cheeks, his eyelids, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he forced down a swallow. “You know, don’t you.”
It wasn’t a question, but Hermione nodded anyway, even if he didn’t notice, the Pensieve his whole world again. She wanted to touch him, a simple hand on his shoulder, but it wasn’t time for that, yet. She shouldn’t be here.
Draco would be up at breakfast like every year before, eyes clear of tears, every strand of hair in place, asking for his Daily Prophet with a cup of black coffee and a slice of toast. He would kiss her cheek and inquire about her plans for the day. Nothing would change, it never had before. She didn’t have to worry. She shouldn’t be worried.
She glanced one more time at him before she left: his arms draped over the basin, his eyes closed, his temple against the round edge. His lips formed a name and she knew it wouldn’t be hers.
“Severus.”
Hermione climbed the stairs.
-Fin-
Shelly's fic index
Author:
sdkFandom: Harry Potter
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Draco/Hermione, implied past Draco/Severus
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst
Length/Word Count: one-shot, 617 words
Summary: Once a year, Draco was absent from their bed.
Notes: This was inspired by a prompt from
inell who gave me Hermione/Draco/Severus and moonlight and garden, despite the fact that there is no Hermione/Draco/Severus or moonlight or a garden. But somehow that prompt led to this, so thanks inell! Also, according to a recent interview with JKR, May 2nd was the date of the final battle, which is helpful info for this ficlet. ;) Special thanks to quite_grey for the beta!Disclaimer: The following is based on fictional characters that I don't own doing fictional things in a fictional world that I didn't create. No copyright infringement intended, no money's being made.
May Second
Once a year Draco was absent from their bed.
It had taken Hermione three years of living with him to notice that night fell on the same date each year. Draco often worked late in his personal lab in their cellar; his obsession with potions development rivaled her own tendency to get caught up in her work, and she never denied him that as other wives might, never fussed or complained from a lack of attention. If he missed a late supper here and there, she would spend it with a book and a warm cup of tea. Sometimes he appeared halfway through, an apology in the kiss of her jaw, his hand cupping her shoulder. And even if he missed dinner, he always came to their bed, slipping under the covers quietly to hold her from behind. She dreamed peacefully with the sharp angles of his hips pressed against her, his chest warm and hard, curved around her back, his breath stirring the messy curls at the crown of her head.
Except for May second. Every May second.
On the evening of the sixth May second of their marriage, Hermione, cloaked in a disillusionment spell, tip-toed down the stairs to the cellar, careful to avoid the one stair that creaked, third from the bottom. Once inside though, she realised her precautions were for naught. Draco was bent over a Pensieve, his head fully submersed in the silvery light swirling in the basin, oblivious to the reality around him.
She perched on a nearby wooden chair and watched her husband disappear into a memory.
At dawn, he emerged, eyes rimmed in red. He normally would never allow her to see him like this, but she didn’t leave. She couldn’t leave, despite the fact that her cloaking spells had long since faded.
And eventually, he noticed her.
“What are you doing here?” His whisper cracked the silence, hard on her ears after hours of only listening to her own breath.
“It’s May second,” she answered, though it wasn’t an answer at all; it was the only answer she knew.
He ran a tired hand through his blond locks, his focus on the Pensieve once more, like a magnet he was unable to resist.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
His finger skirted the lip of the basin the way he traced her lower lip when they made love, when they kissed, when they shared secrets and fears. A worn path of silent comfort between them, his finger and her skin, and he shared that now with stone, mapping out the same curve over and over.
She’d already risen to leave when he spoke again.
“It’s not-” he faltered, a silvery glow over his cheeks, his eyelids, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he forced down a swallow. “You know, don’t you.”
It wasn’t a question, but Hermione nodded anyway, even if he didn’t notice, the Pensieve his whole world again. She wanted to touch him, a simple hand on his shoulder, but it wasn’t time for that, yet. She shouldn’t be here.
Draco would be up at breakfast like every year before, eyes clear of tears, every strand of hair in place, asking for his Daily Prophet with a cup of black coffee and a slice of toast. He would kiss her cheek and inquire about her plans for the day. Nothing would change, it never had before. She didn’t have to worry. She shouldn’t be worried.
She glanced one more time at him before she left: his arms draped over the basin, his eyes closed, his temple against the round edge. His lips formed a name and she knew it wouldn’t be hers.
“Severus.”
Hermione climbed the stairs.
-Fin-
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