Summary: Hermione's killing Draco. Funny what thoughts go through your head when the love of your life puts a knife to your throat.
Rating: R for violence
Spoilers and/or Warnings: Very dark fic, character death,
Title, Author and URL of original story:Faith No More, by savage-midnight here
My apologies for the tardy entry. Phone company finally got around to restoring internet. Stupid pine trees, hitting phone poles.
Quite frankly, I was not expecting the knife. As she pulled it out, suddenly I was elsewhere, somewhere where the sting of her betrayal didn't hurt so much.
I was five, looking up at my father's worried face, too scared to cry. The lights and the noise in the sky overwhelmed me. He jumped down off the patio, and wrapped me in his arms. He told me it was just a muggle thing called a plane, that it could never hurt me. I felt safe and warm and loved. I believed for most of my life that my father was omnipotent and all-powerful, that he could fix anything. But we all think that of our fathers, don't we?
The knife flashed again. I looked up at her. I loved her, so much. I'd killed for her, and now I was dying for her? Somehow I never saw it coming, but then again I never truly understood anyone else. It was always one of my failings. I was bright enough to predict how someone might react, to discover the means to hurt them superficially, but to really hurt someone, to cast a Crucio on their mind, you have to understand them on more than just a superficial level. Father could do that. I just never learned the knack. Her face was cold, emotionless. Did she play me all along?
I was fifteen, coming out of my bedroom to discover my mother held in the arms of another man. She told me that her marriage to Father was over, that it had been for a long time. I couldn't help but think that she was abandoning him now that he was no longer all-powerful. It seemed so cruel to me. He had done so much for her, and yet...
The war had ended. I stood at the graveside, watching them shovel the dirt in. Snape dead. She stood across from me, her head bowed. I wondered why she was here. He'd never liked her, thought her a Gryffindor know-it-all. Father clasped my hand tightly. He was so much older now, so broken. I studied the sunlight caught in her hair, wondered how long it had taken her to get it straight like that. For some reason, she interested me. The mudblood. Why was I so interested in the mudblood?
She's looking down at me. I'm cold now, and her hands are red. Potter talked her into this, I'm sure of it. I wish I could tell her that she was wrong, but she always did have more faith in her logic, in cold intellectualism. She is wrong, and I am dying for it.
Elsewhere again. We're on a roof, and I kiss her for the first time. Always thought that stuff about birds and bells was rubbish, but now I know differently. I wish there was someone I could tell, but they're all dead. Pans and Blaise and Nott and Crabbe and Goyle. All of us caught in a war our parents made for us, at the mercy of a madman. In the end, none of us made it out intact, and few made it out alive. Obviously Hermione's faith was one of the casualties. Pity I didn't know that sooner.
Again the roof, but this time it's darker, less clear. Things are fading around me. We Apparate to her room, bodies twisting together in that oh-so familiar dance of lust. I know something's wrong, but I trust her, I have faith. After all, that's what my name means. Bad faith. Perhaps a better translation would be mistaken faith. She ties me down and the knife comes out.
""This is what it's worth,"" she says, holding the knife to my neck. ""The death of my husband. The deaths of my friends."" She pauses, and I try to summon the words to stop her. I know what it is worth, and it is precious beyond measure. She speaks again, almost to herself.
""The death of a traitor.""
There are no words for this moment. I have not betrayed her, have never betrayed her. I have fought with her friends, killed for their cause. She knows this, and yet, in the end I end up with a knife against my throat, barely drawing blood. Funny how we all seemed doomed to repeat the lives of our parents. My father was betrayed by the woman he loved, and she cut open his soul. His death was slow and quiet, but no less painful. I am betrayed by the woman I loved, and she is about to cut open my neck. I'm not sure which fate is worse. I can feel the blood at first, but as things grow dim it doesn't seem to matter anymore. She is crying now, I can hear her.
"I'm sorry Draco, I'm so sorry."
If she's so sorry, she shouldn't have done it. Some things can never be taken back, no matter how much you want to, and some wounds will never heal. Either you have faith in love, in people, or you don't. She might have mentioned she didn't. Not that it would have made much of a difference. Love is love, and all of us are love's fools.
Hermione rubbed her gently-swelling belly. There were times when she felt him near her, but that was just the grief. Everyone told her that. Everyone told her many things these days, not that she cared. All of it could go to hell, was going to hell. She hadn't killed him, she'd killed herself, and all that was left was a cold emotionless robot. The child was going to a good home in America. She'd arranged that. And his or her middle name would be Malfoy. But he'd never know her, never know his father, never know from whence he came, from what shattered and destroyed remnants of those who'd once been people.
There was no faith left, nor love, but there was mercy. And mercy this child would have. No longer would the sins of the father destroy the son, nor the failure of faith cause death. It was all she had left to give.