Dramione Diaries | Fluffy Oneshots

30 | deadly mistakes

Dear Hermione,

You know I'm a swamp of regrets. I've done things I'm not proud of, things I wish I can burn away into crisps in my mind. But this, this is something else. This is a mistake. A big fucking mistake and it's all my bloody fault.

He leaned over, his legs wobbling from the exertion and he fell to his knees. His palms covered the entirety of his face soaked in the cascading tears that wet his cheeks. His staggering legs fell on sharp shards of crushed glass where he previously smashed down bottles of Firewhisky he had drowned himself in. The burning in his throat, the churning in his stomach from the alcohol, it did nothing but engulf him deeper into his sorrows.

I remember that day as clear as the skies. It feels like yesterday when we had argued. When I decided to ignore you like you didn't exist for the sake of your safety.

He breathed deeply through his nose, letting himself fall on his back against the chilling tiled floor of his Manor and ignored the pain of the glass digging into his skin. The Manor, a place that had felt eerie and cold after the war where each dark corner held the screams of past prisoners and where each inch of the walls had been scrougified repeatedly to rid of the blood that still stained.

Until she came, and she revamped the entire atmosphere of the place he couldn't call home.

She lit up the darkest corners, her pleasing presence replaced the foreboding aftereffects of the war. She made his days brighter and the future so tempting.

You would try and get my attention. I turned away each time, pretending I didn't know you. Pretending I didn't love you anymore. And gods, I should have just surrendered myself to you if I knew it'd come to this.

His vision became glassy, blurred with another onslaught of tears. When the news came, he thought someone charmed him to suffocate right then and there. He couldn't breath when he heard, his mind replaying every single moment they had of each other. Especially the last vivid memory he had of her three weeks before he made the foolish choice of avoiding her.

"She was ambushed."

He was told.

"Her body was found."

His skin turned pale. His mind whirred in a panic.

"Death Eaters mutilated her."

He forgot to breath. His chest hurt. He had a splitting headache.

He had walked out of the room where his mother stood in concern, and he acted as if he couldn't care any less. He slammed the door, leaning his back against the hard surface of it. His breathing became shallow and erratic, the room started to spin. His throat felt constricted, and he grappled with the air to breath as he slid to the floor.

He broke.

I failed you, Hermione. I was supposed to be there. I was supposed to protect you. It was my job to defend you and stay by your side. I didn't do that. I pushed you away. I abandoned you. I shielded you from my life thinking it would shield you from them. I didn't—

The quill he used snapped where his writing became sporadic to an unreadable point. The parchment he was currently writing on was soaked with splotches of wet spots. He picked up the parchment with a quivering hand and squinted at it through the hot tears. He couldn't even read the damn thing with his messy scrawls and twitchy hands.

"I can't even write a letter to you like I always do," he growled in his empty room with self-loathing dripping from his words. He clawed at his hair with a veined hand while the other aggressively crumpled the letter and tossed it into the bin, landing on a pile of rumpled parchment that overfilled until it tumbled to the floor.

Draco Malfoy wiped the wet bags of his eyes with the back of his hand. He dropped his head on his crossed arms atop the table, whimpering against his forearms. He imagined her behind his eyelids; her light laughter that brightened the room; her splitting smile that can kill dementors; the caramel eyes that melted with spunk when she talked about her passions; the freckles that dotted on her face...

Her freckles...

His eyes snapped open, his brain clouding with utmost dread and he couldn't breathe again. He made it his crucial personal mission to memorize each individual freckle arraying her cheeks and nose until he could draw it accurately on paper. If it wasn't for the fact that he avoided her for weeks, he would've accomplished this mission ages ago. But he didn't. And he forgot her freckles. He felt like he had forgotten her.

He was scared. Did that mean he'd completely forget her over time? Forget how her bushy hair looked gorgeous in a messy bun? How her sweet voice drifted melodically in his ears? How she tasted like mints whenever he kissed her?

He was frantic, he didn't want to forget her. It was his fault she died a painful death in the hands of his former affiliations, and he couldn't do that to her. She doesn't deserve to be forgotten. But he already had a head start. He didn't look at her properly since their argument, and even weeks before he payed no mind to her. He fucking neglected her, pretended she didn't exist. He hadn't seen her before she died either. The last time he probably had a glimpse of her was three days ago, but only for a damn second.

His heart dropped. It suddenly dawned onto him that she was killed thinking he didn't love her. She died thinking that he didn't give a damn about her, that he really did abandon her without an explanation. She was ripped of her last breath bearing the last memory of him sneering and shouting with faux sincerity of how he never loved her at all.

"You fucking bastard," he snarled to himself. He grabbed a nearby bottle, chugging half of its contents despite the fire in his throat.

He didn't get to tell her he was lying.

He didn't get to tell her he still loved her.

He loved her so fucking much it hurt.

His love for her consumed his whole being, his whole heart, his soul. He didn't know how the bloody hell he managed to be apart from her when his whole body ached for her presence every single day.

He wished he spent more time with her. He wished he didn't stay away. He wished so fucking badly that he had made more time with her.

He took another quill with wavering hands, dipping it into his inkpot before writing another short letter he tacked onto a wall. A wall filled with obsessive articles and papers clung by tacks. Tacks that were wrung with multi-colored string zig-zagging across the board dedicated to apprehending possible suspects involved in the crime of her mutilation.

I never fell out of love with you, Hermione. I don't think I can. I miss you so much.

Draco Malfoy

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this idea was originally for promptober :)