"Is it really a good idea to run away from war with the person you despise the most?"
A hotel, a boathouse, Narcissa Malfoy's safe-house and the worlds most powerful wand left behind by Regulus Black. What else could Hermione add to the list to make...
This chapter is nearly 9k words long. Killed me, but it might be my favourite so far. Enjoy.
Draco had drawn a sketch for Hermione-It had been weeks since the last one.
Hermione held it by the window to soak up some of the light. Her lips twitched into a smile without her even thinking about it. It was a beautiful dove, flying over a small town.
The bird was shaded to perfection, with large eyes and wide wings, stretching over the dark buildings below.
In its beak was a Rose.
Simple, beautiful, hopeful.
Below it he had written;
Hope can be found in the ugliest of times from the ugliest people.
Hermione wasn't sure what it meant, but she fell asleep and dreamt of the Dove; it flew and flew in her brain until it could fly no more.
Ops! Esta imagem não segue nossas diretrizes de conteúdo. Para continuar a publicação, tente removê-la ou carregar outra.
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The spring sun didn't last for more than three days, because on the following sunday, Hermione woke to the thrashing of rain against the window.
Spring had brought a storm of gale-force winds and brittle rain. The birds had flown away into their nests to avoid the downpour of hailstones, leaving the morning sounds to nothing but empty squall. Hermione almost felt bitter when she didn't hear birdsong as she woke.
However, her mind didn't rest on that for long. It was too preoccupied taking in the fact she had woken wrapped inside of a pair of warm arms, her back flank against a chest.
She closed her eyes tightly, hoping she'd wake up again finding that she was dreaming, but she wasn't dreaming, and she took a deep breath when she realised that Draco had fallen asleep on the sofa behind her.
He must have transfigured the sofa into some sort of futon, which allowed both of their bodies to fit, but it was still a rather tight squeeze. If Hermione tried to escape his grasp, she'd run the risk of falling onto the floor creating a mighty thud, not only waking Draco but the owl that was sleeping by the fire, her head beneath a white wing.
Molack had returned two days ago without a letter tied to her leg.
Hermione simply laid there, listening to the way the rain thrashed against the window with no mercy, and it sent her thoughts into something like poignancy, mirroring the rampage of the wind.
Over the past few days, since she and Draco slotted together like clockwork on the pavement, she hadn't given much thought into the meaning behind their words.
"You don't have to be alone in this, Draco."
What did that make them?
The words came crashing over her like tidal waves.
