Eyes Open by: orphan_account

XXIII. Photographs

July 1 st , 2004

He doesn't know why he ever agreed to this. The whole place smells like cinnamon and vanilla, but it's ruined by his smell. Weasley's. Not completely unpleasant (though Draco will be the last human on earth to ever admit it), but not her.

The entire flat is littered with photographs. They're all over the walls, and on the mantle, and smothering the end tables. He wonders how they even breathe.

Potter. Weasley. She-Weasley. Weasley. Her. Her. Potter. She-Weasley. All the Weasleys. Her parents (?). Weasley. Potter. Weasley.

Weasley.

Weasley.

Weasley.

"Who's this?" he says, nodding to a photograph on the wall beside the sofa. It's a muggle photograph, immobile, of a boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, sitting on a bench in a garden. Bald. Smiling, but it doesn't look quite right. It's... broken.

Hermione looks up from the kitchen, where she's making a salad. "Oh. That's... erm, that's my cousin. Will."

"Does he know about..."

"Yes. He did. He used to beg me to do magic all the time when we were little. I had to explain to him constantly that I wasn't allowed to, not until I... until I came of age." Her voice breaks, and he turns around to look at her. Her eyes don't meet his; they're focused on that salad as if it held the meaning of life among the lettuce leaves.

"And by then, the war broke out," he says quietly.

"No. No," she repeats, sitting down at the kitchen table. "No, he passed away in my sixth year. He was... he was very sick. He died before he ever saw me perform a single spell."

"I'm sorry," he says honestly, though he knows it sounds feeble, and is probably useless.

"Thanks," she says, wiping her eyes and standing back up. "Salad. Right. What kind of dressing do you like, Malfoy?"

After they eat, somehowthey slip into a conversation that is very much unrelated to work. They're spread out on her sofa, Draco sitting straight on one end and Hermione with her knees drawn up to her chest on the other.

Somehow they get on the subject of Heaven.

"It doesn't exist," he tells her shortly. "Maybe there's an afterlife, or maybe our lives end and that's it. But there's no Heaven."

"Of course there is," she scoffs.

He shakes his head. "If there is a Heaven, then there must be a God. And no God would let His creations suffer so much."

"Maybe He lets us suffer so we can appreciate the rest of life. The good parts. Or maybe He lets us suffer to make us stronger, or to lead us to better things."

Draco has to try very hard to avoid rolling his eyes. "Granger. Think about it. If a parent started Crucio'ing their kid and gave those excuses to the Wizengamot when they were put on trial, how do you think things would end for them? Could you picture your own presumably loving, caring parents doing that to you, and giving you those excuses?" he demands, and she flinches. "Exactly. There is no God, and there is no Heaven."

"You're wrong, Malfoy. I know it's there. That there's a Heaven and a God up there who loves us very much. I know."

"You let your optimism get in the way of reality, Granger. You're an idealist, always thinking the best of everyone and everything."

"And you're a cynic, who's too goddamn stubborn to even consider there are more, options," she says, and continues before he can put in another word. "Why don't you have a little faith for once in your life, Malfoy, and maybe you wouldn't be so sad all the time, so solemn and so angry."

"Faith is for people who don't understand how the world works."

It's incredible, how quickly they can build up an argument.

Before he realises it they are both standing, facing each other, their voices rising in a rapid crescendo until it's only a matter of time that it all crashes down around them.

"That's a ridiculous statement—"

"It's not ridiculous, it's perfectly true and you know it—"

"You're wrong, Malfoy, you're awfully wrong, and it's a fucking sad thing you've become—"

"Sad? I'm Draco fucking Malfoy! Don't you dare pity me—"

"You are sad, you're pathetic every single second of the day because I think it would kill you to show some emotion for once in your life—"

"Why don't you be reasonable for once and maybe you won't get hurt so much—"

"At least I have feelings—"

"I have feelings!"

"Then show them!" she roars. "Goddammit, Draco, you're this cold, empty shell and when you do feel emotion for a change, you never let it out! It's not healthy and you're not just wrecking yourself; it fucking sucks to be around you sometimes."

He opens his mouth but not words venture out; she has scared them all away, back down his throat.

"I'm sorry that you don't believe in anything anymore. I'm sorry that you've crawled inside yourself, that you've never let yourself out and you've never let anyone in. But I'm not going to apologise for hoping that all the people I've loved, all the people who've died, have found something better than this hell we've been forced to endure."

She points to the photograph of her cousin. "I like to think that Will deserves something more than nonexistence after all that he's suffered."

There's a moment of silence in which they simply stare at each other, her eyes hardened (tightly-packed earth, woven with gold) and his eyes softened (quick-silver, sloshing about his irises).

"I... I-I'm sorry," he says finally, and her body, which had been tense with anger and vexation, deflated.

"No reassuring smile?"

"I—I haven't—"

She sighs, and he never would have noticed it had it not been for the slight drop in her shoulders. "That's alright, Malfoy. Come on. Let's get back to work."