the girl who lost it all [d.m]

epilogue

In the end, it's the ding of the elevator that does it.

Elara stares at the door in front of her, feeling like she's about to step into something close to hell.

She'd debated ever since she'd heard the news if she should come here, if she should risk it. If she could handle it. But ultimately, when it came down to it, she hadn't really had a choice. As soon as it had been confirmed, she'd whisked herself out of her flat and headed to the grocery store.

The cashier had looked at her funny, considering the sheer amount of things she'd bought and it had taken ages to bag them all—but she'd done it and had gone through the laborious task of carrying them all over here.

They sit at her feet now—like weapons discarded—as she stares at the door and tries to talk herself into doing it. Into knocking. Her fist is poised right over the oak, a hair's breadth away from meeting it—but she can't do it. Can't brave it.

Ding.

The sound startles her—and in the jolt of her body, her fist thunks against the door with enough force to make a sound.

She gasps, recoiling, her fight or flight response kicking in, barely registering that the occupant of the elevator passes behind her, giving her a weird look.

"Alright there, ma'am?" he asks as he strides by, a briefcase in one hand.

She doesn't even respond, too lost in figuring out how she's going to escape with all these bags of groceries. Should she just leave them here and run? Would that be even worse? Maybe the knock hadn't been audible. Maybe he'd chalk it up to the wind. Maybe he wasn't even home—

The door opens and in front of her stands Draco Malfoy—in all his tall, broad glory.

The hallway suddenly tilts and sways—and Elara is struck with only one irrational thought, something so trivial and so stupid that it nearly makes her smile.

She's missed this height difference.

And just as his silver eyes take her in and begin to process what he's seeing, his lips parting in shock, Elara does what she's always done best.

She improvises.

Sweeping up as many bags as she can into both hands, she pushes past him into his flat, saying over her shoulder, "Get the remaining, will you? I can't carry them all."

If he's stunned or taken aback, she isn't there to see his reaction because she's already making a beeline for the small kitchenette set apart from the sitting room area. It's a small studio apartment, set in the middle of London—nothing like what he's used to but she figures seeing as it's only been a couple days since his release, he's probably still grateful for it.

"I didn't know what you liked," Elara says, unable to face him as the sound of the door shutting echoes throughout the flat. She begins to unload the groceries, her heart beating a million miles a minute. "But I brought some of the essentials. Eggs, bread, milk—I've even got some Firewhiskey somewhere in there."

His footsteps are light as he comes up behind her, the bags rustling in his hands. Cautious. Unsure. "You didn't have to."

Oh, God, it's been so long since she's heard his voice. She nearly falls to her knees at the sound of it. Rough and tired.

"Of course I did," she replies, heading over to the fridge. She props it open with her foot and begins to place the eggs inside, followed by the milk. "It's probably been ages since you had a proper meal. I got fruits too—if you want something to snack on—and I can make eggs. Scrambled with lots of pepper, right? I know it's already evening but breakfast for dinner is a thing, you know. Oh, I even brought coffee too—it's in one of the bags on the—"