the girl who lost it all [d.m]

epilogue

"Elara."

"—and I brought a fresh change of clothes. Not much—but enough to get you through the next couple days until you—"

"Elara."

"—shopping yourself. Also, I know you'll probably want to know that Malfoy Manor was never restored so—"

"Elara."

She's been trying her best to ignore the way her name sounded off his lips. She's wanted to hear it for so long and here he is, behind her and she can't even look at him, can't even say anything to his face—

"Look at me." It's a quiet order—a demand.

She's shaking as she lets the fridge door fall shut, still staring at the metallic grey face of it. "No."

He's quiet for a moment or two. "Why?"

She so badly wants to turn and take him in, wants to let her eyes soak up the vision she'd dreamt of since he left. But her pain is already a sharp ache in her chest and she doesn't know if looking at him would help.

"Because I can't," she whispers towards the fridge, her eyes burning.

He takes a step closer and she can smell peppermint and teakwood now. She nearly laughs. How can he still smell so familiar, fresh out of prison?

His hand is a ghost of a touch on her shoulder. Something that has just been a distant memory until a couple seconds ago. "Yes, you can."

And when he turns her, she doesn't protest, even though she's sure she's close to passing out. Looking at him feels like coming home—nostalgic, warm, familiar.

His hair is slightly longer, still all tousled waves, brushing the tips of his ears, still that same pale colour. He's lost some weight, judging by how his cheekbones look a little more defined, his body lean and just as tall as she remembers him. The scar across his face has faded, turning a dull pink, stretching from his left temple to the right curve of his jaw.

He's dressed in a navy blue sweater—she's never seen him in navy blue—with the sleeves pushed to the elbows, coupled with black trousers and the same rings on his fingers.

The dragon shines on his index, the kitchen lighting making it glimmer.

But his eyes are the same—silver, sharp, calculating—and her knees nearly buckle with the force of them. She's missed them so much.

She supposes the only thing that has really changed about him is the tattoo branded into the side of his neck, above his collarbone: the mark of every inmate in Azkaban.

Her heart aches—and for a second, she has to grip onto the counter in front of her to stop herself from falling.

It's him who speaks first, his voice laced with the same emotion she feels in her chest. "You look the same."

Elara blinks, coming out of her stupor and gives a weak laugh, trying to keep back the tears threatening to fill her eyes. "Was I—Was I supposed to look different?"

God, her heart is hammering so hard in her chest, she's sure he can hear it.

He gives a shrug, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "I mean—I expected something different. Maybe your hair would be longer or—or you'd have aged in some way—"

"It's only been two years," she says and immediately regrets it because he looks away with a wince.

"You won't believe how long it felt for me," he says, quietly, fingers dragging along the granite countertop, his eyes following the movement.