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—"
"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.
Elara stands there, looking at him with bated breath, her pulse racing. She doesn't know what to say or how to console him—or even if she should console him.
Draco glances up, blinking through the soft strands of hair that have fallen into his eyes from the way his head is angled downwards. "Are you—How have you been?"
Elara considers the question, rolls it about on her tongue and then answers, "Where do you want me to start?"
"The beginning." His answer is immediate.
She quietens, gathering her thoughts and then said, "Okay—but will you let me cook for you as I talk?"
He hesitates and then shrugs.
So she gets to work, deciding on making him one of her favourite dishes—sweet and sour chicken with a side of egg-fried rice.
He waits, patiently as she puts the water to boil and doesn't protest when she stays silent until she's added the rice and starts on getting the vegetables out of the grocery bags.
"I wish I could kill you," she says finally, having created some sort of timeline in her head to explain things to him. "I really fucking wish I could."
He watches as she places three different coloured bell peppers on the cutting board. "I know," he says, quietly. "I expected that."
"You had no right." Her voice wavers as she pulls out a knife from one of the bags and rinses it. "Absolutely no right."
He stays quiet from behind her where he's taken a seat at the counter.
"When you disappeared for those few days," she begins, "I didn't think anything of it. You said it would take you a couple days to get everything in order in Balloch. I knew you were mourning your mother. I knew you were helping dismantle whatever was left of Voldemort's regime. I believed you."
Again, he says nothing but she can feel his gaze on her back as she finishes chopping the red bell pepper and moves onto the yellow one. "Orion was the one who told me what had happened to you—two hours after you were sentenced. He told me how there was a trial, a hearing—and he also told me about the conversation you two had before you went off to Azkaban."
She hears him shift behind her.
"He told me you forced him to keep me away. He told me you begged and pleaded with him to make sure I didn't testify."
"I did." His voice is so quiet.
Her eyes burn at the admission and she focuses on cutting. It doesn't help that she's lived with this for two years, wondering and dreaming and wishing and hoping—only to have him confirm it all. That he'd really kept her away. That he'd begged for her not to be there.
"It's not what you're thinking." He has gotten up and moved behind her—she can't remember when. His hands come into view beside her, long fingers reaching out and grasping the knife she's currently clutching onto for dear life.
He extracts it from her grip, gently and sets it down. "I did it for you."
Anger flares in her chest, white hot and rampant and she whirls on him, finding she's standing barely a couple inches away. "For me? You didn't even care enough to give me a goodbye and you think it was for me? What, were you scared I'd start crying and screaming? Thought I'd embarrass you? What was it that convinced you I was so undeserving of a goodbye?"
Draco blinks, taken aback by her outburst and says, "That's not how it was. That's not how it—Fuck, is that what you've been living with for the past two years?"
She doesn't respond, her face heated, her hands trembling where one grips the counter beside her, the other dangling by her side.
"You thought I didn't want to say goodbye to you?"
She turns back to the cutting board, snatching the knife back from his grip. "You didn't ask for me."
"I didn't—Elara, look at me."
She doesn't, keeps chopping away until she's finished the yellow bell pepper too and moves onto the green.
His voice drops to a growl. "I won't ask again."
Elara throws the knife down and turns to face him, arms crossing over her chest. She tips her head back and glares up at him, putting every ounce of ferocity that she has within her into that gaze. "Better?"
"Much," he responds, equally sarcastic. "I told Orion to keep you away because if you testified, there was no way they wouldn't look into your memories. They would take them from you, inspect them for tampering and then for evidence—and in the process, find out about you and your abilities with that Dark Magic in your head."
She's heard it all already from Orion—but hearing it straight out of Draco's mouth has an effect on her she doesn't want to admit.
"I forced him to keep you away so you wouldn't be poked and prodded and tested on like a fucking—what was it?—guinea pig. Because once they found out what you could do, once they found out what was inside your mind, that's what you would be to them. An experiment—a test subject."
"That wasn't your choice to make," she hisses out, stepping closer and he doesn't back down, doesn't even retreat a step. "If I had testified, you could've been saved. They would've seen how forced, how reluctant you were to do those things—and they would've let you off."
"We don't know that," he says in response.
"We don't know they would've locked me up and experimented on me either."
"I know about men in power, Elara." His voice is hard, reminiscent of his past. "I know the extents they'll go to for more of it."
She stops breathing for a second, knowing his mind is flashing back to Voldemort and pinches the bridge of her nose. "If Hermione hadn't pulled those strings and re-opened the case," she says, softly, "you'd still be in Azkaban. For life."
He's silent for a moment or two. "Yes."
"I was your only chance," she hisses, dropping her hand from her face. She shoves him out of the way, picking the knife up again. "And you were content to sit in that cell for the rest of your life."
"I've never been willing to sacrifice you."
She nearly slices her finger off and just manages to hit the board instead. He notices, of course—and slides the board away from her, taking the knife as well.
"Cut a tomato afterwards," she says, sharply as he begins to chop, long fingers elegant and graceful. She's nearly entranced. "And one of those red chilli peppers in that bag over there."
"Yes, ma'am." He gives her a half-smile that makes her stomach flip.
Snagging an onion, she grabs another smaller cutting board and knife and gets to work. "After I found out you'd been imprisoned for life," she goes on, trying to keep her voice steady, "I went—quite mad, honestly. I'm pretty sure McGonagall came close to casting an Avada on me on more than one occasion. I just wouldn't let up. I tried to get them to re-open the case, to conduct another hearing, give you a fair chance."
Tears sting her eyes and she quickly chalks it up to the onion. "Nobody would let me through. The case had just been closed so nobody was even half interested in getting it open again. And plus, we were talking about Draco Malfoy, right hand to Voldemort. No one thought you deserved a second chance."
"McGonagall tried her best," she continues, "but, ultimately, it was in the Ministry's hands. And with so much to clean up and rehabilitate after the war, no one would spare me a second glance. They wouldn't even let me see you in Azkaban."
"I wasn't allowed visitors," he answers and a glance his way tells her he's moved on from the bell pepper. "Ever. The only people I ever saw were the other inmates and the Warden."
"I know," she replies, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. When he looks over at her, she waves him away, sniffing. "Onion."
"Right." He sounds skeptical.
"I didn't stop fighting for a long time," she says, trying to focus on chopping. "They all begged me to stop—Hermione, Pansy, Val. I'm pretty sure Freya was considering kidnapping me and whisking me away to New Zealand or something to keep me away."
"When did you stop?"
Elara hesitates and draws in a breath. She doesn't answer until they've gotten all the vegetables stir-frying in a pan and she's started on the batter and sauce while Draco cuts the chicken into bite-sized pieces.
"Val dragged me to Spain with her for a few weeks," she responds, her back to him as she mixes the ingredients for the sauce. "I met Luca there."
Even with her back turned to him, she feels him tense, hears the blade hit the cutting board with a little more force than before in his surprise.
Elara clears her throat. "Dip those in here, will you?"
They keep going like that, coating chicken in batter and then adding them to a separate frying pan, waiting for them to cook.
Elara checks on the rice and is honestly impressed that Draco holds out for that long before he asks, his voice carefully controlled, "You and Luca?"
She nods, slowly. "He moved to Spain after the war. Lives alone in a nice little flat, smack in the center of Madrid. We bumped into him at one of the vegetable markets and pretty much rekindled whatever we had."
Draco is silent for a long time.
Elara stirs the eggs into the rice, taking a sniff and deeming it okay before switching off the fire. "I moved in with him."
Draco adds the last piece of chicken to the frying pan and steps back, seeming to need as much space from her as he can get. "I see."
His voice is rough and strained—but she knows he's trying to keep it in control. Elara finds a serving dish in one of the cupboards and starts shoveling out the rice into it.
"We dated for a couple months," she tells him, sensing as he takes a seat on the stool behind the counter again. "That's when I gave up. Apart from the fact that I was in Spain and could do virtually nothing for you from there, it felt—wrong to Luca. To keep fighting for you—when we both knew there was no way for me to win."
She turns and places the large bowl of rice in front of him, turning to stir the sweet and sour sauce into the chicken, steam billowing up from the pan. "Eventually, I ended it—I wasn't ready for a relationship—and moved back here. That was about six months ago—and since then, I've settled in Edinburgh."
There's a lilt of surprise in Draco's voice. "So what're you doing here in the middle of London?"
Elara turns off the fire beneath the chicken and moves to pull two wine glasses from the grocery bags. She cracks open one bottle of wine and pours it out for him, doing the same with her own.
"As soon as Hermione told me she'd managed to re-open the case, I left Edinburgh to come stay with her here. I wasn't allowed to testify—again—but Hermione managed to free you anyway. She won't admit it but I'm pretty sure she tampered with her and Kingsley's memories to make it look more convincing."
"Granger? Tampering? The world has really changed."
Elara smiles, handing him his glass, conscious of avoiding his fingers as she does so. "Well, I think she saw how desperate I was—and deep down, I'm sure she knows that whatever you deserved, it wasn't life in Azkaban. And you know her—when she wants something, she doesn't stop till she gets it."
She adds, "It helped that I suggested Kingsley—and that he'd seen you help us first-hand. The Wizengamot had no choice but to rule in your favour once he stepped forward and gave his memories as evidence—especially since you'd already done time."
She finishes dishing out the chicken and places it beside the rice. Draco flicks his wrist and two plates come soaring out from one of the cupboards, skidding to a stop on the granite counter.
Elara raises an eyebrow. "Thought you weren't allowed to do magic for a year."
"Not allowed to do magic with a wand," he corrects as she rounds the counter, slipping onto the stool next to him. "What little wandless magic I can do is still allowed."
"Well, I can take over that then for the time being."
He nearly chokes on his wine. "You're—Your magic—"
"Came back." She nods, sipping her own wine. "The Dark Magic within me stemmed from Voldemort—seeing as how I acquired it through Dark Marks. When Harry killed him, the magic went with it—and I was left with no recollection of how to hold a wand or how to perform even the simplest spells. Isaac and Amelia have been helping me learn again. I'm a quick learner though. Beat them both in a duel just last week."
Draco looks—almost proud. She doesn't let herself consider that possibility.
As they dig into their food, still piping hot and steaming, Elara keeps talking. "When they announced last month that you'd be discharged, I didn't know whether or not to come. I knew where you'd be staying, thanks to Hermione—but I didn't know if I should be the first face you see out of Azkaban. Eventually, Hermione had to kick me out of the flat."
Draco spoons some rice into his mouth. "If I'm being honest, I expected Orion."
"He wanted to come. But Meriam went into labour two days ago and he couldn't show up."
Draco pauses, his spoon halfway to his mouth. "Meriam?"
Elara blinks, chewing slowly. "His wife."
"Orion is married?"
"For a couple months now." She nods. "He told me to tell you not to worry and that they'd re-enact the ceremony for you because he knows your fragile ego won't be able to handle the fact that he got married without you."
"Bastard," Draco grumbles and Elara giggles, sipping her wine.
"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I wasn't invited either. No one was, actually. They snuck off and got married in some small place in Switzerland. Very hush-hush, the whole thing."
"And now he's having a kid?"
"Yes. Rather long labour, I'm afraid. Poor Meriam."
Suddenly, Draco's fork clatters to the plate and he hisses out a breath, one hand clutching his other wrist, eyes screwed shut in pain.
Worry floods through Elara. "What—"
He's on his feet, heading for one of the cabinets by the fridge and pulls it open with his good hand. Elara gets a glimpse of rows on rows of Draughts and tonics and her throat goes dry.
She watches as he uncaps and chugs one down with one hand, muscles of his throat convulsing around each swallow and she pushes her plate away, hopping down from the stool to approach him.
"What happened?" she asks, quietly, as he sets the empty bottle down. Gingerly, she reaches out, giving him ample time to pull away before taking his wrist, inspecting it.
The touch is electric, his skin smooth and the bones of his wrist prominent. She tries to suppress her shivers.
"The shackles." His voice is rough like the Draught burned his throat. "Made my bones ache. Sometimes, I can't even pick up a spoon."
Elara's stomach plummets and she rubs her thumb over his skin, cold and pale. "What else?"
He doesn't answer.
"Draco." She looks up at him and he exhales—like he'd been waiting for her to. "What else?"
"My head," he answers, softly, pulling his wrist away from her—as if he can't bear the touch. "It won't stop pounding and I—" He swallows hard, fingers flitting to press into his sternum. "There's pain—here. A fight broke out on one of the days that we weren't fed and—we're not allowed to have our wounds fixed. However it healed, it healed badly."
"That's what all these are for?" she whispers, pulling open the cabinet again. The rows of vials and jars and bottles stare back at her.
He nods, avoiding her eyes.
Elara swallows hard. She knows that wasn't even half of the physical pain he was in and she has no inkling about the mental side of things. If anything, she may have made things worse by coming here. "Do you—Do you want me to go?"
Silver eyes meet hers and he retreats a couple steps until he's leaning back against the counter, still holding his wrist. "You—You should."
Her heart twists and hurts and then sinks—but she forces her feet to move towards him. "Because you want me to or because you think I should?"
His eyes search her face and she can see the depths of pain there—mental, physical, all kinds. He's woven from pain, built up from it. His foundation is based on it—back when he was a young boy playing in Malfoy Manor.
"A life with me is not what you want."
The words halt Elara in her tracks.
"We can't just—" He gestures to the pans on the stove, the plates on the counter. "We can't just act like—"
She watches as he drops his wrist and lifts his hand to the tattoo on the side of his neck, twisting his head to better show it to her. "We can't just act like this didn't happen."
She doesn't respond, lets him take whatever he wants to say and run with it.
"We can't act like I'm not an ex-Death Eater. Convicted or not—I'm still hated everywhere I go, Elara. They spat on the vehicle transporting me here, you know that? Granger had arranged for security—otherwise I'm sure more than a few would've cast a Curse or two at me. "
He pushes a hand through his hair, runs a finger underneath the collar of his sweater in frustration. "Even—Even you showing up here is dangerous. They probably saw you walk in and now you're going to be followed and—"
"I came in through the back entrance," she interrupts, calmly. "No one saw me enter—and even if they did, I've stayed out of the limelight enough the past two years for them not to recognise me. I could be just any woman coming to visit anybody in this building."
He isn't expecting that, she can tell, and she watches as he turns, putting his back to her and gripping the edges of the counter. Watches the broad frame of his shoulders rise and fall, the muscles in his back still defined. "This is why. This is why staying with me isn't what you want. You won't be able to walk into a place with me without having to hide, without hoping no one saw us."
"I took my precautions," Elara goes on, quietly, walking up to him, "because I knew you'd freak out. Not because I didn't want anybody to see. If it had been up to me, I would've walked straight in through the front door with a sign that said 'Here for Draco Malfoy.'"
He doesn't laugh at her joke.
"I lied." She straightens, pulling her shoulders back as she stares at his back, gathering her courage. "About why I broke up with Luca. I didn't end things because I wasn't ready for a relationship. I ended things because I wasn't ready for a relationship with someone who isn't you."
"Stop." His voice is rough, edged but she recognises it for the plea that it is and disregards it.
"I don't care about any of it. I don't care that people stare, I don't care that people hate you. I don't care that you're an ex-Death Eater and I don't care that you have aches and pains that you didn't have before." She adds, "Because as soon as I saw that cupboard, I knew you were going to bring that up too. And I'm here to tell you you're not a burden."
"Elara." It's almost a warning as he turns, towering over her, using every inch of his height to intimidate her. "This isn't what you want."
"I know I'm selfish," she breathes, ignoring him and stepping closer into the cocoon of peppermint and teakwood. She's been polite for long enough. Talked to him, explained everything, cooked and drank wine with him. She's gotten the niceties out of the way. "You only got out a couple days ago and here I am in your kitchen. I didn't even give you a chance to—to be with other women but I—I don't care. I don't care."
She's sure he stops breathing when she slides her hands up his chest and locks them behind his neck. "You hear me, Draco Malfoy? I don't care. I've been waiting for you for two years and—"
"No, you haven't." He reaches up, grabs her wrists and disentangles them from his neck. Pushes her back a step, holding them both in one hand and pressing them to her chest. "Go back to Luca, Elara. Go back to Spain. Live your life the way you always wanted to, the way you—"
"No!" Her heart stings with the rejection and she pulls her wrists out of the grip he had on her, glaring up at him. "This is the life I want. If I stayed with you in this kitchen for the rest of my life, believe me, it'd be enough for me."
"Stop," he repeats, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. His jaw is set tight, that muscle twitching in it. "Stop. I don't want to hear this."
Elara steps back, feeling faintly nauseous. Whatever she'd expected by coming here, it wasn't this. It wasn't him being cold and dismissive of her. She'd waited for him for years, dreamt of him every day even while she was with Luca and had gone over this situation in her head the entire time—what it would be like when she finally got to see him again. It had been a fantasy, just a way to soothe her aching heart because as far as she'd known, he was sentenced to prison for life—until Hermione called and told her the good news.
"Why?" Her voice trembles and she inhales and tries again. "Why can't you just—"
"Do you understand what you're saying?" He sounds so tired, so exhausted. She never should've come. "If we do this—If we do this, it means everything was for nothing. Everything I tried to do to make sure you live a happy, normal life—It all goes down the drain."
His chest heaves and he looks away. "You need to leave."
"Why don't you want me here?"
He stays where he is, his fingers flexing by his side before he raises his hands again to knead the heels of his palms into his eyes—as if his head aches. "I just got out of Azkaban, Elara."
"And Azkaban changed what you felt for me?" It's the question she's been too terrified to ask, one she should've asked at the beginning.
Draco freezes, his chest going still, and then slowly drops his hands from his eyes. Looks at her with an agonised plea in the silver swirling in his irises.
"Am I too much of a reminder? Of your past?" The words hurt to say—but it hurts even more to look at him. "Do you want to find someone else? Someone who you can start over without—without having to see the war everytime you look at them?"
He says nothing. Nothing at all—and that's worse than if he had said yes.
Elara swallows hard, eyes stinging and looks away. The food has gone cold on the counter. It had been a futile attempt at normalcy.
"Alright then," she says, quietly. She makes her way towards the sofa where she'd tossed her tote bag on the way in and picks it up, feeling like it's the heaviest thing she's ever carried. Slinging it over her shoulder, she forces herself not to look back. Better to leave those hopes and dreams and promises of love behind.
But Elara has never been one to give up that easily—and so she leaves the front door open as she steps out over the threshold. Her steps towards the elevator are deliberately slow, her heart pounding away like a hammer in her chest.
She counts to five. Presses the button on the elevator. Waits for it to come up. Her ears prick in the direction of his flat because he'll come. He will come, won't he? Draco Malfoy doesn't tell people he loves them unless he means it—right?
But deep down, there's that overwhelming, terrible feeling—that maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe she'd overestimated his love for her. Maybe she'd just been a crutch for him during the war—something to lean on—and maybe he doesn't need her anymore, now that he's free.
The elevator doors open with a ding and she hesitates before stepping in.
Maybe he'd thought it was love and then realised it wasn't. He'd certainly had a lot of time to himself in Azkaban. Maybe he blames her for his imprisonment. Maybe he regrets keeping her from testifying. Maybe he wishes he'd sacrificed her to save himself.
The elevator doors begin to close. Elara feels the tears finally win, feels them well up in her eyes as she clutches onto her tote bag, willing the ache in her chest to go away.
A flash of movement and her breath catches in her throat and then vanishes completely as Draco sidles in through the narrow space between the elevator doors in one fluid motion.
In the span of the moment it takes for him to cross the small space in the elevator and reach her, he breathes, barely audible but rough with emotion nonetheless, "Azkaban changed nothing."
And then his mouth is on hers and his hands are sliding into her hair, finding purchase in her curls, maneuvering her exactly the way she knows he likes to kiss her.
Hard and searing enough to make her weak. Except now, there's two years worth of lost time to make up for and as the elevators door close behind him with another soft ding, neither Draco nor Elara seem to care.
She drops her tote bag to the floor, hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders. He tastes like the wine they'd been drinking and something sweeter—the Draught he'd taken maybe. His tongue grazes against hers and Elara gasps at the sensation, one she hasn't felt in so long and one she's missed dearly.
One large hand slides to grasp the back of her thigh and hitches her leg up around his hip as he presses her back against the mirror behind her, his lips delicious and firm against hers. He lets out a low groan when her hands trail over the bare skin on either side of his neck—like he's been starved for touch, which she knows he has been.
His teeth nip at her lower lip, drinking her in, consuming her like she's never been consumed before. Wrapping her up in peppermint and teakwood and wine and warmth, making her head spin and her heart throb behind her ribs. He's intoxicating and she's quickly becoming lost to the world.
Draco bends and grips both thighs now, hauling her up against him and she makes a pleased sound at the closer proximity, the firm plane of his chest pressed up against hers, the height difference no longer a hindrance. This is how he's always liked it—both of them on the same level, the same playing field.
Elara's arms wind around his neck, fingers losing themselves in his hair and she sighs at the feeling. When he squeezes her tight against him, she knows he's trying to soak her up like she is him—trying to make up for every second they've spent apart, thinking about each other, miles away.
And then the elevator lets out another soft ding—and before they can pull apart, the doors open to reveal a crowd of reporters and photographers all talking in the main lobby of the apartment building.
With a gasp, Elara jumps down from Draco's arms and then the brief moment of lull shatters as the reporters come rushing towards the elevator, all calling out and shoving each other aside to get to them.
"Mr. Malfoy, how does it feel to be out of prison?"
"Mr. Malfoy, fresh out of Azkaban and straight into the sheets, I see!"
"Who is that? Is she one of your secret admirers?"
"He's only been out a few days! You work fast, don't you, Mr. Malfoy?"
"Mr. Malfoy, will you look here please?"
Draco makes a soft, frustrated sound that only Elara hears and covers her with his own body, his back to the doors. He's large enough that he envelopes her completely and protects her from the flash of the cameras and the rabid reporters.
Elara buries her face in his sweater as he presses on the nape of her neck to keep her face hidden.
"Who is the mystery girl, Malfoy?"
"Sure you don't have her under the Imperius? Reckon Azkaban was lonely enough to make a guy desperate."
"What do you have to say about your trial?"
"Is it true you were tortured five days a week?"
This catches Draco's attention and his head twists to look over his shoulder as the elevator doors begin to close. "Seven."
Elara knows the reporters aren't legally allowed to enter the lift but she feels a small wave of magic from Draco anyway—just a small push to have them retreat as the doors finally close.
Draco steps back from her and stabs his thumb into the button for the third floor. He lets out a frustrated groan, head knocking back against the wall as the lift begins to ascend. "Fucking hell. I hate those guys."
Elara can see how he's trying to hide how much their questions bother him. How much he hates being followed around and hounded.
She steps up to him and places both hands on his sides, looking up at him. "I don't care about any of it, Draco."
He looks down at her, his lips still swollen from how he'd kissed her and gives her the barest of smiles, raising a hand to wrap one of her curls around his index finger. "But I do. I don't want this to be the life for you."
"Please," she whispers, knotting her fingers into his sweater and fixing him with an imploring look. "Please don't take this away from me. I've spent so long without you already. Please don't make it any longer."
His eyes soften and he leans down to brush his lips over hers—in a ghost of a kiss, gentle, light, pure.
Elara's eyes flutter shut and she opens for him, lets him steer the kiss wherever he wants to—but he keeps it soft and lingering until the elevator doors open once more onto the third floor.
He walks her backwards, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her waist and she isn't even scared of tripping or falling or bumping into something. Draco has her. He always has her.
Only when they stumble in through the open doorway and he kicks it shut with his foot behind them, does he tilt his head and deepen the kiss, moaning into her mouth when she slips her hands under his sweater to splay flat against the firm plane of his stomach.
Elara keens herself when his hands squeeze her arse, her stomach jolting in pleasure and she quickly finds herself spiralling once again, feels the ground giving way under her feet until she's falling through space and time and Draco, losing herself in every touch, every scent, every feel and sight of him.
All so familiar—even after two long, exhausting years of being apart.
"Wait," he says against her mouth, breathless as she tugs at his sweater, pulling it up so she can slide her hands up his bare skin to rest on his chest. To feel his heartbeat hammering under his skin, matching her own. "Wait, wait, wait—"
She does, pulling back immediately, trying to catch her breath, her chest heaving. It only now hits her how badly she needed to breathe. In her frenzy, she would've kissed him until she suffocated.
Draco's own shoulders rise and fall, rapidly and he slides his hands to grasp her wrists, tugging them away from him, his sweater falling back into place. "There's still so much we have to talk about."
Elara blinks up at him, still dazed and it doesn't help when he flattens a palm against her cheek, long fingers resting right under her ear. "I..."
He smiles—and whatever she was going to say flies out the window there and then. She inhales, deeply and drops her head against his chest, half-embarrassed.
"I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me." She laughs, lightly.
His answering chuckle is like music to her ears. "Believe me, I'm barely holding it together. I just..." His tone sobers and she raises her head from his chest to look at him. "I just want you to know what you're getting into before—before this goes any further."
She nods, realising the rationale behind his words and steps back, tucking her hands into the back pockets of her jeans to stop herself from touching him. "Yeah. Yeah, alright."
So they settle in the sitting room, Draco on the armchair, Elara curled up on the sofa.
"The only reason I'm all the way here is because two years in Azkaban still didn't rid the need to touch you," he tells her as he slumps low in the leather armchair. "If I sit anywhere near you, I don't think I'd be able to keep my hands to myself."
Elara's cheeks flush. "It's—probably better for the both of us."
Later, she tells herself when he adjusts his position, sliding lower and spreading his legs, just wide enough for her to kneel between if she wants to. You'll get your chance later.
Because there's no way anything he's about to say will make her leave.
"Two years in Azkaban," he begins, head knocking back against the armchair, eyes on the ceiling, "is a long fucking time, believe me. I'm sure they have some—some kind of time-warping ward around that place because I'm not exaggerating when I say it felt like ten years."
Elara watches as he exhales through his teeth, his features tired. "Every day was worse than the last and I mean that. But when the Warden came to tell me the case was being re-opened, I fought to stay."
Elara's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
"I fought to stay because my first thought was that it would've been you who re-opened it—and for the same reasons that I kept you away from testifying the first time, I didn't want a trial if you were involved."
"You're insufferable," she murmurs with a sigh and he shoots her a half-smile.
"But when Granger came to escort me personally, she assured me you had nothing to do with it—that you weren't even allowed to testify. So I went." His eyes turn dark. "I didn't look back once. If I could've burned that place to the ground as I left, I would've."
Elara's stomach sinks at the tone in his voice—tortured, bitter, hateful. She knows there are demons he won't tell her about. Demons he probably hasn't confronted himself.
"You know how the trial went," he continues, his eyes clearing again. "But what you don't know are the aftereffects."
"Draco," Elara says, leaning forward to try and get her point across. "I don't ca—"
"I've had nightmares every night since the war ended," he cuts her off, ignoring her, eyes fixed on the coffee table. "About—About my mother. My father. Him."
Elara nearly flinches herself at the mention of Voldemort.
"Most nights, I can't sleep," he says, still not looking at her. "And if I do, it's not for more than a few hours. I'm constantly fighting with myself, trying to get myself to relax, to calm down but every time I hear a sound—" He stopped, abruptly. "When you knocked on the door, I almost didn't answer it. All I could think of was that it might've all been one huge mistake and that the Warden would be standing on the other side of that door, with those shackles, waiting to take me back."
Elara's throat closes up and she pulls her knees to her chest, resting her cheek against them, her head turned towards him.
"I haven't even tried to venture out of the flat," he goes on, quietly. "Merlin knows how I'll react if a firecracker goes off nearby. Without my wand to defend me, it's even more disconcerting."
And Elara wonders how stark of a change this must be for the most powerful man she knew. To be someone who can't step outside, who has to down tonic after tonic to keep his pain away.
"Being with me isn't going to be easy," he continues, eyes flicking up to meet hers. "It's going—It's going to be a fucking chore, if I'm honest. Reporters will follow us everywhere. We won't be allowed to eat at some restaurants because of my past. Our children—"
Her heart leaps in her chest and he swallows hard, looking away again.
"Our children would be bullied in school for who their father was. We'd be ostracised as a family." He clears his throat. "I know that seems presumptuous of me—to assume you'd want children. But if we went into this and you begin to resent me or our relationship...I wouldn't be able to live with that, Elara. The last thing I want is for you to get stuck with me in a relationship you don't want but can't leave because of the children or because of—because of your sense of duty or—"
"Draco—"
He holds up his hand. "Let me finish."
She settles back, obediently.
"We wouldn't be able to go out on dates—not without being stared at anyway. There'd be rumours. They'd assume I forced you into it. They'd make up all kinds of things, Elara, and you wouldn't be able to shut any of them down—which I know you'll want to do. Nothing you do will make them believe you and no matter how much I try to redeem myself, I'm irredeemable. "
He draws in a breath, having changed position a while ago, leaning forward with his hands dangling between his legs, his eyes locked on hers. "And if you choose right now to walk out of this flat as nothing more than a friend, know I am grateful. Know that even your friendship is a thing I do not deserve—but one I know you'll offer anyway. Even if you walk out of here as nothing but a distant acquaintance, know that is entirely your right."
He pauses, lacing his fingers together. "When you walked in through that door, this was never what I expected. And if you walk out of it wanting nothing to do with me, I will not protest. I will not make you stay—not when being with me has so many consequences."
Elara wants to intervene but he pushes on, sensing her impatience. "And if you choose—somewhere in the middle, know it'll be slow. For your sake, more than mine. We can try it out—see each other every once in a while, go out for coffee. Granger has offered me a place at the Ministry but I don't know if I'll take it. Let's say I do—that'll be something to consider too, seeing as you teach at Hogwarts and I'll be here in London."
Elara raises an eyebrow. "You know I teach at Hogwarts?"
He smirks—and it's so familiar, it makes her gasp. "Granger doesn't stop talking, you know that? But really—Care of Magical Creatures? You couldn't have picked a more interesting subject?"
She scowls at him. "It's one of my favourites."
"Alright, Hagrid."
She can't help the giggle she lets out and he grins at her, the first genuine smile she's seen so far.
"Regardless," he finally continues, sobering, "I might end up as a Cursebreaker in the Ministry—and I wouldn't ask you to leave your post at Hogwarts to come stay with me. Granted, with Floo and Apparation, the distance isn't really a problem—but you'd be at Hogwarts for most of the year and even if you did commute home every day, chances are I'd work late hours at the Ministry."
With a deep breath, he sits back. "But like I said, we can take things slow. See what you're getting into. See if you can handle the cameras and questions and the reporters and the sleepless nights and the constant brewing of tonics that I'll have to do. Again, I have to tell you: if you choose to leave here wanting nothing to do with me, that's entirely your right. In fact, that'd probably be best for you, if I'm being completely honest. Go back to Spain and find Luca and move back in with him—that's the life you deserve."
With that, he finally finishes, his eyes searching her face, hands clasped loosely in his lap.
"Is it my turn?" Elara raises her eyebrows, feigning surprise. "Sorry, I was quite caught up in all your frivolous assumptions about me that couldn't be farther from the truth."
Draco tilts his head in question and she swings her legs off the sofa, smoothing her hands down her jeans as she gathers her courage.
"First of all," she says, keeping her voice firm, "as I've been trying to tell you since I walked in here, I don't care. I know you think I will—but believe me, Draco, the attention doesn't bother me. I've never been one to care about what other people think. I thought you knew that by now. If they want to make up rumours, let them. I know the truth."
She stands and plants her hands on her hips, glaring at him. "Secondly, there's a reason why I left that life with Luca. If I'd known you'd keep harping on the topic, I never would've brought it up. That life didn't satisfy me—not in the slightest—but even just cooking food with you in that tiny little kitchenette behind us made me realise the feeling I've been chasing for the past two years can only be found with you."
She pauses to let him digest it, watching the muscles of his throat as he swallows. "You hear me, Malfoy? Only with you. And third, if you think I haven't come away with my fair share of trauma after the war, you're wrong. I hate being in closed spaces. I can't stay in my bedroom without leaving the door ajar. I dream of Iris almost every night. Everytime someone brings up Blood Curses, I have to leave the room because all I can think about is Magda and how I failed her. I can't stop seeing Dolohov and dungeons and those prisoners everytime I shut my eyes. I live in fear that one day, I'll wake up and find that it was all a dream—that we never won the war, that you never found me and that I'm still down in that cell underneath Dolohov's estate."
Draco looks pained.
"And, fourth," she pushes on, breathless, "I have to apologise because if you think that anything you just said is going to convince me to walk out of here as a friend or acquaintance, you couldn't be more wrong and frankly, you wasted your breath and my time trying to be a gentleman."
She takes in a breath. Now comes the hard part. Even his fingers are beginning to tremble.
"And my fifth and final point," she says, dropping her hands from her hips and stepping forward, rounding the coffee table to stand right in front of him. "I don't want slow. I don't want to dance around this and just—get a coffee every once in a while. I don't want the clean, sanitised version of this relationship. I want it all, Draco—and I promise you I will stick by you through it. I know you don't believe me right now but—" She pauses, looking down at him. "I haven't waited two years for nothing. I've lost you so many times. I will not lose you again—not if you still want me."
He's on his feet then, looming over her, hands sliding into her hair. "You know I do. You know nothing has changed for me."
"Nor for me," she breathes, already dizzy at his touch. "It will never change for me. Let me stay. Let me be with you and let me lo—"
He kisses the remaining sentence from her mouth, suddenly feverish and urgent and insistent—like her words have set fire to him. Elara melts into him, as consumed as he is and his hands tighten in her hair, pulling her impossibly closer.
"Please—" She gasps out as he backs her towards the kitchen counter. It bites into her lower back, briefly before he hauls her up onto it, his palms slamming down on the countertop on either side of her hips. "Please don't take this from me again. Please—I—"
"Marry me." It's his own ragged gasp against her mouth as he kisses her, feverishly. Once, twice, thrice—like he can't bear to be apart from her for more than half a second. "Marry me, Elara."
Elara freezes and he pulls back, silver eyes searching hers and confirming that he's serious. That he hadn't said it in his lust-filled daze.
"I'll take your name," he says, sweeping down to nudge his lips against hers once more before dragging them to her cheek, leaving small butterfly kisses in his wake. "If you don't want to take Malfoy. Or we can hyphenate—I don't care. I don't fucking care. Just—Just marry me."
It's a shock in itself—but sitting there on his kitchen counter with her legs on either side of him, their breaths mingling, foreheads pressed to one another's, Elara has never been more sure of the answer.
"Yes," she breathes out, warmth spreading from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. "Yes, yes, yes, yes—"
He kisses the rest away and picks her up, effortlessly, already making his way down the hallway towards the bedroom.
Only when they fall into bed, naked and tangled together, does he say it to her. Only then does he breathe it into her skin, his lips moving against her neck.
"I love you."
Elara feels tears spill down her cheeks as she pulls his face to hers, hands slipping through his hair, dragging her nails against his scalp and making him pant. "I love you."
When he pushes into her, it feels like coming home. She gasps and clutches at him as he rocks into her, whispering words of reverence against her lips. He slides a hand up her thigh and hitches it up around his waist, driving in deeper and Elara's eyes shut in pure pleasure.
She traces love into the scars on his back with her fingertips, kisses it into the mouth she knew has been starving and thirsty for many days in the past two years. Imbues tenderness and acceptance into the tattoo on his neck with soft kisses to it, slips her fingers through his soft hair and weaves joy between the strands. Sews pure awe into the scar across his face as she drags her fingers across it. Presses raw pleasure into him with every motion she makes to meet his thrusts, infuses euphoria underneath his skin everytime she gasps out his name and bites into his shoulder to muffle her cries.
His voice, ragged and broken with emotion. "Are you on the—"
"No."
"Neither am I."
"Good."
He takes her slow and firm and deep—like they have all the time in the world which she supposes they did now. Finally—finally—after six long years, they've earned it. From eighteen to twenty five, she's been his—and she will remain his for the rest of her life, however long or short.
"I love you," she gasps as he slides into her again, hips nestling tight against hers for a long moment before he pulls out and does it again. "I love you, I love you, I—"
He kisses her, hard and full of emotion. "And I, you."
When she shatters underneath him, he groans into her mouth and goes over the edge with her, head buried in her neck as he comes, his teeth closed around her pulsepoint. She grips onto his shoulders, savouring every inch of bare skin and brings him closer, digging her hands into his hair and letting tears spill from her eyes.
He kisses them away one by one after he's recovered, still inside her and she feels his lips take away all the pain, all the torture she's been through over the recent years. Feels his touch ease her suffering and fill her with love and light and hope. Hope that there's a happy ending in store for them somewhere and that they'll be together until the end. Until Death comes to take one of them—or both of them. Until they embark on that final journey alone—but knowing they've left behind a life spent together.
But until then, they have each other. Every moment they've ever lived through, every hardship, every ache, has led up to this very moment. Every tear spilled has guided them down this path to an end far greater than what they'd seen at the time.
They've come a long way from the two young teenagers they were, standing across each other on the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. To the adults they are now, lying tangled together in bedsheets, exchanging lazy, tired kisses like one lifetime together isn't enough for them. Like they need more than one to truly satiate themselves with each other.
But then again, there had been a promise made—a promise that in whatever life, this or the next, they would find each other again. And they have.
The war is won, Draco is free—and Elara finds herself wondering if she ever really lost anything at all.
———