You Came

He lay there, huddled in his cell, bruised and bleeding, but not broken. Not yet.

Above him he could hear the tread, tread of people walking. After awhile he had grown to memorize the steps of his torturers. Weasley had a thud, thud—swish thud, because of his slightly crooked ankle, courtesy of Aunt Bella.

Potter—who, to his credit, never came down here—had an even tread, tread.

Shacklebolt had an impressive thud which echoed round the cell when he came down to visit, and his visits always left deep marks on the sides of his ribs, thanks to his imposing kicks.

Lupin—who rarely came down here either, had a soft pad, pad which the prisoner welcomed, because it meant that there would be no torture for awhile, just blessed relief.

Weasley Dragon Keeper, Weasley Goblin Lover, and Weasley Clone One and Two all had hard steps, and he could feel it when they were coming, and he was always the worst off later.

Never a Crucio—the one thing for which he was grateful. They seemed to prefer to use Muggle ways, the Muggle-lovers that they were, kicking and beating at him, yelling, mocking, whipping; sometimes they jinxed him—small, comparably harmless jinxes that hurt when left on for so long. Once Weasley had used a Sectumsempra, and afterwards Lupin and Potter had come down to heal his wounds. They never used that spell again, and for that also he was grateful.

Or had been.

No longer.

Now it was just day after day. He liked it when Weasley came. Weasley was unimaginative. A few kicks, yelling, a few punches maybe, possibly a crack or two with the whip—no hexes. No inventive curses that lingered for days after he was gone. Yes, he liked it when Weasley came.

It didn’t matter anymore.

She wasn’t coming.

She had promised she would.

“I’ll come for you,” she had promised. She always kept her promises.

And so he had clung to that tiny ray of hope, the slight golden beam that had melted his icy mask in the first place, day after day knowing that she would come, that she would rescue him, the only one who knew of his role as a double agent now that Minerva McGonagall was dead.

Only she didn’t.

And now, three months later, he knew that it was hopeless. He had long since stopped believing in hope. Obviously, she hadn’t cared enough. Hadn’t believed him, hadn’t trusted him—hadn’t loved him. So nothing mattered anymore, only that he go as quickly and painlessly as possible. She herself hadn’t come down yet—probably to show just how unimportant he was in her scheme of things. He wished she would. She had proved her point a million times over—just, he wanted to see her beautiful face again.

Just once.

Just to show him that he was a teeny tiny bit important in her world.

That he even figured at all.

But she didn’t.

And he didn’t.

So now, he supposed, nothing mattered anymore. Not whether he had been good or bad, not whether this was fair, or unfair, not whether he was dead or alive. Maybe, just maybe, that last one mattered a little bit.

The thoughts drifted through his head in a scattered, incoherent sort of mumbling breeze as he felt Weasley kicking him. If he had had strength enough, he would have laughed because the fool was so stupid. Couldn’t he see that it didn’t matter? It didn’t hurt anymore—nothing hurt anymore, just her.

And maybe it did matter if he died, because he would so have liked to see her face again one more time. He had always been melodramatic.

And he had heard about how your life flashes before your eyes before you die, and then he thought maybe he was going to die, because everything was going black, but he couldn’t be dying because there was only one thing running through his head, before his eyes, and that was her face, and surely he had a life besides her?

Or maybe he didn’t, and he was dying after all?

And now he was floating far above his body, just hovering in a golden spiral of light and looking down. He had heard about this before, read about it, but had never appreciated just how beautiful it was, how intensely good it was to feel this way, this unattached, disinterested feeling that was running through his veins.

He saw Weasley falling still, his kicks slowing.

He heard steps, light, delicate steps that were oddly laden down with some heavy things—books, his mind dared to hope—coming along the corridor.

He saw Weasley looking panicked and some vague inner corner of his heart that could still feel rejoiced at this discomfit to his enemy.

He saw the cell door swing open.

And he saw her.

The shock of it weighed him down, pushed him down, plummeted him down back to earth and slammed him into his body, and he didn’t even protest at the sudden return of pain because she was there, she was finally there, and she had finally cared enough to come see him.

“Draco?”

Just one word, but it was so beautiful coming from her lips.

He tried to smile up at her, he really did, because he didn’t like her looking so sad, but she did, and it wasn’t right, something so beautiful shouldn’t look so sad, and he thought if he smiled it might help her. But then his lips were split in so many places, and when he tried to smile the blood flowed red from then, and she broke down worse than ever, and it was his fault, of course it was his fault, everyone got hurt because of him, that was why he was down here.

“Oh God Draco,” she breathed, and he had never liked that Muggle expression, but just now, coming from her lips, out of her concern for him, it had never sounded so wonderful.

“Hermione?” and it was, and she was here, and he was happy. “You came,” he said, and the fact filled him with an indescribable happiness.

“Draco, I’m sorry, I would have come here sooner, but I was sick, and then I forgot all about you, and then I couldn’t find you, and I’m so sorry Dray, I really am, I forgot all about you, please, I’m so sorry…”

He smiled up at her. Couldn’t she see that none of it mattered? She was here, and that was all that mattered. He mattered to her. She loved him.

And everything centered

Around that one fact

“You came.”