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You Look So Good in Blue by dollface

Format: One-shot
Chapters: 1
Word Count: 3,529

Rating: Mature
Warnings: Mild Language, Strong Violence, Scenes of a Mild Sexual Nature

Genres: Drama, Horror/Dark, Angst
Characters: Hermione, Draco
Pairings: Draco/Hermione

First Published: 06/12/2007
Last Chapter: 06/26/2007
Last Updated: 06/26/2007


As he straightened out her curled fingers, he was overcome with the urge to kiss her, as if it would wake her up, like she was Sleeping Beauty. He gently bent over her, careful not to disturb his work, and shaped his mouth to hers. He left mere inches between their lips: his chapped and trembling, hers still and slightly blue from cold. Had to be from the cold, he reasoned. It wasn't from the cold, than that would mean the blue came from death. (L)Shirahime for the banner

Chapter 1: You Look So Good in Blue
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You Look So Good in Blue
By: dollface
Beta: monkeyface

It had been quite the walk, this far. Rebelling twigs and branches rapped his chest, and tangled their way into his disheveled, silver hair that had once been impeccable. His robes, now a ripped product of bush weed and thorns, were torn in several places, but he wore them with a proud air that made the jet-black cloth seem to deserve much more than it is actual worth.

It would have been a much simpler task to apparate to the meadow, Draco knew, but he had wanted to once again walk the path he had walked in such great volume a number of years ago. He had not written down any directions or even consulted his memories – the twenty-nine year old had been down it so many times during his prime that he probably could have closed his eyes and not so much as stumbled the whole way until his destination.

The path through the Forbidden Forest hadn’t altered much since the last time he had been down it, save for weeds and plants that managed to escape the dirt, and the odd tree or shrub that was taking up more room than it earned. Walking here again was much the same for Draco as it had been ten years ago with one exception: her; Hermione Jane Granger.

The three years that he spent with Hermione had been the best he would ever live. Still, he thought of them often. He thought of them while he made his morning coffee, while he pretended to sort through his fathers effects, while he lied in bed at night before his body gave over to weariness. Sometimes he did not consciously think of these years at all, but he was always aware of them. Unceasingly, they played in the dark corners of his mind like little movies, along side, the recollections of how Hermione smelled like honey and baking sweets, and how her freckles would turn blonde during the summertime.

Almost without realizing it, he stepped out of the bush. Draco’s lungs gave a short, sharp ache at the sight before him. The meadow – their meadow – had hardly changed since the night he had vowed never to return to it. He briefly wondered if plants did not grow or change in the forest, but just were, but the idea left his mind quickly, for even with magic the idea seemed absurd.

Another reason for rejecting this option lingered. Maybe Draco wanted to believe that something else had preserved decaying long from vanishing into the ground, kept the grass from growing to a level above his trainers or disallowed any new trees to spring up and abolish the humble meadow altogether.

It did not seem ridiculous to believe that, despite all the treachery and betrayal that had occurred outside it, love still lived in the meadow. People believed that evil could manifest itself (Hermione had told him that, shrilly, the night she left). So why couldn’t love? If awfulness and suffering were able to haunt a home thirty years after a murder had taken place, could not love, which was infinitely more powerful, stay behind to keep a meadow beautiful?

Gingerly, as if his footstep might upset some illusion and the beautiful display would topple to reveal an unkempt jungle, Draco stepped forward. How horrible that would be, when if he just looked around he could picture her sitting on the ground, studying, and laughing when he came up behind her and planted an upside down kiss atop her nose.

When he reached the southern side of the meadow, where the enormous, half-decayed log was, he ceremoniously removed his heavy, black cloak. Then he laid it gently, if somewhat lovingly, onto the old wood. He allowed himself a small smile, recalling what a good bench it had always made. He bent to his knees, as if to sit, then thought better of it; he would wait standing.

The cool summer air felt sharp against his bare skin. Cloak less; he wore black dress pants that were about an inch too long for him, and a white, button-up shirt. Thoughtfully, he pushed up the sleeves to his elbows.

No reason, he thought, to unnecessarily ruin a perfectly good shirt.

As Draco stood there in the meadow, he was feeling much calmer than a man in his situation had any right at all to be feeling. It felt as though the world outside of the meadow had ceased to exist. Voldemort was not winning the war, Potter was not to pitifully fighting a losing battle, innocents were not needlessly dying and Draco had no responsibility to pick through his deceased father’s belongings and decide whom to give them to. In this world, he would burn them all up, for all it mattered. Nevertheless, none of those worries existed, here. No, here in the meadow there was only Draco Malfoy, looking petulant as he waited with his wand tucked neatly away in his right pants pocket.

Suddenly a twig snapped behind him, shattering his own little world. Now, there was Draco, his wand, and an intruder – though, admittedly, not an intruder that he hadn’t expected. Instead of flinching at the sound, Draco allowed a wicked smirk to cross his face as the feeling of easy victory elated him.

“I thought you might come, Mi.” He said civilly, knowing who the intruder was without having to turn around.

“A lot of people are looking for you, Draco. I . . . couldn’t think of anywhere else you would’ve gone,” she confessed. Hermione’s voice was fragile and saturated with emotion. Draco had once known her well enough to realize that she was doubting her decision to come after him.

“Neither could I, as it were,” Draco answered, his voice light, as if she were just an old friend he’d bumped into at a coffee shop. “And how is Madeline?” He asked of the daughter he hadn’t seen in years. She’d been a toddler when he was taken away, but he realized that she must’ve been a third year by now.

Hermione didn’t speak immediately, as if she wasn’t sure she would answer. When she did speak, her voice was cautious, but it was filled with the sort of pride only a mother could have. “Wonderful, really. She’s just finished her second year and, from what I get from her grades, she’s one of the best in her year,” Draco gave a chuckle and murmured something that sounded like ‘but of course’ and then Hermione uncertainly offered, “She looks a lot like you, you know. She’s got your hair and your . . . your skin. And your moods.”

Despite all the malice that he had directed at her memory over the years, despite the reason he had escaped and lured her here tonight, Draco could no longer allow her to speak to his back. He turned around.

Hermione was just as beautiful as he remembered. Age lines, prominent as they were around her eyes, had not altered the compassion of her face. While her curls had settled in their age, she still tamed them with a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wore fitted jeans and a crème cardigan over a brown sweater with a deer design across the chest. Draco had the sudden urging to take her into his arms, so he combated it with speech.

“You never came to visit.” He said flatly.

Hermione defiantly crossed her arms. “Asylum’s are no place for children, as you very well know.” She told in him the same way she had recited answers to professors in school.

“There’s a garden out front,” Draco argued, though he’d never actually been it himself. “She’d never even have to see the crazy people.”

Hermione heaved a great sigh, and ran her hand over her hair, smooth out imaginary frizz. “She would see you, Draco . . . You must realize that you don’t live in St. Jude’s Asylum because it’s convenient housing.”

“I’m not crazy.” Draco said bluntly.

“And you’ve broken out in the middle of the night, flew a stolen broom to Hogwarts and hid in the heart of the Forbidden Forest to prove this?”

A stubborn silence fell over them. Draco couldn’t understand her reason for coming, if she was just going to rebuke him like this the entire time. “You could’ve come to see me,” he hissed, his thoughts spilling out vocally.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, and she seemed to tense up. Draco felt a sparkle in his eyes when he realized that he had succeeded in making her uncomfortable. “I had thought that I’d made it pretty clear about ten years ago that I planned never to see you again.” She told him.


Tears filled up Hermione’s eyes. Draco’s voice was urgent as he tried to explain himself, but she closed her eyes and wrung her hands and shook her head as if she didn’t want to – or couldn’t – hear him.

“Listen to me!” Draco cried, taking hold of her shoulders as if he could shake her into sanity. “Listen to me! You don’t know what it’s like, Hermione! You don’t know how repulsive it is to have no secrets with a man you despise! You have no comprehension of how the Cruciatus Curse feels! You can’t comprehend what it’s like to be bound!”

“Yes I do!” she flustered, as if she had been waiting to say this for a long while. “How can I not, when you’ve gotten me so inescapably bound to you!”


“You say you never want to see me again and yet, here you are. You came after me, Hermione!” Draco argued.

“Believe it or not, I am not as heartless and unfeeling as you, Malfoy. I should be, though, after what you did to me.”

Draco felt the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding spill from his mouth. She had called him Malfoy, and the pain that came with the simple use of his last name had hurt him more than a slap flat across the face. She hadn’t called him Malfoy since school, and he felt no pleasure in her using it now.

“I’d be more careful with my words if I were you, Granger,” he sneered, “As my memory continues to serve, I recall that it wasn’t that long ago that you were a Malfoy yourself. Besides, you’re not really in a position to be smart with me.” Draco gleefully smirked at the fire his words had ignited on Hermione’s face.

“Oh, I’m not, am I?” she said hotly. She tried desperately to appear collected, but at his condescending smirk she nervously stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans.”

“No,” Draco replied simply, clearly relishing in Hermione’s anger. “you’re not.”

“Any why is that?”

“Well to begin,” he started arrogantly, “I assume Potter doesn’t know you’re here. Am I correct?” Draco only realized he had been pacing when he halted, turning so he could see her face.

“I – that’s really none of your business.” She said, stumbling over her words.

“Right. So if Saint Potter doesn’t know that you’ve run off to save me in middle of the night, it’s pretty clear that you haven’t divulged this little adventure to anyone else, either. That is the first thing I’ve got over you, Ms. Granger.

“Secondly, I’ve had this night worked out for years. They guard the insane population a great deal closer than I’d believed. Tonight wasn’t spur of the moment, love” he paused to enjoy her involuntary shudder before he stepped closer and stroked the side of her cheek with his slightly dirty hand. “I’ve waited a long time to get you alone.”


“Ron, Draco! My best friend, Ron! Of all the people your disgusting lot could’ve gone after, and you lead them to Ron!”

“Mi, it wasn’t me! I had no choice. The Dark Lord is powerful and cunning. Do you think I needed to tell him where Weasley was for him to know? He terrifies me, Hermione!” Draco tried to defend himself, his voice leaking out as a high pitched whine, and reminding Hermione of a child whose mother wouldn’t buy him sweets.

“The Dark Lord is pitiful, cowardly and repulsive! And the only thing that terrifies me is you!”


Draco took another step closer to Hermione so they were chest to chest. He reached out to hold her around her lower back, but she stepped back at the last second. She was silent, but defiance was written all over her face and arrogance sparkled in her eyes. Draco chuckled darkly and stepped forward again, this time backing Hermione into a tree. He pressed himself against her and angled his chin so it was just above her shoulder.

“I want you back, Mi.” he said, his hot breath landing on her neck and then reflecting back into his face.

“That’s unfortunate,” Hermione hissed vehemently, “because you repulse me,” She looked thoughtful for a moment and then added mockingly, “Love.”

Draco fought hard to keep anger for his voice. He spoke in a tone that was blackly conversational. “I figured as much, so I brought this little tool here, just incase an occasion arose in which I could use it. An occasion much like this, as a matter of fact.”

From the pocket of his pants, Draco removed his wand. He dragged it slowly up Hermione’s side as he spoke, looking straight at her eyes with wicked enjoyment as they became wild and her breath started to come in short gasps. He finally halted his wand at her neck.

“If I can’t have you,” he said menacingly, an incantation already forming in his head, “then no one can.”

And a sharp pain erupted in his side. He staggered back, clasping the molten silver handle of the dagger that protruded from his stomach. Dark, stick blood stained his white shirt and made rivers on his hands as he tried to pull it out.

“Don’t bother,” Draco looked up to see Hermione, standing away from the tree, looking breathless but at the same time quite triumphant and righteous. “It’s not coming to come out. Handy little charm, isn’t it?” Her viscous smirk rivaled on the Draco himself would have given, were he here, as she sauntered and bent over so she could look him straight in the eyes as he kneeled on the ground.

“Everyone reaps what they sow, Draco. That’s one of the basic rules of the universe,and you should really know it by now. How fitting is it that, after being responsible for the death of Ron, after killing Professor Lupin, who’s only wrong was trying to bail you out of the Asylum, and after all the malice you’ve poured out on everyone around you over the years, you’re going to die. How does it feel, I wonder?” she taunted.

Draco was furious. This night was supposed to be his revenge. Hermione shouldn’t have been allowed to stick the dagger in him – she had not been tricked into a betrayal, she had not lost her daughter, she had not been locked inside the infernal, white walls of St. Jude’s.

Hermione was getting off scar-free, and Draco was dying. He realized that such an unfitting ending could not be allowed. With a titanic effort, Draco scooped his wand off the ground and lifted Hermione by her shoulders. As he slammed her into a tree, she cried out, but he was too drunken with rage to notice.

He looked into her terrified eyes and, for a moment, almost caught a hold of the old compassion he’d once felt for her, but his face soon twisted into a mask of hatred and he once again dug his wand into the fleshy part of her neck, causing her to give a short, rough scream.

“You never did know when to just shut the fuck up, did you, Mi?” He spat. Then came a flash of green so bright that neither Hermione or Draco had time to shield their eyes. Draco felt Hermione go limp and fall to the ground below him.

He looked down and saw Hermione’s lifeless body, and it repulsed him to see that one of her hands had fallen on his foot. As if it were a mouldy piece of garbage, he shook off the hand that he’d held so many times, that belonged to the girl he loved. As he did this, there was a sickening, squelching noise and the bloody dagger fell from his side, landing noisily on the earth beside Hermione.

“Well,” said Draco emotionlessly to the quite meadow. “I suppose that means she’s died, then. Not even a spell can survive death.”

As he pulled his robes back on, oblivious to the pain in his side that should have crippled him, Draco knew that what he had done should upset him morally. It was wrong, by the standards set by the hypocritical people of the world, to kill another human being. You weren’t supposed to kill what you couldn’t create. But, in a way, Draco had to believe that he had created Hermione – not Hermione Granger, but Hermione Malfoy. It was because of him that she knew hot to be cunning and sneaky. Because of him that she had the sheer arrogance to plunge the knife into him. Not to say that it was his fault she was dead, of course.

Draco glanced over at her crumpled form. He very much wanted to walk out of the meadow and forget about the night’s macabre events, but he realized that he couldn’t bear to leave such a beautiful creature, vile as she was, balled up in odd angles next to a tree.

Quickly as he could (which was quite slowly, actually, as the pain of his wound had begun to protest his every mood) he strode over to Hermione and lifted her in his arms, looking the other way so he didn’t have to witness the unpleasant way her head lolled to the side.

He set her down in the middle and carefully laid her limbs and smoothed the blood from her face so it looked as though she was merely napping. As he straightened out her curled fingers, he was overcome with the urge to kiss her, as if it would wake her up, like she was Sleeping Beauty. He gently bent over her, careful not to disturb his work, and shaped his mouth to hers. He left mere inches between their lips: his chapped and trembling, hers still and slightly blue from cold. He tried to push himself down, but, as he willed himself to kiss her, he began to tremble. How could he kiss the lips of someone he’d just murdered?

Hastily, in one fast, fluid movement, he pressed his lips against her jaw and dragged them down to her neck, to the spot where his wand had been not long before. He kissed her there hungrily, with more passion then he ever could have kissed her lips. All the love, desire and even resentment that he felt for Hermione filled that one, lustful kiss, and Draco found that her skin tasted rather bittersweet.

“Damn, Granger,” He said as he stood, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and took her in. She hadn’t breathed in awhile, and the same sickly, blue-purple hue that had covered her lips now crept along her skin. Still, she looked like the fallen sort of angel she had always been, “You look so good in blue.”

Wear me like a locket around your throat.

I’ll weigh you down, I’ll watch you choke.

You look so good in blue.

You look so good in blue.


A/N: Hoped you liked this, and it should be easier to understand now, thanks to my lovely beta, monkeyface. :) Lyrics at the end are from Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner, by Fall Out Boy.