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Almost slashing the tip of her finger had been the thing to wake her up, she sober up whiles reconizing the dangers of cutting vegetables when ones mind was elsewhere, she turned around, eyes taking in her surounding, Draco had not yet returned, odd – she thought- he had been gone for- glancing at the clock- about half an hour, and as she felt a familiar sense of anxiety wash over her, she realized then that the enduring fear was slightly unlike the one that came from a time in her life wich was long gone now, a time in wich she had been obligated to look over her shoulder at the smallest sound, the smallest movement of shadows, fearing for her life, but this fear was different, not so primal, it came from deep within her chest insted of the pit of her stomach, that lingering feeling of constanly being in the tip of ones toes, waiting for the next threat, she had been living the last month in a waking daze, going trough the days as if sleepwalking, after all, this, al lof it, had to be dream, perhaps even a nightmare.
The cottage he had brought her to—purchased in advance of her arrival—was modest of sorts, at least for the Malfoy heir, who had grown accustomed to the finer things in life; after all, being born in a golden crib was no small thing to let go of in exchange for a far simpler life in the Canadian countryside. Hermione Granger had been met with the stunningly breathtaking view of a large lake right after the pop sound of apparition, one large bag in hand—a bag that contained all that belonged to her now, only the necessary, only the things she couldn't dream being ripped apart from—the other hand interlaced in Draco's hand; when she turned, he met her gaze, lingering question in his eyes: what do you think?
She did not have an answer yet, still coming to terms with the events of the last 12 hours: a swift escape through a rapture in the Burrows wards, weeks of planning, and a risky secret message inscribed in beautiful handwriting—next Thursday. Midnight. The Devon Cliffs. I'll wait for you. Keeping her head down during dinners and excusing herself early from Thursday dinner, nausea she explained, Molly's eyes glowed; she could see her hoping, perhaps a new member of the family would be welcome before summer's coming—perhaps not, she thought to herself.
Then there was his bright blonde hair glowing in the moonlight, the sound of the waves crashing below, pulling you down, mesmerizing, enchanting, just like the man standing in front of her now, only a few meters away, his eyes searching, believing they may be deceiving him. She really was here; she had come. He had called, and she had come, answering his plea, leaving everything and everyone behind for him.
They had both advanced, closing the gap between their bodies in mere seconds. The hug that ensued then had been unlike anything Hermione had ever felt or experienced, pure and raw, holding onto each other as if the strong winds at such altitude might snatch their loved one away, to be swallowed by the sea, never to be seen or heard from again.That idea seemed unbearable to Hermione, so she crushed herself against him, taking her breath away, until all that she could feel was him, all over her, all around her. She had started crying then, not being able to help it, and he had simply held her through it, matching her weeping with quieter tears of his own.
Hermione came back to reality, turning back around, with a keen mind on finishing what was to be their dinner for this evening. She had earned the title of main chef, for Draco, even though good at simpler, normally sweet things, especially at breakfast, had never had the necessity to learn how to cook; therefore, his cooking was… underdeveloped, so to speak.
She shook her head decisively, forcing her feelings down her throat. He had most likely simply been delayed by the comings and goings of Muggle Ontario, right at rush hour, people leaving work, picking up their kids from school, hitting the shops for ingredients for a Friday dinner, finally the end of a good week's worth of work.
Hermione had always thought of Canada as an otherworldly place, with its beautiful nature, with strong winds and snow piling meters high above you, with its deep green forests, tree trunks as wide as cars, and rivers running up and down the mountains, oh, and the lakes, the Great Lakes.
When she had first arrived, she had not recognized the place; it could have been anywhere in the world. Having only trees, snow, and the sea to guide herself with left too many options, only that the extensive body of water she had seen was no sea, no ocean, not even a river, but a mere lake. But to be truthful, this was no “mere lake”; its expanse was so big she could not see where it ended, hence why she had thought of it as the sea or something greater, but the joke told itself: the lake flowing in front of her was Lake Ontario, the smallest of the Great Lakes on the Canadian side. Hermione had been overwhelmed when Draco revealed their hideaway location; she had always dreamed of visiting the lakes, of slow mornings on a wooden porch, gazing at the rising sun on the horizon, of constant fog and rain, of chilly nights sitting on the hearth, snow falling quietly from the sky.
Their “modest cottage,” as Draco had introduced it, was not very modest at all. Situated near the beach, it was real estate heaven: a beautiful view east, 2 bedrooms, 2 full bathrooms, a beautiful traditional kitchen, a living room and dining room, a big fireplace, and even a greenhouse nearby. Their little corner of the world, It was perfect.
Or at least it had been for the first three weeks, when she had intentionally avoided any news from the outside world—from the real world—as Hermione was very much aware that she—they—would have to eventually go back to society, even if Draco refused to admit it, still believing that they could spend the rest of their lives here, claiming that he had everything he could possibly need or want. But Hermione was not so foolish or gullible; she had friends, family, and a job she had worked very hard to earn.
But all that hope had come crashing down when she did the one thing Draco had warned her not to do. On Monday, she got her hands on that morning's Daily Prophet. Ron, apparently, had decided to make it messy; he told the newspaper his entire side of the story. Molly had given interviews. Ginny had tried really hard, bless her soul, to remain impartial, with little to no effect. Harry, on the other hand, also bless his soul, had refused to say a word.
He had been the only person—aside from a quick word to her parents about the turmoil her life had become—whom she had sent a letter to, as she had felt like he was the only friend who would understand her, perhaps the only friend she had left. His response was short and truthful: he loved her and would support whatever made her the happiest, and if that was Draco Malfoy, then so be it.
The wizarding society, though, had not been so forgiving; they tore her apart, they rewrote her entire life. She quickly went from the golden girl to the golden whore, opening her legs for the highest bid. Of course, the thing they decided to hang their story from was Draco's money, and Hermione couldn't even blame them; it was a great story, the perfect one. Apparently, the public had been living off this scandal for weeks now. Her name was on everybody's lips.
She had sobbed the first time she read the an article that cloudy Monday morning; she had continued to cry for three days afterwards. Day and night she could combust into inexplicable, unexpected weeping. Draco had simply reduced himself to holding her together, making her baths, and making sure she stayed fed. As a man who had spent half his life being hated by the public, he had grown into it, overcome it even, but for Hermione, the not-so-long-named Golden Girl, it was an unexpected blow, and a low one at that. The tales started twisting in her head; their stories slowly became her reality. Was she really the worst person to have ever existed? A liar, a slut, a fake.
One of those nights when she could barely stanto look in the mirror, she turned in Draco's arms to face him. They were lying down on their couch near the fire.
- Do you think I ruined my life for you? – she asked softly.
He looked at her then, inhaled, and responded.
- No, I think you have finally stopped living someone else's.