Manacled

Once upon a time… there had been a girl who fought. Who believed that books and cleverness and friendship and bravery could overcome all things.
But now—
—that girl was gone.
She’d been all but killed during the war.

Harry died. They—they hung him up off the Astronomy Tower, and we watched him rot. They—they hung Ron and his family next to him. And Tonks and Lupin. They tortured them until they died

So, she had thought that being clever, being good—that friendship, and bravery, and the power of Love were enough to win the war.

But they weren’t.

Being clever wasn’t enough. The goodness in her was being ground to dust under the weight of all those lives lost or ruined with nothing to show for it yet. Friendship didn’t stop someone from dying screaming in agony. Bravery didn’t win a battle when your enemy had a multitude of methods for removing you permanently from the war, and you were trying to beat them with petrification hex. Love hadn’t yet defeated Voldemort’s hate.

you make me remember that underneath everything I’ve become in this war, the person I was before still exists.”

But she didn’t.

She kissed him.

A real kiss.

The taste of firewhisky was on each of their lips.

“If you don’t want me to kiss you, you should say so now,” he said.

She felt the breath from every word against her lips.

Everything felt surreal. Like a dream. Blurred and full of sensations.

She could feel the weight of her life bearing down on her; crushing her until she could barely breathe from it. Until she could barely breathe from the loneliness.

But she could also feel Draco’s hand in her hair. He was gentler than she had thought he could be. Warm to touch. Beautiful. So close she could feel him breathing.

He was looking at her like he saw her.

He was asking.

If she hadn’t spoken to Harry that evening. If she hadn’t been so drunk. If she weren’t so lonely. If the evening’s revelation hadn’t been that Draco Malfoy was actually nice when drunk, she might have done something different.

But she didn’t.

She kissed him.

A real kiss.

The taste of firewhisky was on each of their lips.

“If you don’t want me to kiss you, you should say so now,” he said.

She felt the breath from every word against her lips.

Everything felt surreal. Like a dream. Blurred and full of sensations.

She could feel the weight of her life bearing down on her; crushing her until she could barely breathe from it. Until she could barely breathe from the loneliness.

But she could also feel Draco’s hand in her hair. He was gentler than she had thought he could be. Warm to touch. Beautiful. So close she could feel him breathing.

He was looking at her like he saw her.

He was asking.

If she hadn’t spoken to Harry that evening. If she hadn’t been so drunk. If she weren’t so lonely. If the evening’s revelation hadn’t been that Draco Malfoy was actually nice when drunk, she might have done something different.

But she didn’t.

She kissed him.

A real kiss.

The taste of firewhisky was on each of their lips.

“Is there anyone you don’t feel responsible for?” he asked.

You inspire terrible decisions. Something about you. I can’t understand it.” He lifted his head and leaned back just enough to stare at her. “What makes you so special?”

“You’re like a rose in a graveyard,” he said, and his lips curved into a bitter smile. “I wonder what you could have turned into without the war.”