#naev

Vanish.

Draco has lost track of how long he’s been brooding over the single rune on the parchment sitting on the library table before him: a conjoined double triangle, broken and diverging at its lower extremity.

The innocuous word is a sibilant hiss in his tormented brain, insistently reminding him of the twinned cabinets he has been impossibly tasked with repairing this year… and their eventual, wicked purpose.

Desperate for distraction, he looks up from his Runes homework, his storm-grey eyes immediately homing onto a beloved familiar head of wild chestnut curls as Hermione Granger rummages through one of the upper shelves in a nearby stack. She is – as usual – oblivious to his presence, her lips moving silently as she pores over the cramped text of a heavy tome.

Don’t stare, he cautions himself, even as he drinks in every nuance of her appearance. His hungry gaze lingers on the curve of cheek and jut of hip, her outer robes discarded on a nearby chair. She looks vital, energized, alive… content. Glorious.

Forbidden. His racing heart stutters and slows, the simple joy of watching her souring instantly. Blanking his expression, he allows himself a few more moments of covert study. She must sense his gaze; Draco fails to look away before she catches him staring. Her grip on the large book in her hand loosens as she returns his undefended regard. He forgets to breathe as… something… passes between them… Awareness? Vulnerability? Empathy? Or perhaps…

The book falls from her overfull grasp with a loud thud, unfortunately startling his dozing idiot posse out of their droning naps beside him. Crabbe snorts as he spies the witch hurriedly bending down to pick up the dropped book, his beady eyes flicking to Draco and narrowing in suspicion.

“What’re you lookin’ at?”.

“Nothing,” Draco panics, blurting the word too loudly. Hermione snaps about to look at him, her beautiful brown eyes colliding with his. He has no trouble decoding the primary emotion expressed in them this time: profound hurt. Oh, no – I didn’t mean –

“Yeah – she’s nothing, alright,” Goyle jeers. “Nothing but an uppity little bitch, right, Draco?”.

Before he can even begin to consider his reply, Hermione is gone, whirling down the narrow aisle. Draco strains to hear her fading footsteps, regret and rage at his untenable situation churning biliously in his gut.

Vanish… I yearn to do so… but more than that, I wish I could disappear…

Monday 24 March 2003: AM

Harry wakes with a smile already curving his lips. A shaft of pale pre-dawn light peeks through the gap in the heavy bottle-green brocade curtains, illumining the face of the sleeping brunette witch tucked into his side. He savours the opportunity to look his fill, bringing up his left hand to gently card through her sleek, midnight-black tresses.

Pansy stirs; Harry holds his breath until she re-settles against his bare chest, her drowsy little grumble pronounced into his skin. Her left arm is wrapped securely around his ribcage, as he lies on his back.

By Godric, she’s beautiful. I can hardly believe she’s in my arms… in my bed. Harry’s mind ticks back to the night before, as he resumes stroking her waterfall-straight hair and gazing at her peaceful, slumbering face…

‘Harry’s attention is entirely centred on the horrendous tableau beside the far Departure Floo – roughly twenty feet away, his Auror brain automatically calculates, while the rest of his mind screams in unadulterated fear and fury. His fierce grip on his wand tightens.

Oh, hell no – he’s got Pansy – he’s holding a knife to her throat, and he’s Petrified her –

“Harry– breathe. We’ll figure this out.” Hermione’s urgent whisper helps to ground him.

“Get a hold of yourself, Potter,” Malfoy’s far less sympathetic growl oddly has the same effect, as they all skid to a stop. “Who the fuck is this arsehole?”.

Eyes roaming feverishly over the tall form ominously disguised in Death Eater robes and mask, Harry searches desperately for anything that may indicate the perpetrator’s true identity. That silver mask looks familiar… is it…?

“That’s Walden MacNair’s old mask – but that’s not Walden MacNair,” Draco grimly pronounces, keeping his voice hushed.

“Are you certain, Malfoy?” Harry demands. Everyone halts as the hooded figure repositions the wickedly sharp dagger at Pansy’s bleeding, vulnerable throat.

Harry’s wrath boils higher at the realization that she’s already been injured. Pansy’s eyes are green pools of anguished sorrow. She looks like a broken doll– I can’t– I won’t let him hurt her.

His terror fades as his professional training takes over, clearing his blazing panic and honing his senses.

“Positive. MacNair was roughly as tall, but never that bulky,” Draco mutters out the side of his mouth. “Whomever this prick is, he’s young and strong – look at how easily he’s holding her upright.”

It’s true: the mystery aggressor is controlling Pansy’s frozen form with ease, one hand resting just below her breast; and the knife digging into her delicate skin is being skillfully held in place.

“Harry, we can’t risk hitting him with any spells– that knife is too close to her jugular,” Hermione breathes.

Effective responses to a hostage situation race through Harry’s brain, though he doesn’t get the opportunity to decide which one to employ as the assailant begins speaking.

“Come any closer, and I’ll slice her neck like a plump little piggy’s,” the man announces, his voice muffled by the mask… and some sort of distortion spell, Harry judges.

“Wands down, unless you want this Little Flower to be dead-headed,” the mystery criminal demands.

Harry jerks his head for the others to comply, pointing his own wand to the floor with great reluctance. I refuse to release it – I’d rather take my chances with one of us hitting the scumbag before he can cut Pansy.

“Now for the negotiation! I’ll keep it simple: send over the darling Miss Granger, and I’ll let you keep pretty little Pansy, with her neck still intact,” the taunting voice proclaims…’

’Draco drags the upholstered Edwardian camelback sofa (decorated in muted yellows, blues, and greens) into position, attempting to minimize the screech of its wooden feet on the polished floorboards as he muscles it into the optimum spot. Stepping back, he critically judges its final setting, covertly blotting his clammy hands on the thighs of his tan corduroy trousers. The workingman’s suspenders hang loose by his sides; Draco straightens the collarless bib neck of his cream cotton broadcloth shirt, and rolls up his sleeves to his elbows. The quick glimpse of his loathsome Dark Mark barely dents his ebullient mood.

He chances a glance at the wooden room divider; Hermione’s clothing is carefully folded over the middle panel, her lilac dress contrasting with the deep purple woven silk that covers three quarters of the screen.

She must be putting the finishing touches to her hair. Fussing at the small worktable and plain wooden chair he’d earlier arranged opposite the borrowed couch, Draco sits in the chair, opening his canvas pencil kit to sharpen the tools of his trade yet again. He crosses one leg over his knee and balances his open sketchpad atop it.

A soft “ahem” alerts him to Hermione’s presence. Looking up, Draco nearly slices off his thumb with the pencil knife as he takes full stock of her appearance.

Hermione is an utter vision… from the crown of her russet head to the tips of the little pink toes that peek out beneath the long hem of her gauzy black robe. She twirls the gold-tasselled end of the matching sash with flair, winking at him for good measure as Draco drinks in his fantasy made flesh.

Moving toward the camelback couch, she makes a production of inspecting the tableau he has arranged, noting the standing lamps that flank the furniture, and the way Draco has dimmed the overhead lights to create a mellow ambience.

“Don’t artists need good light?” she challenges, with a delicious tip of her pert nose.

“Zat is true, but I am not used to working in such ‘orrible conditions,” Draco answers in an exaggerated French accent, somehow dragging his hot silver eyes away from her gloriously semi-revealed curves and angles, as he remembers his line.

Stepping closer, Hermione’s free hand delicately parts the collar of the negligee, exposing the glittering bevelled emerald and diamond heart-shaped pendant.

“Jake, I want you to draw me like one of your French girls… wearing this,” she caresses the necklace.

“Alright,” Draco readily accedes.

“…and only this,” she concludes, as he gazes at her in unfeigned captivation. “The last thing I need is another picture of me looking like a porcelain doll.”

Smirking, Hermione strolls to stand in front of him, holding out a bronze Knut to drop in his palm.

“As a paying customer – I expect to get what I want.” Backing up two paces, Hermione keeps her cocoa eyes focused on his as she languidly curls her fingers around the peignoir’s narrow lapels and lets it slither off her nude body to pool at her bare feet.

Don’t ogle – you are a professional artist. You’ve drawn plenty of naked models before, Draco sternly reminds himself, as his breathing and pulse quicken instantaneously. Be cool.

“Over on the bed– um, the couch,” he gulps, motioning jerkily at the camelback sofa. Hermione’s low chuckle at his Freudian slip does little to calm his skyrocketing libido. He wriggles in his chair and stiffens his spine as she obeys his instruction, perching on the edge of the seat.

“Come – lie down,” Draco guides, trying to keep his attention centred on her beautiful face.

Laying her head against the padded side of the couch, Hermione is at a loss as to what to do with her hands; she flails them around her head a few times, looking uncertain. Her left arm settles on the high camelback, only to slide off as she shifts uncomfortably.

“Can you– tell me when it looks right– ”

“Yeah – keep that pose – put your arm back where it was,” Draco interrupts, as Hermione dutifully complies.

“Put that other arm up… and there, your hand right by your face, there,” Draco relaxes his drawn brows as Hermione curls her fingers. He starts to shuck his rampant nerves as his training takes over.

“Right… now, head down, eyes to me –” he forks two fingers at his own orbs – “keep them on me.” Unnecessarily rotating his sketch pad, Draco takes a brief moment to clinically assess Hermione’s pose.

‘Clinically’… hah. I am hard-pressed to not leap from my chair and fall upon her like a hungry wolf. Sweet Circe… her high, plump breasts… her sweetly-flared hips… the pure line of her legs… the triangle of chestnut curls at the apex of her shapely thighs– her eyes, her splendid eyes–

“Try to– stay still,” Draco falters, entranced by the unconsciously seductive way Hermione licks her lips and clears her throat. Her shining mocha gaze returns to his face as he warns himself to regain his famed self-control.

Puffing out a calming exhale, Draco eases his death grip on his pencil and studies his beautiful witch one more time; he knows that he will carry this image of his beloved Hermione in his head and heart until he draws his last breath.

A few practice strokes above the thick paper; he chooses to begin with the lateral projection of her hip and torso, allowing his professional training to take over. Cocking his head to the right, he ignores the scattered strands of platinum hair that fall across his forehead, flicking his intense regard back to Hermione’s exquisitely naked body every few moments.

“So serious,” Hermione twits, pouting her pretty lips in a wonderfully distracting manner; Draco half-smiles at her naughty antics as he sketches in the outline of her furled hand and head, his hair flopping down once more. He quickly moves to draw her comely face and luxuriant hair; her slender arms; then the scintillating verdant pendant, his confidence growing with each assured stroke.

Her breasts, next: Draco takes great care to perfectly replicate the rounded swells, using his fingertips to blend the pencil marks as he contours the underside of each sublime globe.

Of course, Hermione notices his bitten lip, tucked-in mouth, and creeping flush.

She gently teases, “I believe you are blushing, Mr Big Artiste… I can’t imagine Mr Monet blushing?”.

Draco retorts, “He does landscapes… Just relax your face–’

“Sorry,” she licks her lips again and exhales, easing back into the pose.

“No laughing,” he rebukes, as Hermione’s mirth briefly bubbles aloud. He continues to shade in her breasts and navel, moving back to the texture of her hair and face as she looks at him with undisguised tenderness… and effervescent, profound love.

Love. Hermione loves me. She loves me. Draco must put aside his rapture when his trembling fingers threaten to derail the entire proceedings.

Concentrate. He assiduously disregards his thumping heartbeat and heated blood, determined to capture every last, divine detail of the magnificent woman lying but a few feet away. His fingers seem to move of their own accord as he soaks her in on an entirely different level of consciousness. Draco senses her magic softly seeking out his own as the air around them crackles; he welcomes her sorcerous ingress.

The only sound in the room is their erratic respiration, and the faint scratch of Draco’s pencil as it glides across the paper. He is aware that Hermione has yet to take her brilliant eyes from him, as he awkwardly adjusts his posture. The thrumming of his manhood is clamouring to be noticed and actioned; Draco is aching to toss his sketch pad aside and join his Hermione on the old-fashioned couch.

Finally, his left hand stills its busy detailing and blending. Draco checks his work, quietly thrilled at the likeness he has produced. The drawing has unerringly captured Hermione’s beauty and grace, but what Draco is most proud of is the expression in her stunning eyes… intelligence, happiness, desire… and unequivocable love. The physical proof of her deep affection staring at him from the pad on his lap fills Draco with boundless euphoria; and an overwhelming need to show his wondrous woman exactly how much he treasures her...’