ukiyoryn

“A last resort, then,” he says, running the toe of his boot over the floor, cutting a line through the gathered dust. “What's the point, Granger? They're all dead.”

There is no one left, and Hermione's only company in this purgatory is none other than Draco Malfoy.

Warden, executioner, saint—she no longer knows which role is hers, only that he is watching, and when the moment comes, he will see to it that she chooses wrong.

(or: a slow burn, three part dramione wartime series exploring how far one is willing to go for those they love, and those they deceive.)

i feel like i would have a lot more fun being forced to have a job and adult responsibilities if i got to wear a little cloud skirt and could fly

me: *reveals my hidden dark au wartime fic instead*

…

okay but seriously I am working on an update for The Granger-Malfoy Survival Guide. It involves the theft of Lucius’s ashes, Theo being sketchy, Hermione “I don’t need a man but my man is kind of nice to have around” Granger, Harry “overstimulated bc I keep having children” Potter and a guest feature from Padma Patil, because, why not.

Here is a snippet of the draft chapter! (I still have no title, but trust that it will be just as obnoxiously long and probably include another alliteration—bc you all know well enough by now that I have no self control. There has never been an adjective, alliteration or semi colon I have not abused.)

The Shadows We Seek by ukiyoryn

This is death. He is a culmination of every age he has ever been and ever will be and if he does not have her—he will be in pain. He will always be in pain.

Draco has always known what it means to be a Malfoy. His duty is to his House first, and to the inheritance of his father’s silhouette second.

What he never expects is that loyalties can shift; even the oldest, most entrenched ones.

She is a girl of impossible light, someone he was raised to hate and inevitably destined to lose. Some might call it obsession, but Draco knows the draw he feels toward Hermione Granger is not so easily named.

Years before the war, a bond between two supposed enemies is forged in secret, for the world has only ever seen them as a testament to the duality of human nature.

Draco will learn what becomes of a thread spun between two souls when it is cut loose—and he will do so by the skin of his teeth, for the fates are fickle, and there is no promise they will permit him to stitch his way back to her light.

A little snippet for your viewing pleasure...

“Our magic is just as likely to be some variation of a gene mutation that affects our DNA, like markers for Muggle diseases are indicative of a deletion of specific chromosomes or cells—”

“I’m sorry, what language are you speaking?”

“Do not play stupid with me, Draco Malfoy.”

He blinks at her, cheeks heating.

“I don’t understand why celestial events can interfere with the magic of making potions, when brewing is simply for all intents and purposes, a branch of science with magical roots,” she lectures, waspishly. “It’s obvious that with Divination, ‘the influence of the stars’ is utter rubbish—but with potions it’s completely plausible. I don’t understand why.”

Draco gawks at her. “You would think Divination is rubbish!”

She swivels to him, outrage shrouding her face. 

Still pretty, Draco thinks. More so.

“Oh, as if the supposed ‘heavens’ can’t resist meddling in mortal affairs? Be serious, Malfoy. The probability of some entity moving us around like dolls is slim to none.”

This has him rearing back, stricken.

“You don’t believe in the fates?”

She actually laughs at him. “Of course not! There are no credible sources with proof that a superior being, or beings, exist with the capability to control any facet of life. Science explains every bit of it.”

“Your Muggle science can’t explain magic because it’s magic!”

“That’s because there is a Statute of Secrecy in place!”

His lip curls involuntarily. “And let me guess, you think you’re the first Muggleborn to question whether magic can be explained with Muggle science?”

“Obviously not,” she snarls. “But all those who have attempted to present their studies have been labeled as pariahs for not believing in the whimsy of wizarding kind—”

“There’s no whimsy about it, Granger! Magic is a bi-product of godly gifts being bestowed—”

“Oh, that is utter trite!” she practically shrieks.

Draco feels his face heat at her vehement rejection. “Call it divine, call it instinct, call it intent; it’s all the same force guiding our magic. Take the Tale of the Three Brothers, for instance.”

“That’s a children’s story!”

Draco leans back slightly, quill balanced between his fingers as he tries to gauge which version of her defiance he’s about to be on the receiving end of. Surely, she wouldn’t hex him in the middle of a classroom?

Would he even care if she did?

“Stories persist because they hold truths, Granger. Even if you label it nonsense, there is a kernel of truth. Astronomy began as a myth, no? The Sumerians of ancient Mesopotamia are recognized for the earliest known systematic study of astronomy—mind you—but even then, despite developing concepts like the bloody circle, their findings were not concrete until Thales of Miletus came around, and then Aristotle, and then Aristarchus—both of whom were wizards—”

She guffaws at him, slapping her palms on the worktop. “Aristotle and Aristarchus were not wizards, Malfoy!”

“They were, and that’s exactly why celestial phenomena are directly linked to influencing magic!” he shoots back, glowering at her with a truly dark look. “Their discoveries were influenced due to their belief in the gods, specifically Circe. So, maybe before you mock the heavens, remember that you follow their rhythms every time you use your wand!”

Her chest is moving far too quickly for his comfort, and in her eyes a wildfire roars to life, threatening to scald him. He must be mad; he feels far too giddy over the prospect of being burned.

He wonders if it means he might be purified.

If he was, would she want him then? Would she stop looking at him so indifferently if she were able to flay him open and expose all the spaces between his ribs he has reserved for her and her alone?

“That proves absolutely nothing. It's your personal belief, which is one I do not share,” she lifts her nose in the air, scoffing at him. “I’m well aware that celestial alignment affects the seasons, the tides, the cycle of plants—including magical ones that hold varying properties to their ingredients based on celestial cycles.”

Draco’s fingers tighten around his quill until it creaks; ink beads at the tip and splatters on the parchment. He can’t look away; he’s far too enchanted by her fire.

“What I want to understand is why that is. I refuse to accept that the answer is simply because some fabled gods decreed it. I want to understand how magic functions according to specific universal rules, like the Muggle concept of gravity; not because I want to learn about ridiculous myths, but because there has to be a logical explanation for where the demarcation between physical law and magical principle truly lies!”

She doesn’t stop for breath, words spill forward like there is a current she’s caught in and if she doesn’t speak them fast enough, the water will smother her voice.

“Everything must have an origin point! A force, a catalyst, a measurable cause that dictates how it behaves! If celestial influence truly alters a potion’s stability, then it isn’t divine intervention, it’s a form of energy. Radiation, frequency, gravitational pull; something quantifiable. Something we can prove.”

Her chest rises and falls in quick succession, and the flush spreading down her throat is equal parts fury and fervor. Her curls are slipping loose around her pink cheeks, crackling with accidental magic. Draco stares with a reverence he cannot mask, mystified by this incandescent creature of brilliance and beauty, unable to decide whether he wants to argue with her or worship at her altar.

She glares up at him, eyes blazing, and jabs a finger at their star-chart. His throat goes dry. There’s a crazed look in her eyes that has nothing to do with the torches burning low. He wonders, briefly and terrifyingly, if she even realizes how much magic she’s generating just by believing she’s right.

“Wizards all say magic cannot be measured, but that’s absurd! Just because something hasn’t yet been measured doesn’t mean it can’t be. It means no one’s tried hard enough. Magical folk have grown complacent hiding behind the mystery of it all, afraid to dismantle the illusion of their supposed rules in case the truth isn’t as romantic as they hoped.”

Draco exhales, shaky, there is an electric current scraping his nerves raw. 

He wants to tell her to stop. 

He wants to see how far she’ll go. 

Her voice drops lower, but he thinks it’s sharper, somehow, like a blade she’s finally learning how to wield as she declares, “Maybe that’s why no one’s ever found your so-called gods, Malfoy. Because they were never there to begin with.”

The air between them hums; the oxygen grows brittle and thin, struggling to exist against her fire. The torchlight warps as if desperate to bend toward her, greedy to be sucked into the gravity she so recklessly emits.

Draco is momentarily stunned, and then remembers himself. He taps a finger aggressively on the chart, just as she had, tracing a line from the waxing moon to a cluster of lemon balm roots. 

“The rules are not fixed, even if the Muggle’s have managed to explain some of it with theorems. You just admitted it yourself: the same ingredients, handled differently, produce different outcomes. The brewer’s intent, whether that be the emotion, the timing, even the subtlest whim can and will change everything. Just as spells take intent, which proves that emotion supersedes the logic behind knowing the spell's incantation.”

The torches gutter low, the light shuddering across her hair. Draco watches a single ink droplet slip from her quill and bloom darkly across the parchment; a small, spreading wound. 

He wonders why everything with her feels like that: beautiful, then ruinous.

“Your point is seriously lacking,” she eventually says, her tone full of venom. “Did you not listen to a word I just said?”

“Believe me, I couldn’t stop listening even if I wanted to,” he whispers, silver eyes flashing. “It’s not about immutable rules, Granger, it’s about our participation in a greater design.”

“Greater design my arse, Malfoy.” Hermione scoffs, her eyes glittering with pure malice now. “It’s cause and effect. You stir too vigorously, the potion destabilizes. That is logical. What is illogical is the principle that if you are angry, then the potion has the capability to fail.”

“With magic, emotion is a proponent to the principles.”

“But that is illogical! If that were true, then why do we have Gamp or Galoplott’s Laws? If I’m starving, and emotional enough, I should be able to transfigure a shoe into a sandwich and eat it!”

“Principles can be interpreted,” Draco counters smoothly. “If the stars influence ingredient potency, if lunar cycles shift magical energy, then who decides what ‘correct’ is? Isn’t that leaving room for fate or at least for something beyond ourselves?”

Hermione’s lip curls back, barring her teeth. “You’re turning my question into a debate about religious philosophy!”

“Because that’s what it is,” Draco hisses. “Our emotions are a direct result of the threads the fates weave into our lives, whether or not you believe that it's an illogical belief. The fates shape the context in which we act, and that is why emotion eclipses logic when it comes to magic.”

Their words circle each other like duelists measuring distance. There’s strategy in it; feints, parries, openings. He can almost hear his father’s voice: Control the opponent’s rhythm, and you control the outcome. 

But Hermione has never followed rhythm; she always invents her own.

“That’s utter madness.” She studies him, lips pressed thin. “It doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

“Oh, come off it, Granger,” he sighs. “Must you analyze everything within an inch of your life?”

Hermione shakes her head, but doesn’t look away from him. There is a cruel tilt to her chin now, and he swallows thickly when he sees a shimmer of hostility flash through her eyes. 

“Fine, I’ll humor your theory, but you have to answer this: if magic obeys emotion, why does intent matter? I could be angry, but lack the intent to harm. Does that mean if I cast an Unforgivable it won’t work?”

Draco opens his mouth to answer, but she shoves her hand over his mouth to silence him.

He stops breathing.

“I’m not finished,” she hisses, and slowly draws her hand away, cradling it as if burned. 

Draco’s pulse stumbles; there is a strange flux of static in the air.

He brushes his fingers over his lips, thinking he might be able to capture the storm she left behind in the wake of her touch. 

He should spew outrage at her for touching him; if anyone saw, they’d have expected him to call her filthy, and curse her for daring to touch the precious son of Lucius Malfoy.

He hates the part of his mind that even conjures that kind of thought.

Draco doesn’t know what to say; to do. 

His tongue is tied. His heart is ready to break past his ribs and land in her hands. 

He almost wants it to.

“If my wand’s core was harvested under a certain celestial event, is that the reason it makes it resistant to Dark magic, even if my emotion and intention align with the spell? Or is it simply just because the ingredient itself is considered Light? It doesn’t explain why I might have trouble with casting a Dark spell—even if I’m emotionally vested in doing so. Does the influence of the moon truly force a different outcome for the future, or is it just a reaction to my intent?”

Draco is still staring at her, feeling as if his entire body is on fire. 

He can’t help as if they are arguing two sides of the same paradoxical coin.

He manages to choke out something coherent despite his fumbling thoughts, “Magic…magic adapts to its surroundings,” he shakes his head, cutting his gaze away from her face, unable to handle the dour look on her face. “Just as wands adapt to their masters. Even if your wand’s core resists Dark magic, under the right circumstances and with the right intent, you could still—curse someone.”

Hermione exhales, sharp enough to fracture the tension between them. Her shoulders drop; the fight drains from her limbs as though the argument is something she’s carried inside her for far too long. He isn’t sure how they got themselves here, or where exactly they are.

Draco stares at her, pulse thrumming.

He cannot recall a moment when he has ever felt more acutely alive, but also on the verge of combusting at the same time. She is flushed, eyes glittering with that beautiful brilliance they so often hold; radiant in her defiance, daring even in her acquiesce. 

How the hell had they gotten here?

“I’ll admit,” he says slowly, finally gathering his bearings again. “Muggleborns are at a disadvantage when it comes to understanding why we have magic. You weren’t raised with the stories.”

She rolls her eyes, and if he wasn’t dizzy, he might have thought she was sulking. The potential of her showing him kind of vulnerability makes him ache.

“And no one ever bothers to explain them to us,” she suddenly snaps, thrusting Draco’s floating soul promptly back into his body. “You know how many times I’ve asked a professor why, and they respond with ‘because it’s magic’? As if that is a perfectly acceptable answer!” she grips her skirt to stifle the trembling in her hands, bunching the fabric until her knuckles blanch. “Magic can be understood if we’d just take the time to study it properly. But no, everything’s based on inherited superstition! Muggles used to think rabies was a curse from the devil until science proved it was a virus altering the blood. Yet wizards—” she laughs bitterly “—they treat the concept of wanting to understand magic as blasphemy.”

Lightning forks outside the skylights, bright enough to wash the whole room in blinding white for a heartbeat. Draco wonders if the heavens themselves are listening; if their argument has reached some cosmic ear and the sky has chosen to answer.

Draco fears the coming of an apocalypse is upon him, and he can do nothing to stop it. 

“Muggle’s engineered flying without magic, they cure incurable diseases without magic. For Christ's sake, Malfoy—they can fight wars without magic, and have for thousands of years!” she then sighs, and with it, all of her anger dissipates. He despises how defeated she looks. “I just want to know why it’s so frowned upon to question these effigies of traditionalism when it’s clearly stunting the growth of our world.”

He can’t figure out whether or not she’s trying to unravel him. Does she want him to agree with her? If he does, will she see through his mask? Will it drive her to shove her fingers into the spaces between his ribs; to yank out all of his threads until she grips the idea of who he is supposed to be in her palms, and forces him to watch as she burns that idea to dust?

He wonders if she were to touch his soul, whether or not it would stain her fingers until they come away black and viscous. His thumb drags over a nick in the desk’s surface, a splinter catching his skin. His blood can’t possibly be as red as hers, despite being told his entire life how pure it is. He fears it’s impossible, because all he is made up of is the pain of being a liar. 

That has to stain a soul. It has to.

What will he do when she finds her hands dripping black blood, rather than red? Will she reach inside of him and rip out his heart as well; if only so she might be able to say, ‘don’t you see? We’re exactly the same.’?

But that's the crux of it all; they aren’t the same. The fundamental difference between them is not a simple conception of grey matter. They’re radically different and it’s not because of their blood. It’s because she has the courage to question a world she wasn’t born to, but belongs in regardless, and he has grown up in this world but has no courage at all. 

His lessons have always been intended to turn him into a weapon; to dig into him until he hurts enough that all he wants to do is hurt others. He can see these facts through his rising fury, even though the red-haze around his vision ought to impair him.

He’s starting to realize that Hermione truly is the embodiment of light; a sunrise on the other side of the world. She is something he will only ever dream of being able to touch because he is the dusk that chases away daylight.

She stares down at her hands, flexing them in front of her face, and then, her fingertips brush together. With a whisper of a silent incantation, bluebell flames crackle into existence, rolling like sapphire spheres between her fingers. 

Draco’s jaw drops. Wandless magic. Hermione can do wandless magic.

“We could do so much more with magic.”

His skin prickles as he watches her play with the blue flames, utterly impervious to the heat as the fire licks her small palms. The flames dapples her face in a soft cerulean glow; her eyes reflect a violet mirage that feels like it might swallow him whole.

Draco has already sworn he will have her; that she is his in every sense of the word, a decree commanded by the very fates she refuses to believe in. However, it is startling to recognize how truly gluttonous he is for the ruin she will make of his life. 

A shadow of a smile curls her lips, just enough to mock him without speaking a word.

He is utterly, unrepentantly fucked. 

And Salazar save him—

I have been daydreaming about a loose draft I started months ago for another Dramione adventure romcom, but refuse to touch it knowing I already have three other projects currently demanding my attention quite loudly.

Here's a snippet of our third flash-forward scene!

The moment Draco closed his eyes, it was her. It was always her. Hermione pressed into the alcoves of his memory, candlelight licking at her hair where it spilled over tufted floor pillows that the Come-and-Go room had conjured for them. The way she’d whispered his name in the dead of night while the castle was asleep and its inhabitants none the wiser, soft as though saying it too loud would shatter the fragile world they’d built between patrol routes and borrowed hours. The weight of her fingers on his wrist, circling the veins that carried his wretched blood, and her quiet defiance: you’re so much more than this, Draco.

He had told himself at the start of their dalliance that it was only a temporary armistice with his own effigies, that if anyone learned, it would look no different than the rebellions other Pureblood boys dabbled in. And perhaps it had begun as such; the dangerous dipping of toes into the illicit, until he found himself willingly submerged, wading into the deep end.

When that perspective had officially bled away, Draco still didn’t know, for he had been swept away in the thrill of it all. Always too wrapped up in her, his heart grasped tightly in her impossibly soft hands, languishing in stolen kisses and arguments that ended with her mouth on his, silencing the dogma he’d been spoon-fed since birth. Draco had wanted Hermione with a desperation that burned through every lesson his father had carved into his bones. Still wanted her. She wasn’t supposed to matter, but she did. How could she not? Hermione was light, and goodness, and in her eyes he had always glimpsed the future of what the wizarding world ought to be. A universe of amber flecks in her gaze, all of which embodied the best possibilities. 

In the end, Draco had been ruined, and he had basked in it, for she mattered so much that he bowed to her willingly, unable to bend to the values in which he was wrought with. He had known she would be seen a mockery of his name, his family, the entire edifice of purity he was meant to preserve—and still, he pursued her.

But gods, the secrecy had mutilated him more than the wanting. Meeting her in alcoves that reeked of damp stone, the press of her nails when she made him promise he wasn’t just drawing her out, only to embarrass her later. Pretending to sneer at her in the daylight when his lips still carried the taste of her from the night before. He remembered the exquisite, unbearable shame of it, and the hunger that had never left him, not even now.

Theo thought this was cowardice, rotting in the pensieve and cloistering himself inside the walls that had raised him and maimed him both. But what did Theo know of a love like that? Theo’s marriage was a healthy one: a gentle escalation into romanticism from friendship. It was not the fiery clash of wills, of teeth nipping necks amidst screaming matches. Draco’s relationship with Hermione was one that was part-disease, part-salvation. It was Sisyphus pushing the bolder up the hill, only for Hermione to be the one to shove it back down and bid him to try again. It was a beautiful ouroboros of pain, pleasure, pain, pleasure. 

What did Theo know of carrying the sound of voice through the echo of time, like it were a tether wrapped around his ribs, reminding him with every beat of his heart that he had once been hers, entirely, and had given her up like a craven dressed in noble sacrifice?

Draco’s jaw flexed as he stared through his reflection in the window, smoke wreathing his face. He could almost hear Hermione’s laughter, feel her hand at the nape of his neck, grounding him in a way nothing else ever had. The pain of knowing the best of him had always belonged to her—and she hadn’t even known the half of it, was a wretched thing.