a/n: This update is insanely late, I know. Lo siento mucho! School, orchestra, exams, etc. have all been crazier than—well, they've been CRAZY. But, anywho, school is out now (thank God) and so I can post the FINAL CHAPTER of this story. EEPS! (Yesh, I'm excited. Hope you are too).
summary: His arms encase her, pressing her half-bare back against his warm abdomen, and she tries not to think of his cold and unfeeling legs touching her own. DMHG.
x.x.x
Ersatz Affection
x.x.x
She finds herself wondering what a Soul Mate is. What Soul Mates are.
Is love between Soul Mates purer? Better? More justified in its existence? Maybe Soul Mates never argue? Maybe they have better sex?
She loves her husband. And the sex is always good. Or, it was good. Before. Before he got tired and before his legs stopped working.
Now they don't have sex.
But she still loves him. Shouldn't that mean something? She still loves him.
Apparently that isn't good enough.
But she loves him more than anyone. He is her world.
And he loves her, too. She's sure of it.
That is good enough for her.
It should be good enough for a fucking spell. It should be good enough for the rest of the fucking world.
Her world is falling to pieces.
x.x.x
"Aren't you mad?" Hermione exclaims.
"Mad about you, dear," he responds. He even grins, just a little.
She sighs and he wants to swallow that sad, beautiful breath. To devour even just that tiny ghost of her, to feel her warm him from the inside out. Like Butterbeer, maybe, only so much nicer.
Maybe then he wouldn't be so cold.
He yawns and imagines that he is breathing her in.
"Draco," she says. "Draco, don't you understand? It isn't right or—or fair! You don't deserve this. We don't deserve this. What about our love? Doesn't that matter at all?"
"It matters to me, dear, but I assume that that's about it."
Silence.
She coolly leaves the room and he is left alone and cold.
x.x.x
True love. If he were a philosopher, he'd spout off a few quips like "What is truth?" and "What is love?" and then go on a tangent about the abstraction and ultimate meaninglessness of such a phrase.
But he is not a philosopher. He is just a man. A man who imagines he knows a teensy bit about truth and a teensy bit more about love.
Absolute and unconditional truth is rare. Absolute and unconditional love is rarer. He realizes this.
But Draco thinks that he has stumbled across both. And with just a few words. Just a few words arranged in the right order and said to the right person.
I love you.
He loves Hermione. Absolutely. Unconditionally. And that is all the truth he needs, really.
His head is pounding and every part of his body that isn't already dead aches with the dull, stubborn pain of resistance.
That is about all of the philosophy he can handle right now.
x.x.x
Sitting in the cramped hospital waiting room, he wonders about Soul Mates. Perhaps it's a phrase to be taken literally? Perhaps, he decides, that in order to be a Soul Mate he must first have a soul.
He wonders. He has never really thought of people as having souls. What a cruel idea—to give man a soul and then chain it to a body. What a sickening sort of limbo.
He picks up a shabby fashion magazine from two years ago and flips through while he passes the time. Damned waiting rooms.
x.x.x
The Healers have been conducting tests.
The mysterious affliction is progressing at an alarming rate.
Progressing is their word. Draco would choose degenerating or destroying or just plain killing.
Yes, killing would be a better choice of words.
The mysterious affliction is killing at an alarming rate..
x.x.x
"Why don't you just say it?" he asks. "Just say it, for God's sake! It's just a fucking word!"
"Mr. Malfoy!" the Healer exclaims. Apparently he has offended her sense of decency.
"Terminal! Terminal, God damn it, just tell me it's terminal!"
"Mr. Malfoy! Please! Your affliction is seemingly quite unique. We are performing the tests as quickly as we can, but obviously we have no way of determining whether or not such an affliction is—"
He's angry. God how he's angry. Why can't they just let him what's wrong? Why all these God damned tests? There are none, there are none, there are none.
Is this what Hermione meant when she asked if he was mad? Yes, he could say to her right now. Yes, he could say, I am fucking well mad.
"I don't need a fucking test—"
"Please!"
"—to tell me that I'm going to die. Soon. That's what's fucking obvious and you should all be fucking sued for exploitation."
"Please! Mr. Malfoy! I understand that what you're going through is extremely difficult, but please do try to hold yourself together."
"Can't. Sorry."
No sarcasm, either. He really can't.
He's fucking well mad.
He is falling to pieces.
x.x.x
"You know, it's funny, really."
"What is?" she asks, poking at her carrots.
"This grieving," he says and takes a sip of water. "I mean, I'm not dead yet, am I?"
"Draco, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Denial still? I thought we'd moved on to anger."
"Draco, what—"
She feels sick.
Hermione springs out of her chair and runs upstairs—or perhaps upramp would be more appropriate. When she reaches the bathroom, she kneels on the hard, cold tile and clutches the hard, cold porcelain and thinks about her hard, cold husband.
She purges her grief.
God, it's a mess.
x.x.x
He takes another sip of water and looks at the empty seat next to him. Something about being alone at the dinner table unnerves him.
He idly picks a baby carrot from her abandoned plate and pops it into his mouth. When he feels the cold vegetable on his tongue, though, he quickly spits it back into his hand.
He remembers now that he hates carrots. Doesn't much care for any vegetables, really, but he especially dislikes carrots.
x.x.x
She's not grieving him. Of course not.
He's not dead. Of course not.
So what is she grieving, then?
x.x.x
Morning.
She lightly nudges him awake, as usual. His clothes are laid out on the dresser, as usual.
At least the clothes are ready to start a new day.
"I love you," he murmurs. His eyes are hazy, fogged over, but she doesn't know the reason why. Or, she knows several reasons why and can't decide which is currently most accurate. "God, how I love you."
She wants to believe him, wants to so much.
And so she does. Simple.
She can't stop herself from wondering how long he he has been lying to her.
"I love you, too," she whispers.
x.x.x
"I love you, too," she whispers, and her voice is so tiny and fragile and scared.
He sighs.
He isn't much in the mood for love, anyway.
x.x.x
"Draco," she says. "I—I think—I know you hate it when I tell you this, but I am a Healer, after all, and I've talked to the others—"
"Therefore," he cuts in, "my diagnosis should be obvious to you, shouldn't it? If they're telling you I'll get well, dear, then they're a bunch of lying, sympathetic sods."
"Fuck!" she exclaims. "Fuck all, Draco, just stop this stupid fucking self pity! You can't just give up! I won't let you! There are ways to make you better."
"Oh really?" he whispers, because speaking too loudly hurts. "How do you expect my legs to start working again? My eyes? Magic, is that what you think will fix me?"
"Well it could, if you'd just give it a chance!"
"Magic can't fix everything, Hermione. Magic can't bring the dead back to life."
She glares. "My apologies. I was under the impression that you weren't dead yet."
He grimaces Lightly, though, because his head is aching all over and too much emotion hurts. "Well, you always were observant, dear. I'm not dead yet. Just most of me."
x.x.x
She can't help but wonder that night, curled in a lonesome ball on the living room sofa, just how much he means by most.
x.x.x
He wonders, lying sprawled out in the big cold bed, if his wife could be considered a survivor of this mysterious affliction. Have there even been survivors?
x.x.x
"Of course there—Draco, what are you thinking? It's not the killing curse for God's sake!"
She's right, of course. She's always right.
It's so much worse.
"Just answer the question, Hermione."
"Yes, yes, of course there have been—I mean, it's extremely rare, but the curse is extremely rare in and of itself. I doubt most of my colleagues have even heard of it. But yes. There have been. I did some research."
He realizes that this is the only time he and his wife have ever directly mentioned the curse since that day when—since that day.
He decides his wife could not be considered a survivor. He hates these survivors.
God damn them all.
x.x.x
"Honey," he says. "Honey, turn up the Wizarding Wireless a little, would you please? I can't hear the news."
Hermione sighs. "Draco, it's already too loud."
"Just a tiny bit. Please?"
"Fine."
His wife gets up from the couch and fiddles with the Wireless, leaving an impression in the cushion beside him. He can feel the tendrils of cold air creeping into the empty space, and he wishes that she would hurry up with the volume. He hates always having empty seats next to him.
"What are you fiddling around for, Hermione? Just turn the volume up a little."
"I did!" she exclaims, facing him but still standing by the Wireless. "It's on full volume and it's hurting my ears."
He scrunches his face in confusion. "You can't have turned it all the way up," he insists. "I still can't hear it."
She sighs again, and he watches the trembling of her red little lips.
Her lips.
He takes his glasses off—no reason, no reason, there's just a smudge. A smudge on the lens and he needs to get it off. He wipes it on his shirt.
His wife is far away and silent.
"Honey?" he says, glasses still in his hand. "Hermione? Just—just—say something."
She says nothing.
"Hermione?"
Silence.
How long has he been reading her lips?
x.x.x
He abruptly wakes up at three o'clock that morning with a startling realization.
He can still read with his glasses. His eyes aren't totally useless yet, after all.
He almost laughs, but stops himself, because that is nothing to be happy about.
x.x.x
"They still haven't figured out what went wrong?" Harry asks.
She shakes her head, observing the wet trail of steam as it rises slowly from his mug. It drifts away from the dark pool of coffee and into the tense air of the kitchen.
"No," she says. "No, they haven't figured it out. They suspect some sort of Dark spell, but that's about it."
Now he raises the cup to his lips and they suck in the warm dark liquid like a tiny vacuum. The steam continues to drift into eternity.
He puts down the coffee. "I don't want to be rude—" His mouth opens and closes a few times. "Do you know how—I mean, I'm worried that—well, I'm concerned for him and you both—"
"No, Harry. We don't know how long. I'd have to—" She chokes. "—I'd have to guess not very."
He says nothing.
She inclines her head towards his mug. "Finished?"
He nods.
She takes it to the sink and rinses out the last dregs of bitter sludge. She watches the brown mix with the clear as the last cold drops of unwanted coffee swirl down the drain.
She is thinking about the steam.
"Harry?" she asks.
"Hmm?"
"Do you know what happens to steam—I mean, do you know where the steam goes?"
He looks confused. "Is this some sort of code?"
She smiles, just a little. "No, no. I was just wondering. That's all."
"Erm. . . I think steam is just water vapor. So I guess it evaporates and then condenses, like a cloud. And then I suppose, if it were part of a cloud, it would eventually come back down in the form of rain. Why are you asking me this, Hermione? You know a lot more about science than I do."
She nods.
He's right, of course. She does know more about science. That must be why she finds his explanation so unsatisfying.
x.x.x
It is one in the afternoon, and her husband is in bed. He is always in bed now, though she isn't quite sure what keeps him there. The paralysis? The fatigue? The fact that he has nowhere else to go?
She caresses his jaw, tenderly prying it open. She raises the spoon into his mouth and softly pushes his mouth closed around the metal utensil, urging him to swallow.
Feeding him.
He doesn't.
Instead he gags, and the vegetable slop is now all over his chin, his neck, his shirt, his pillow.
Hermione dashes to the bathroom and wets a towel. She rubs slow, gentle circles over his face and his neck with the cool, wet cloth.
Cleaning him.
There are magical methods of handling such messy tasks, certainly. But she does not use them. Will not use them.
She will not allow them to become slaves of Magic. Or, she will not acknowledge their enslavement any more than necessary.
And maybe she misses touching him, just a little. Craves it, just a little. Even if instead of making love to him she's just wiping the cold soup off his chin.
"I really do love you, Draco."
He blinks.
x.x.x
"I really do love you, Draco."
He can't hear you. He can't see you. But he knows what you're saying.
He loves you too, dear. He loves you so much. He wants to jump from this bed and wrap his arms around you and just squeeze you. He would never let go.
Too late, though. It seems he has already somehow made the mistake of letting go, and no amount of wanting and loving can make his soggy arms crisp again.
He will never hug you again.
Epiphany.
He knows what you're saying. You're saying: "Draco Malfoy, you are not coffee sludge."
He blinks.
x.x.x
He's gone.
x.x.x
She can no longer feel his breath on her knuckles.
She finishes cleaning his face, then gently changes his shirt.
His chest is no longer rising and falling. Or, it has fallen and is no longer rising.
She lifts his head off of the wet pillow and onto a dry one, running her fingers through his soft, dead hair. That's what hair is, isn't it? Hair is dead.
She washed his hair last night, and now it is as lovely and silky and neat as ever.
Dead as ever.
His hair has always been one of her husband's nicest features.
"I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. Don't you understand, Draco? Darling? I can save you. I love you!"
His lips are still soft, still slightly warm. But not for long.
Her mouth now tastes like vegetables—carrots, mostly—but she kisses him again anyway.
He is not a lost cause. Or, he is no more of a lost cause dead than alive.
x.x.x
Draco Lucius
Malfoy. His ersatz affection was worth a thousand true
loves.
x.x.x
Her friends aren't quite pleased with the epitaph, but she forgives them.
"Ersatz?" she hears Ron whisper to one of the twins. "I don't think she picked quite the right word. It makes him sound like a cheap coffee substitute or something."
Coffee. She thinks of steam.
"How sad," Ginny says to her. "It almost makes it sound as though he didn't really love you—and we all know how ridiculous that is."
Well if he had he'd be alive, wouldn't he?
Wouldn't he?
Ginny doesn't understand, though. All Ginny knows, all Hermione has told her, is that he was hit with a stray curse while on duty, and his health had been steadily declining ever since.
More than she ever told the Healers, anyway.
Hermione sighs and her breath is lost in the atmosphere.
She thinks of steam.
x.x.x
The sympathy cards are still trickling in. Acquaintances inquiring into the unfortunate circumstances of her late husband's untimely death.
The death certificate reads: "Cause of Death: Accidental/Unknown."
It isn't quite right, she decides. But it isn't quite wrong either.
She likes to say that he died of a broken heart.
x.x.x
It's raining today. Whenever it rains now she thinks of steam.
Whenever it rains now she murmurs little prayers to the sky.
For the steam, mostly. She prays that some of it will escape the clouds and the rain. She prays that some will escape the cycle and the world and float into the atmosphere. Or eternity. Or just simply away.
Whenever it rains now she remembers that she is a widow.
x.x.x
She hates the bed. She sleeps on the couch, curled in a lonesome ball, and listens to the rain.
She's used to it.
x.x.x
If even steam can escape, then surely that too is not marked Soul Mates Only?
Please God let the steam escape.
x.x.x
Escape.
She sits on a little mound of grass, leaning on one of the many cold headstones and plucking a few dandelions. Weeds.
"I love you," she whispers.
She pretends that he is not slowly decomposing within his tiny plot of earth. She pretends that he is not lying motionless while the worms and the maggots consume his beauty.
She vaguely remembers him telling her something once. God, it feels like ages ago. Telling her to stop pretending.
But she has always been a bit headstrong.
She pretends that he is standing next to her, stroking her hair and murmuring sweet nothings into her ear. She pretends she can feel his warm breath on her neck.
She pretends that she knows what love is.
Why should she care if it's a lie?
Some things are too beautiful to be logical, no? What was it that she used to think again? Something about logic and truth, she remembers. Logic and truth.
Maybe some things are too beautiful to be true.
x.x.x
End.
a/n: Just to let you all know, Esme's name meant "loved by no one." Apparently no one and any one are the same in French or something. . . but, please, if you know French, correct me. I just went used an online translator (and for her first name). Also, I know that in one section of the story I switched from the usual third person (he/she) to second person (you). It was on purpose, really! I just didn't want my lovely readers thinking I had poor grammar or something.
Thanks for reading everyone! The story's over now (in case you somehow didn't realize. . .), so if you can possibly come up with any sort of comments or constructive criticism or just a few words to let me know you read it, I'd really appreciate it if you just left it in a nice (or nasty, whatever) little review. It makes me smile to know I have readers. Especially readers who take the time to leave a message.
Love to all, claro que si.
p.s. If you don't feel like reviewing for the story's sake, mebe I should let you know that I recently turned sixteen and reviews would make wonderful (slightly belated) birthday presents!
p.p.s. Just a question - do you think I should up the rating of this story to M? I can't decide but I certainly don't want to be booted from the site. Tell me what you think, purlease.