Chimera's Touch
by Mexx

Cause nothing lasts forever and we both know hearts can change and it's hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain

It's late November and raining hard. A man, young, but with eyes matured beyond his years, sits alone in a muggle bar. Not for the company, of course, he finds the muggles and their useless ways insufferable--and he wishes someone, anyone, would get rid of the lot of them. Of course, someone had tried that shortly after his birth and look what happened to Him.

There are some enjoyable sides to muggle life; their alcohol, for one.

Their women, for another, he thinks to himself. Not that he'd lower himself to that level, but he'd seen her; a girl he once knew, changed a little from school though. Not the little, nasty mudblood she'd been, doing good for herself now. Or so he's heard.

He saw her once, a little under a year ago. Slim, beautiful, smiling. Her brown hair sleeked back in a glossy style she'd never been able to master in school. Didn't dare speak to her of course; couldn't tarnish his reputation by being seen speaking socially with her, but he watched from afar, like a demon bathing in the silver light of a unicorn.

There are occasions when he will let his mind wander to misspent evenings at Hogwarts; he remembers with a certain mix of maudlin disdain and fondness the hours spent with a certain Gryffindor girl who would curse and glare at him in the harsh light of day, but would whisper kisses on his lips as soon as the sun went down. The first time - an accident - had happened at a ball during their sixth year-- after too much butterbeer, and some harshly thrown words, they'd fallen into each other's arms; delighting in each other's lips and taste and tongue. The next day, of course, they'd sworn to deny it forever. It never happened.

But he sought her out. Unconsciously perhaps, but still, he found her alone, walking the grounds late at night, and he had kissed her again. She'd rebuked at first, angry at his promiscuous behaviour, but it had taken only a few words on his part to convince her. It was harsh and dirty and devoid of any romantic notions either would have ever entertained about their first relationship that went beyond flowers and holding hands. And yet despite the hatred residing beneath the lust, he couldn't draw himself away from her citrus-scented hair and soft pink lips.

Their ‘relationship' had ended as unexpectedly as it began. Three months into their late night meetings, she'd had simply cut him off, and he had acquiesced-- no good would ever have come of it. There'd been no feelings-- only lust, which had been satiated.

And yet a decade later he dreams of softly spoken words and silken skin. He reprimands himself, acting on hormones-- a boy at the time, what did he know? Besides, the girl probably felt violated by his actions, embarrassed. She wasn't the prude her angelic image portrayed her as, and yet he was sure she wouldn't have wanted her flawless reputation tarnished by their shared kisses becoming common knowledge.

The man, Draco, shakes his head, as if to rid himself of the memories. Nothing good ever came from living in the past. His eyes dart around the room, looking for distractions, but what could kindle his interest in this lacklustre, smoky muggle pub? The tinker of the bell above the heavy wooden door signals the entry of three women to the bar, and he notes with a little interest, that the tingle at the base of his spine means one of them is a witch; a pariah in this dreary muggle world. He shoots the woman an inimical glare; just because he chose to sit reticently in this God forsaken bar, it did not mean any other wizard or witch should lower themselves to this level. But then, he notes with a tangible jump of the heart, then he recognises one of the women--the witch. His emotions hidden by a practiced mask of indifference, he assesses her, takes in the lithe figure and winsome face and bathes in her light once again.

And he can't stand it.

Can't stand the fact that he lost her. That this beauty standing no more than twenty feet away from him could have been his but he gave her up. And for what? His father? Dead now. His reputation? He was a Malfoy, and in retrospect he realises he'll always have that. His pride? She was a Gryffindor and a Muggleborn and Harry Potter's ever faithful groupie, and he'd just been her bit on the side. Still, he'd rather have been a quickie in the shadows than a nothing to her. What's he got now?

He can't draw his eyes away from her. Maybe it's the strange setting, maybe the way the streetlight from outside glows through the window and creates a glimmering halo around her body, or maybe it's the fact that she's now so very different from the girl he once knew, but she still holds everything tiny detail that he found so wonderful in her.

Draco watches Hermione; she sits with her friends at a small table near the dance floor, and her eyes meet his as she glances up from her friends' smiling faces. She stops for a moment in time, eyes transfixed with his--and neither can look away. She opens her mouth, as if to utter his name in surprise, but quickly closes it again… what good would come of speaking the name of the boy who had changed her irrevocably? She breaks eye contact, looks back at her friends, and smiles with them. Ignores the piercing stare that knifes at her soul.

He stands, infuriated by her casual dismissal of him. His heart is wrenching apart at her nearness, and yet she barely gives him a glance. Draco takes five strides across the room, and her proximity hits him, hard. His feet drag a little as he approaches her table, and he coughs to draw her attention towards him.

She looks up. Her eyes meet his for the second time that evening, and Draco recognises the look glistening within her brown orbs because he feels the same; despair. Because neither of them are the innocent children they once were, grown up now, with the weight of the world on their shoulders, and no childhood companions to share it with. Hermione mutters introductions between Draco and her two friends, but doesn't say a word to him, only smiles, somewhat disorientated by his almost ethereal presence.

He says not one word to her, but bows and takes her hand in his, bestows a kiss upon her fingers. A simple looking kiss to the outsider, but not to the woman who receives it, or the man who gives it. As his lips brush her fingers, Draco's tongue slips from between his lips to sweep across her digits in a wonderfully sensual movement. He stands, and she joins him on her feet, he leads her to the dance floor and she follows, for what else could she do?

She slips into his arms as the reach the wooden flooring under the warm spotlights, and they sway among the few other couples that grace the dance floor. Draco relishes the feel of her slight figure secured in his embrace, and inhales her scent, not believing he's finally holding her once again. It feels like it's been an eternity since he last held her, and indeed, it has been. Ten long years since he cherished her in his arms and could call her his own, ten years of unfulfilling relationships and lies to himself and the women that flitted in and out of his life.

His eyes lock with hers, expressing words his lips dare not utter for fear they'd break the spell that had been cast upon them--bringing back the alluring chimera from his past that he often dare not think about. Several dances pass, and they remain locked together in their eternal trance. Hermione's lips part, as if once again to say his name, or proclaim a feeling, but he silences her with a swift kiss, his lips burning against hers and silencing her voice. She melts into the kiss, remembering the feel of his lips on hers when once upon a time they had belonged there.

Her friends watch with interest as Hermione is apparently seduced by a stranger, but a stranger he is not. She has always belonged with him, in his strong arms and protective embrace, she's just been too stubborn to admit it. The friends watch, and take in the emotions surging between Draco and Hermione. Draco's eyes bear into Hermione's. They say it all, this night is for them alone, no need to share it, or the memories of it, with anyone.

She mutters a hasty goodbye to her friends, and Draco whisks her from the low-key establishment into the cold, rain filled streets. His fingers entwine with hers, and his digits caress her soft palm. She can't bring herself to flinch at his touch, but she wants to. Wants to draw her hand from his cool grasp because out of the bar, under the cool snow of light emanating from the street lamp, everything is so much more real.

She wants to stop him, demand where he is taking her, ask what is going on. But she doesn't. To speak would be to shatter the ethereal spell cast upon them and splinter the illusion of the fairy tale in which they were engaged.

Their walk was made in haste and silence, each longing for the inevitable. He wishes he could speak to her, to calm her frayed nerves and ease her anxiety, but he feels the same, both of them anxious to be in each others arms, but too frightened to say anything. How could they say something, anyway, when come morning none of this would be anything but a memory? How could it be anything more, they were from different worlds, destined to be torn apart by blood.

He guides her through a veritable plethora of streets, winding though the interlocking roads as though navigating a maze. Eventually, they reach an upscale cul-de-sac, and he steers her towards the most extravagant house on which. He releases her hand for a moment, to tap on the door of the house and whisper the password to give him entrance, “ephemeral”. She gives him a questioning glance, but says nothing, instead following him into the darkened house.

The front door closes and Draco's lips find hers, and though her mind screams out in protest, she gives herself unto that kiss, for the simple pleasure of retrieving a memory lost. His kiss is dark, and full of unquenched lust, not holding back unlike that which he had bestowed on her in the bar, a kiss which had been the merest touch of his breath against her lips. She returns his kiss with a consuming passion of her own, and yields as he lifts her into his embrace and mounts the stairs with her in his arm.

He takes her to his bedroom, places her gently on the soft, silken sheets of his bed, removes her clothes, and silently promises to love her forever. He makes love to her. Murmurs passion unto her body as though this is his last night on earth, and she, the one unholy pleasure he would not deny himself above all others. He gives himself to her completely, and she to him--it has been too long, and this night is one thing neither could refuse themselves of.

Afterwards, when both sated and sleepy, he wraps his arms around her, and breathes nonsense murmurs into her hair. She doesn't want him to hold her this way, as if he loves her, because tomorrow morning this night would be nothing more than a mere memory to the both of them, and with the dawn of a new day will be a regret they will both suffer the repercussion of, for how could they not? They were not to ever belong together, drawn together by destiny, but split apart by fate.


The next morning she awakes as the sun dawns over the city, brushing the room they spent their night together in with a golden hue. She removes herself from his embrace, and looks at his sleeping figure, naked in his bed. She commits the image to memory, never would she forget the feel or taste or touch of him. With his eyes closed and face relaxed he was beautiful. Perfect marble features looking so innocent as he slept, naked from the waist up revealing his pale sculptured body. He was a vision among the tangled silken sheets. She leaves him, alone, with no sign that she was ever there, except their memories and the burning impression she had left on his heart.

He wakes at midday, and looks forlornly at his bed, empty save for her scent lingering on the pillows. She's gone now, nothing more than a memory, or perhaps less; the dream of a drunken man alone in his bed. A tempting, alluring unicorn, untouchable, a sacred animal he'd never succeeded in taming. She was now nothing more to him than a mere fantasy.


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