A Feeling Unknown

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Chapter 38: Hate is a Feeling, too:


He didn’t feel like having a big conversation right now. What he really wanted was to bask in the afterglow of the amazing sex they had just had, fall asleep, have a nice dream or two, wake up in the middle of the night, have sex again, sleep until morning, and then have a big breakfast.


Was that too much to ask?


However, he couldn’t let a statement like, “I think I hate Theo,” go without notice or comment. He began to comb his fingers through her hair, as she lay with her head on his chest, her hand on his stomach. He was waiting to see if she had anything more to add to that statement, but when nothing more was forthcoming, he asked the dreaded question. “Why?”


She sat up and he felt jilted in a way. He knew he shouldn’t have paid her any mind. He should have pretended to be asleep or something. Was she leaving? She leaned over to the floor, and he stared at her bare backside as she reached for her underwear and her sweatshirt. Seriously, was she going somewhere? He sat up as well, but when it was apparent that she was merely putting her things on, while still in bed and that she wasn’t going anywhere, he decided to remain naked and fell back down on the mattress with a thud. She struggled into her knickers first, and then she pulled her shirt, (really his, but still) over her upper body and then turned to face him. She puffed up the pillows, moved so she was once more lying beside him and she said, “I really think that he’s to blame for most of my problems, and I’ve never had the gall to blame him until now, but I finally want to blame him.”


“Okay,” he said. He stroked her chin and cheek with his finger and added, “Blame him all you want, goodness knows I have over the years, but why do you think you hate him?”


“He was selfish, and he didn’t care if he caused us pain, and I think he didn’t love us half as much as we loved him, so why should we waste anymore love on him?”


He didn’t see her logic. He frowned and propped himself up on his elbow. She remained on her back, and he placed his hand on her stomach. He said, “Why should you waste a perfectly good emotion like hate on the man? It’s an emotion, too, and it’s more destructive than love. You don’t really hate anyone, Hermione.”


“Yes I do,” she said plainly.


“No you don’t, you aren’t capable of hate,” he lectured.


“Don’t tell me what I feel, Malfoy,” she said with a steady voice. “I need to hate him, because that way I don’t have to hate myself anymore.”


Draco felt this conversation was beyond bizarre. He also felt that she was wrong, and if there was one thing that Draco couldn’t stand, it was when someone was wrong, and he felt the need to point out to her just how wrong she was. “You don’t hate.”

“I do too.”


“No you don’t.”


“Damn it, Draco,” she said, sitting up, “I thought we could have a nice conversation, examine our feelings, start to heal, but instead, you want to fight.”

“A nice conversation?” he asked, incredulously. “About hate?” She was officially bonkers. He sat up as well and said, “I don’t want to fight. If you’re really interested in what I want, I want to go to sleep, have sex again, go to sleep some more, and then have a big breakfast in the morning.”

She glared at him and then she threw back the covers and started to leave the bed. He clamped his hand down on her arm. He said, “Stay here. Fine. Tell me all about your hate for a dead man, Hermione. Tell me why you hate a man who loved you. Tell me why you hate a man who was ill and couldn’t help the way he felt. Tell me why you hate a man who killed himself, rather than face a sad and depressing life.”


She removed her arm from his hand but remained on the bed. She said, “No, why don’t you tell me why you don’t hate a man who ruined our chance at happiness. Tell me why you don’t hate a man who manipulated us, even in death. Tell me why I shouldn’t hate a man who could have probably stopped his father from raping me, but instead, after her saw it was he, wanted to leave. Tell me why I shouldn’t hate a man who kept me by his side by making me feel guilty and by making me think I was responsible for his happiness!”


She placed both hands over her face and turned so that her back was facing him. She pulled the covers back over her legs and started to cry.


“Oh, don’t cry,” Draco said with malice.


“Oh, go to hell,” she said back.


“I’ve been there and it’s not what it’s cracked up to be,” Draco responded. Well now, he was wide-awake. He threw his side of the covers off his body and reached for his jeans. He pulled them on, grabbed his sweater, threw it on, and walked out to the kitchen table. He sat down and banged his fist on the top.


Damn her.


He took a moment to reflect on what she said, became even angrier with her, and the reason was that she wasn’t wrong! She was right! She was right to hate Theo and what was more, he thought he hated him, too, but he was always too ashamed to admit it. He thought it made him seem like a bad or evil person to admit, even to himself, that he hated him.


Theo was a selfish person. He didn’t care if Draco loved Hermione. Unlike Draco, he wouldn’t have given her up for his best friend, the way Draco did for him. He only knew that he wanted her for himself, so Draco’s feelings didn’t matter. During the final battle, when they came upon Hermione and the Death Eaters, Theo wanted to help until he saw that one of them was his father, and then he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.


The worst thing of all was that he never once acknowledged, to either Draco or Hermione, what his bastard of a father did to her. He acted liked he conveniently forgot the whole thing ever happened, but a person didn’t just forget something like that.


Draco and Hermione offered him help more times than Draco could count, but he never once wanted help. He was content to be sad. He was content to wallow in his depression. His final act of selfishness was the day he killed himself, and he laid all the blame right at Hermione and Draco’s feet. He didn’t even take responsibility for that.


Now his bastard father was trying to kill Hermione. He did kill her mother. Hell yes, Hermione hated him. Draco hated him, too. He didn’t want to, because Theo was once his best friend, but the man was dead, and Hermione and Draco were still alive, and if they needed to hate him to find their own peace, then who had the right to judge them. They didn’t have to admit their feelings to others. They could keep them to themselves. That was all she wanted to do. She just wanted to admit her feelings aloud to Draco, and he wouldn’t let her.


He looked up, because he sensed that she had come into the room and was watching him. He held out his hand for her. She walked toward him and held out her hand as well. They held hands. Draco stood up and said, “Does it make me a bad person to say that I hate my dead best friend?”


“No,” she answered. She put her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest. “Does it make me a bad person to say that I hate my former fiancée?”


“Yes,” he joked. She looked up at him quickly and he said, “I’m just trying to be truthful. You’re a very bad person, Hermione and it’s time you owned up to the truth.”


She laughed and put her head back on his chest. He stroked her back and kissed the top of her head. “We’re both good people, Draco. Theo wasn’t a bad person either, and you’re right after all, we don’t really hate him. We could never hate him. But we hate what he did to us.”


“Well, hell, you should have said that in the first place,” he scolded, holding her tight. “That sounds ever so much better. We hate what he did to us, not we hate him. Get your stories straight next time, Granger.” He smiled into her hair and then pushed her away slightly and said, “Can we either go to sleep or have sex again? I want something to go my way tonight.”


“I swear, you can be so stupid,” she barked, pushing away from his arms. She took his hand and said, “Come on, then.” She started to pull him toward the bedroom.


“Sex or sleep?” he asked.


“Come with me and find out,” she laughed. Hermione glanced in the dark living room as they made their way down the hall toward the bedroom and she gasped and then ran behind Draco.


“What is it?” he asked.


He looked quickly into the living room and he saw why she gasped. He let out a line of expletives, realized that he didn’t have his wand, pushed her into the bedroom, ran in after her, and shut and locked the door. He reached for his wand first, then his phone, which he left on the bedside table, and he said, “Stay quiet and get your wand!”


He pushed her down onto the bed, kept one hand on her shoulder as he opened his phone, and scrolled the menu for Potter’s name. He had to scroll through almost the entire list since he had Harry listed as ‘Scarhead’. He reached the ‘S’s’, pressed the green button, and when Harry answered Draco said, “Potter, get some Aurors and come to my house right now. There’s a dead man in my living room.”


A/N: Now who in the world is he referring to, I wonder?

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