The Divine Paradox

Summary

Paradox par·a·dox /ˈperəˌdäks/ a situation, person, or thing that combines contradictory features or qualities. When the devil and an angel make too much sense. A story of a demon looking for solace, and an angel looking for chaos. A story of utter redemption, healing, sexual awakening, and paradoxical curses that blanket darkness to the first light Draco Malfoy has seen in years.

Genre:
Romance / Adventure
Author:
gildandgray
Status:
Ongoing
Chapters:
14
Rating:
5.0 2 reviews
Age Rating:
18+

one - sun | moon


TW: MATURE CONTENT/THEMES, OOC, smut, foul language, drug use/abuse, alcohol use/abuse, self harm, disordered eating, depression/suicidal thoughts, mention of sexual assault, toxicity, pain kink, and violence/ blood/ gore, struggling through the trauma of war (PTSD), this story may not be suitable for all audiences. seriously.


DRACO


She's too bright, much like the sun in that way.

But she isn't like the sun in the spring, or autumn— nice, breezy, and warm.

No.

She's the sun that scorches skin. The sun that sits in the sky on a mid-summer's day, beating down with vengeance. The sun that causes wildfires. The sun that shreds every cell that fabricates your retinas if you look at it too long. The sun that burns. The worst type of sun. The sun you try to avoid.

He prefers the moon.

But he likes pain. He deserves pain.

And— fuck if she still isn't the damned sun, and fuck— if she isn't fucking golden. Bright to the point that your eyes advert to her when she walks in a room, nose always in the air or in a fucking book. Bright to the point that just one look could spark the life back to all of the trees and flowers in the dead of winter in as far as the eye could see.

He used to watch her in the library, they both spent an obscene amount of time in there. She would always tie her frizzy hair back with a black velvet ribbon when she got too immersed in whatever she was reading. He could never quite decipher whether he wanted to strangle her with that bloody ribbon, or fucking tie her hands up to his canopied four-poster and shag her senseless.

Infuriating to the point of hatred. Yes, he hates her. He hates her because he's supposed to. Because her blood is putrid.

He hates that he knows she takes three teaspoons of honey in her tea. He hates that he knows she sometimes prefers to eat dessert before her meal. He hates that he knows that her tongue sticks slack out of her mouth when she's focused on writing. He hates it because he doesn't understand. He hates it because he hates her.

But every fucking time he closes his eyes he sees her. Lying helpless on the ground in the drawing room of his very own home. Gnashing screams leaving her heart shaped mouth, imprinting in his mind, making reappearances in his nightmares. It is the one thing his mind won't let him occlude, won't let him file it away in a little box like the rest of his demons.

He hates her for that too. He hates her for that because up to that point of the war he was fine. He was fine letting the darkness drag him under, let him drift away with the current. It would have been much less painful that way—to let it consume him.

It wasn't until her pools of topaz and amber locked with his pools of silver and sapphire lying there on the stone floors that he felt any sort of remorse for the things that he had done. It was like an avalanche, crashing down on him all at once. Smothering. She was asking for help, begging with her eyes. She saw something in him that nobody else did— a merit for redemption.

And he just stood there. Petrified, watching her writhe under Bellatrix's searing wand, but still letting the darkness take over his conscious. Glued to the floor.

Now there's a raised scar on the golden skin of her forearm that reads: mudblood. Images of it often appears in his nightmares. Haunting him like a ghost of his past.

He blames himself.

Now he's what people would consider damaged goods. Unfixable.

A broken boy.

A Coward.

Nothing.

But fuck he was so angry. So fucking angry at the fucking world. Still so fucking angry. He just wanted somebody, just one person to care enough to pull him out, tell him his worth wasn't defined by being Voldemort's chosen gem.

He was so close to letting her be just that, laying there on the stone cold floor; but the reality of that scenario, letting her be his savior, would end with him dragging the ever so perfect Hermione Granger to the pits of hell along with him.

There is another part of him, however, that craves just that. A darker part of him. Dragging her down with him. Ruining her. Burning everything around her, until there's nowhere else for her to run and hide. Breaking her. It would be a beautiful thing, an absolute honor, to be the one to pour black ink on her golden angel wings.

He blames his father for that mindset.

His father was a very dignified man. He used to look up to him, wanted to be just like him. He liked that his beliefs never wavered, solid. Now though? He views him as a coward. His breath didn't even stray from a normal rhythm when the Ministry had sent Aurors to the manor to seize him to Azkaban a few months after the war. Lucius deserves to rot with the dementors, that he was certain.

His father was ever so concerned with the Malfoy bloodline staying pure, so much so that he has been making Draco create a list of names with potential wives since the ripe age of eleven. It wasn't until his first Christmas home when Hermione Granger's name was at the very top of the list in bold lettering that he fully comprehended what keeping the bloodline pure fully entailed. It was a huge ordeal, family meetings, and punishments were doled out. Lucius was furious, Bellatrix taunted him, and his mother just held a look of pure concern on her face the whole Christmas break. It's also the first time his father hit him, inflicted pain purposefully, leaving a handprint across his face that turned into an ugly yellow bruise that he glamoured weeks after in order to hide the lesion from his mother. So he made himself hate her, treated her like fucking scum. Calling her a mudblood every chance he got. It was more of a reminder to himself of what she was, what she is, unworthy. Reminding himself to not get too distracted by halo of sunlight that surrounded her frizzy head.

His mother though? She's grace. He'd always been so confused as to how she ended up marrying his father. Sure, she was a pure-blood, but she just seemed like a lighthouse among darkness in the mess of it all.

After the war, his mother had instructed the house elves to serve meals in a dining hall on the complete opposing end of the manor, the drawing room doors stayed under lock and key. Nobody knew why, but Draco felt like there was a mutual understanding among himself and his mother. She knows that night had somehow broken her son. Broken him past repair.

So, yes, he does hate Hermione Granger. He hates her because he'll never have her. He hates her because she gives him something to feel guilt over, guilt that has been eating away at him for two years. He hates her because she's too perfect, and her only fault is her fucking filthy blood. He hates her because he doesn't deserve her. He simply just fucking hates her.

He always thought that if he hadn't scribbled her fucking name on that parchment listing names of potential brides, maybe Bellatrix wouldn't have made her a direct target during the war.

And it has been nearly two years. Two fucking years since he's seen the war heroine, not counting the countless paper articles discussing her every move, and he fucking hates those too.


HERMIONE


Curiosity.

A strong desire to learn or know something.

She'd often times heard her mother claim that her curiosity would ultimately be the death of her.

And Draco Malfoy is a riddle that she finds impossible to solve.

She's fine. She keeps telling herself that over and over again. Fine. Perfectly fine.

When people ask how she is? Fine.

She wasn't fine. She isn't fine.

Every time she closes her eyes at night to rest, there's a myriad on the back of her eyelids of jagged teeth, chandeliers, searing wands, and Draco Malfoy's eyes. Just standing there, eyes boring into her while she lay helpless on the ground, relishing in her pain. She often jokes to herself that he enjoyed the show so much he would drag a winged-back chair right to the spot her blood stained the manor's drawing room floor, and drink his afternoon tea.

She would try to forget it, forget his eyes. Erase her mind. She has read an array of books on Occlumency, but could never successfully tuck the memories away. Every time she tried there was a searing pain in the scars that stained her forearm, it would slice open like it was a fresh wound; like Bellatrix still had the fiery tip of her wand searing into her flesh. It's almost like her brain is working against her, like it's punishing her for something— and it's taking everything in her; ever cell that fabricates her existence, to fight darkness from consuming her conscious.

But that's the thing about Malfoy— he's a Occlumens; and a very skilled one at that. She could always tell he was; nobody could be that bloody cold without the ability to file away emotions left and right.

She envies him for it. She'd do just about anything to do away with the horrid memories and just enjoy her last year at Hogwarts— enjoy the rest of her life.

Two years. It had been two years since she had stepped foot in the corridors. She was a completely different person. She doesn't feel that same fire in her that everybody always talks about, the fire that she used to feel.

She often wondered if grief had an expiration date. The school had taken a two year leave, naming it a Grieving Pause. Two years surely wasn't long enough to grieve a war as cold and violent as the one that took over those grounds, she's very certain on that. She felt as if she would forever be stuck in the third stage of the grieving cycle, depression.

Depression. Her chest feels hollow most of the time, yet breaking down by the weight of the world all at the same time. It's getting fucking exhausting.

She feels lost— like she doesn't know who she is anymore.

Dark. Shadowed.

She's just— incredibly ready to finally have a year of peace at Hogwarts. Ready to spend the two semesters with her nose buried in a book for most of her free time.

Harry had decided to not return for his last year, beginning his Auror training early. She's very proud of him, however, she would miss his company dearly. He had promised monthly visits to The Three Broomsticks, giving her something to look forward to.

She does, however, have— Ron.

Ron. The Ron that broke her heart. The Ron that stole her first kiss and then blamed it on the trauma in the moment. The Ron that has dealt with his demons by gaining about ten pounds of muscle, and shagging everyone with a bloody heartbeat.

The thing is, she was only heartbroken for a month. After a month's time she realized that she and Ron would ultimately end in utter turmoil.

She was the sun, so was he.

She was fire, so was he.

She was a lion, so was he.

They are both too warm. Their warmths would combine and cause a collision of fires to burn inside of them. They would clash. Destined to fail from the beginning.

Better as friends.

She doesn't know if she simply told herself this to move on, or if it were true.

Nevertheless, the tabloids took their brief romance and ran to the hills with it. Articles upon articles about their 'love affair', and 'potential engagement'— etcetera.

Being Potter's Golden Girl does have it's number of perks.

Things such as: free coffee and scones when she visits coffee shops in the realms of the Wizarding society, many companies send her clothing, bookstores send her letters by owl letting her know she could come by and take any lot of books she desires.

It was rather astonishing to have a name in the Wizarding world, and she ate it up like it was cake on a golden platter.

However, there were still parts that were not so pleasurable. Paparazzi, Rita Skeeter— the cameras and microphones always in her face asking questions upon questions.

Fuck— it's exhausting seeing your face in the papers repeatedly. She quickly figured out fame isn't all it's chalked up to be.

The papers describe her as an angel.

An angel with a halo of fire— their weaponed war angel.

People constantly send drawings, paintings, and there was once a life size cutout of her with golden wings and a fiery halo.

A normal girl would eat it up, but it was just a constant reminder that there is no fire left in her— not even a spark. She's burnt out. The war has taken a blanket of ice and placed it right over her ignited flame.

The naive, frizzy headed girl that walked into those large, wooden doors nearly a decade ago is dead. She no longer believes in happy endings, she just simply believes in moving forward, going through the motions of life until death.

She's nineteen now. A woman. An adult. Her childhood has been brushed under a rug, along with the rest of her.

She deserves good things, and that's the reason she's somewhat thankful for Harry's absence.

She loves him, but darkness follows him around on a leash— and she was always there to ease the blow for him in the past.

She just wants peace. Serenity. Books, coffee and pastries. Books, coffee and pastries.

And this year, was her year. It is her year.

Finally.






fan art made by @violetbluegr on twitter <3
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