The Rose In The Rain | Dramione

Prologue

Hermione Granger, the bushy haired, buck-toothed know it all, looked at her surroundings sadly, her brown eyes brimming with tears. Hogwarts had been turned to rubble, and she saw few signs of life throughout the eerily quiet castle. The Second Wizarding War had just come to an end, and they had won. The idea of peace was supposed to be joyous, and call for celebration, but the pain that had settled in Hermione's heart made it impossible for her, or anyone, to celebrate their victory.

After wandering through the demolished corridors in search of a familiar face, Hermione stumbled upon the Great Hall. As her idle fingers wrapped around the doorknob, she heard a wail, so heartbreakingly full of emotion that she stopped dead in her tracks, the tears pooling her eyes overflowing. Inhaling sharply through her nose, she pushed all signs of defeat from her face, and bravely stepped into the Hall. However, the second her gaze landed on the Weasley family, huddled around a body, her composure broke, and her face contorted into a look of unbearable anguish as she dragged her feet, approaching her friends and family, attempting to prepare for the worst.

Hermione hadn't known what to expect, though. How could she have prepared herself for the sight that rested before her? The significance of the loss they were all facing was overwhelming. How could she have been aware of the excruciating pain that would be caused by the constant reminder of all the war had cost them, represented before her on the ground, by the lifeless body of Fred Weasley?

It was impossible for her to have known.

For a split second, it was all too much for Hermione to handle, and she fell to her knees, her face buried in her hands. She sobbed, mourning the death of the beloved Fred Weasley, and felt the world slip away. For that split second, it was just her, his body, and the pain.

Then she felt a warm hand on her back, and another on her shoulder, and the next thing she knew, she was on her feet, standing over Fred's body. Harry Potter had been the one to help her up, and Hermione found herself clutching onto his hand so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She rested her head gently on his shoulder, wiping her tears on his shirt.

She couldn't bring herself to look at any of the Weasley's, let alone Fred. She feared seeing him up close would be enough for her to lose it. Taking a timid step backwards, she turned around and left the Great Hall, her hand still wrapped securely around Harry's as he followed her.

The duo found Ron Weasley standing alone outside, staring out at the Forbidden Forest, the tears that had been falling freely from his blue eyes dried. His face was red and his eyes were swollen, and his shoulders shook every time he took a breath. His eyes were wide and glazed over when Harry and Hermione walked over, as if he had just seen a ghost.

"Fred is dead," he whispered, his voice hoarse and raspy as his gaze moved from the forest to Harry. Hermione reached out and took his hand, so that the three friends were standing in a row, hands intertwined. "He's dead," Ron repeated, his voice cracking.

Harry nodded slowly, his eyes full of guilt and shame. "Because of me," he muttered, dropping Hermione's hand as he patted down his disheveled hair nervously. "Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks are dead, too. Oh, and Albus Dumbledore, only the greatest wizard of all time. Sirius, Snape, and my parents. So many people died at my expense. It's all my fault."

"Harry," began Hermione, her voice soft as she shook her head at her best friend. "They didn't die at your expense. They died for a cause — for love. Love for you, and for Hogwarts, and for the entire Wizarding community. They died at the hands of Voldemort, and that is something you cannot blame yourself for. But you did kill one person. A monster, some may argue. You killed Voldemort. And you saved everyone. "

The trio were succumbed to silence, and they silently stared at the Great Lake, forever grateful to have not lost each other to the war. "Will George ever recover?" Harry asked suddenly, breaking the silence. Hermione could still sense the guilt in his voice.

"Will any of us?" Ron countered, his pale, watery eyes lowered to his shoes. And then he left, every step he took creating a larger gap between the friends, stretching their bond so far that Hermione was left fearing it would break.

"I should go, too," Harry spoke up, being too polite to just leave, as Ron had.

Hermione nodded, giving him a few minutes to get inside before following him in, heading towards the common room, the only place that offered any form of refuge.

Draco Malfoy paced the dungeons, the sound his footsteps bouncing off the floor and echoing through his ears. His platinum blond hair was darkened by blood, and his clothing was torn and dirty. He felt a surge of anger, and before he realized what had happened, his hand smashed into the wall, tearing open a large gash in his flesh. Blood poured from his wounded hand and he winced, tears stinging his eyes.

Extracting his wand from the pocket of his robes, he pointed it at his hand and mumbled a spell, the size of the cut decreasing. There was still blood pouring from the opening, so he tore a strip of fabric from his shirt and wrapped it around his hand, which had numbed.

Numb — finally, an emotion which described how he felt perfectly. The entire purpose of punching the wall, he realized as he paced again, was to ensure that he was still capable of feeling. His insides were twisted with anger and regret, and his heart beat pointlessly — he was a disgrace.

He clambered up the stone staircase, the pounding of his feet the only sound that could be heard. As his cloak billowed behind him, he stuffed his wand back in his pocket, his bloodied lips pursed into a thin line. He hadn't seen his father since he disappeared after Voldemort was killed, and the last he heard of his mother was that she had saved Harry Potter's life and betrayed the Dark Lord because of Draco himself. He didn't know if either of his parents were even alive anymore, not that it mattered much to him.

Passing through the Entrance Hall, Draco walked outside to the castle grounds and took the sight before him in. The Quidditch Pitch could be seen in the distance, burning. Clouds of smoke billowed above the flames, reaching up to the heavens and darkening the entire landscape. What remained of the castle was destroyed almost completely. Towers had collapsed, walls had been bashed in, pillars had fallen. The strangest part, however, was how quiet it was. Death left it's mark everywhere at Hogwarts, and the sight of everything ruined was enough to make Draco feel something. Disgust.

His stomach lurched uncomfortably, and, unable to look at the scene before him for any longer, he stormed off the school grounds, towards Hogsmeade. He felt something warm fall on his hand as he walked, and he reached up, his slender fingers touching his pale, cold face, which was tear streaked. His entire body shook, and he became desperate to get away. Stealing a final glance at the castle, he disapparated as far away from Hogwarts as he could go.