I apologize for the long wait and I apologize for the length of this. I considered posting half a chapter but if there's one thing that I learned in life it is to never go on things half-assed. So here is the full-ass version of the final chapter. <-- man, that's crass. I love you all dearly. Thank you for being patient with me, us. Thank you!
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Dear Granger,
I loathe you.
Hermione is in a gray room. There was not much in the gray room, only paper after paper after paper on the endless floor. If this were her usual dream it would have been paradise, for this is how she imagined what her designated job would be-- an endless array of paperwork-- that only she could end. Her heart nagged at her to remember something about this shade of gray and the person to whom it belonged to. But her brain was already at the problem at hand and unlike other girls, Hermione had never been particular about colors-- she can't even remember what the color her Yule Ball gown was-- if it was pink or blue-- but she can tell you about the history of the shop that sold it.
...Still I admire you.
This could not be the Draco she knew back in year one. They had friendly competition, true, but they didn't hate each other.
Could it be?
There were other letters to be read.
...I was the one who put the crumpled note in your notes but I was also the one who put the diary in Ginny's cauldron. I don't even know why I'm writing this here.
That's not true. He couldn't have. Ginny told her that she found Tom Riddle's diary in her luggage, not in her cauldron. This is too inaccurate.
Like an alternate version of things.
Slowly the tone of the letters changed.
Granger, do you believe in true love's kiss?
There were a couple of letters of him crossing back in forth to outright bullying her because of her appearance and pleading for her to go to the dance with him.
Will you go with me to the dance? Was written in different variations all ranging in desperation.
She remembers him not asking her to the dance. But they end up dancing anyway. More than dancing as a matter of fact. Her lips tingle at the memory, an unconscious finger reached up to touch it.
...congratulate you on your pose as the new Head Girl.
...we could have been friends...
That's when she finally got it. These were stories from another time, a different reality but the same Draco. Probably the same her too just that she has no idea what could have been.
And as if on cue two white envelopes floated on her lap. One as plain and direct as can be, the other liberal on ways to make a piece of palm sized paper as posh and grand as possible.
One that read Weasley- Granger in plain black ink and one that read Malfoy- Greengrass in changing hues of ink. She opened one and her mind opened up like a picture box. Images of her dancing with Ron under the silvery moonlight while wearing a simple but beautiful white gown and her biggest smile crowded her mind and soon followed another picture, this time she was dancing with Draco in golden sunspots in the heat of the afternoon, she was also wearing a white dress-- elegant too but not a wedding gown, also a smile-- but more formal for they are not school rivals anymore but acquaintances-- colleagues you could say-- no more lingering hatred just small bits of regret that they never got to know each other sooner. And she was already big with her child with Ron.
The images came and they showed no sign of stopping. It showed her growing out of love with Ron, of Draco losing himself after the death of his wife and son, then Rosie-- yes-- her daughter's name was Rosie-- of Rosie meeting Draco for the first time in Platform 9 and 3/4.
There's also her trying her hardest not to lean over to the part where she's falling hopelessly in love with him because it's so...
Merlin, give her the word.
It's so out of character of her.
Draco was dropping all sorts of hints on her but never saying outright that he likes her and they both know that if both of them admitted it, despite them being established well into their careers-- it would still be a risk. There would be talks and there would be haters and naggers and nay-sayers. Everyone who could read The Prophet, everyone who had half an ear, everyone that had a working eye and a finger to wag would disapprove.
A former Death Eater and a war heroine.
They could have made it.
But they didn't.
The moment that they tried--
A picture of her running across London on a busy lunch hour to get him a jar of lemon drops or 'that muggle treat that wasn't that good obviously but I just thought of because of reasons'.
It ended.
There was no more and she was stuck. Stuck here with no purpose or so she thought.
Portals opened before her. Wide spaces of moving pictures. Some bright and full of hope, some gloomy and seemed to be the end of the line. Ways to get to him. Ways to go back to when he was a biased eleven year old that was yet to fall in love with her. Ways to go to the widower who mourned for her death. Ways to go to the eleven year old wearing a time turner jumping after his love letters to her as the wind picked it up. And ways-- oh ways-- ways to get to him before he sacrificed himself.
Hermione bit her lip and tasted the saltiness of her own blood.
She was never a damsel. If there ever was distress, she had heart to face it on. Never back down from a fight. Never.
She chose her Draco and went to him.
...
It was a rush, like getting doused with cold water early in the morning with none of your consciousness about you still. She gasped. The scent of smoke and ash punched her in the face, the explosions made her ears bleed and the sight of so much damage was a lot to take in. Her senses were on instant overdrive.
A hand pulled her away.
"We have to go," said the voice.
She knows that voice. Slowly, the images are coming apart and she's finally able to focus on just one thing. Colin Creevey's face. "Colin, wha-"
"He might do something, I'm not sure but he's going to be pissed to kingdom come when he sees us idling here. We have to go, you see," the hard tug again on her arm, the stubborn pull on her body.
Finally she saw him. The almost silver looking blonde hair. The arrogant smirk. The tall, confident gait.
"Draco!"
She wanted to cry of relief. She made it! She made it in time, she's going to get him, he doesn't need to sacrifice himself. There are other ways about this they just have to be careful, she can save them both--
Draco didn't even look at her, like the princess in the storybook who was to sleep for a hundred years, he did as what the prophecy foretold. The princess' finger pricked by the needle, the boy's hand sliced by the wand.
She knows she won't get to him on time. Will not be able to hold his hand. So she did as he did to her own hand. The wound didn't hurt as it was too fast, didn't even see it bleed, too much adrenaline to see the red.
"Sacrificium." "Sacrificium."
Bloody hands both landed with a splat at the same time on the dusty war floor.
He knew what she did, looked her way through a veil of blood one last time -- gray to the brown-- as their enemies dropped on their feet one by one.
You stubborn git. You prissy know-it-all.
And they both fell.
---
Hermione woke up with a start in the library.
So it was all just a dream.
There was no rubble in the library. No sign of destruction in the floor covered with rubber that had cutouts of the alphabet and numbers. No sign of it in the colorful reading and studying quotes and encouragement plastered on the primary colored walls. It was bright, there are no shadows, perhaps they are going to get one of those cloudless happy days. There are no other students in the library. She hummed happily, she can use one of the computers-- she can access Encarta and play one of the educational quizzes without anyone judging her. Or better yet she can ace them all again in record time.
Or perhaps she could ask some of her classmates to play with...
Oh, that's right. No one likes her.
No, they absolutely don't.
Not Hermione with her frizzier than curly hair, certainly not Hermione with her big front teeth and certainly not Hermione who has read every single textbook that they have this year cover to cover even before class started and is not afraid to show it. Now she's having doubts whether she'll admit that she has now read half the library as well besides only being in year three. The older kids will start hating her as well.
There's also that small fact that she can summon some of the books when she can't find them in their usual place.
That-- she'd probably keep to herself... and to her parents because they are her legal guardians and are responsible for her.
Her fingers lingered over the colorful spines of the books-- smooth to her touch, albeit scratchy and shiny like plastic, a quality muggle books most often have-- humming to herself because what problems could a nine year old have?
The library has expanded and she followed it curiously.
The rubber number and alphabet carpets were replaced by magnificently elegant textiles, richly designed but too dark for her liking, the quotes on the wall replaced by paintings-- moving paintings of blonde men sneering and leering down at her. All of them upturned their tall noses away from the girl. It should bother her but somehow it felt expected. She didn't want to linger on the feeling of familiarity.
The books lost their shiny feel and were replaced by age old leather bound books. The smell of them lingered on her fingertips. There was a huge table on the end of the other library, a fireplace behind it. In the huge table was a boy with platinum blonde hair.
Hints of that one of a kind expensive cologne came forward on her mind. If she's actually imagining it or remembering it, she doesn't know.
"Hello?"
The boy looked up from what he is writing.
"You? You're the one I've been waiting for? You're not even pretty."
Hermione backed away and made a face of disgust at the boy. How dare he be so shallow? He's about to get it handed to him straight on a silver platter that matched the spoon that was on his mouth when he was born. She could just tell that he is one of those people, the rich and annoying sort. In her mind she was already rolling up her sleeves.
"You know what you insufferable--"
Her focus came back to his hands that were scribbling relentlessly even though he wasn't looking at them. There was a big ring on his left hand, so big that it would probably take two of his fingers just so it won't fall off his hand. It had an insignia on it. Malfoy.
The name struck a chord in Hermione's brain. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Why does it feel like she's heard it before? She has a feeling that it's going to be something important later on—like a word on the night before an important test.
But no matter, the words that the boy is writing on the dark journal caught her attention.
Not pretty because so much more. I'd see your face in a crowd even though you aren't there. I'd choose you everytime. It's you, it's always you you you you you you you you you you you you you
"You're a filthy little mudblood, aren't you?" The boy squinted at him, gray eyes accusing-- disgusted-- but his hands still moved on their own accord-- writing over and over.
Always you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you
Hermione reached out to touch the boy's arm. "Hey," she said the moment her hand made contact with the rich fabric, "Are you alright?"
The boy snarled at her. Looking smaller and smaller in his great and surely expensive robes, "Why won't I be? I'm ---" there was a static in her ears "bleeding Malfoy! Don't you know?" His own eyes were uncertain like he was expecting her to say otherwise. Second guessing. Always second guessing.
The name made bells ring but her eyes were still focused on the words that his pale shaky hands wrote.
You you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you
And when she looked up, the little boy was gone, not only him but as well as the paintings of fair haired men and the giant fireplace. She was in another library. A familiar feeling of glee and wonder made itself known on the pit of her stomach, she can't help but smile.
"Hogwarts," the word slipped effortlessly from her lips as she looked up the high ceilings and the tall shelves, the scent of aged pages overflowing with wisdom was almost as tangible as the dust that hang with the magic in the air. She let a sigh escape her as she smiled at everything.
Including another boy.
He also has platinum blonde hair, a tall nose, long legs and flawless white skin. On his feet were a pair of Converse looking out of place in this place. Out of place on him. If Hermione was being honest the boy looked like he was about to attend an old man's funeral.
A blue book was on his hands and an easy smirk on his thin, pink lips.
"Took you long enough, Granger."
He didn't even look up from what he was reading. Hermione can see it now, it's 'Quidditch Through the Ages' by Kennilworthy Whisp. It was worn out, the spine practically falling apart and the pages jutting out in some places and it was as out of place with the boy as the pair of black Converse high tops on his feet.
"You're waiting for me?"
"What does it look like, I'm doing," the boy said with a roll of his eyes as he turned another page.
Hermione is yet to know his name but she knows that he has read that book before.
A library card was beside the boy as he read. "May I?
It earned her a shrug. Pretty passive behavior for someone who claims to have waited for her.
There are names written on the card. The first letter of their first name and then their family name. Strangely enough she can put faces on all of their names.
R. Weasley
Beside the scraggly handwritten name someone has written the word 'stinks'.
She pictured a lanky boy with bright red hair and even brighter blue eyes. Freckles all over his tanned skin. Lots of laughs. Why does she associate happiness and warmth with his name? Ron, yes, she remembers Ron. Ronald Weasley.
n. longbottom
Written in small caps as if the name itself wants to disappear out of shame and self doubt.
She remembers a kind boy. A bit pudgy, pale and easy to stammer but lovable and hard working. A good friend. Neville. Yes. She remembers Neville.
S. Bones
Someone has written 'is gr8' beside her name. Yes. Hermione knows that S. Bones is a girl. Susan!
Padma Patil
She went with Harry and Ron to the Yule Ball.
E. McMillan
Ernest! He's a Hufflepuff. A bit of a gossip though.
M. Bulstrode
A big girl. Intimidating and scary on the outside. But meek and surprisingly quiet. Millicent. Yes, she remembered a duel with the bigger girl back at second year. Of passing glances, of whether or not she'd talk to the big girl from the rival house. They could have been friends. Maybe some other time. Always some other time.
H. Granger
Gods, her eleven year old handwriting was plain awful. Next to it was the date.
02 May
Then below it.
05 May
Another name.
The last name on the library card.
D. Malfoy
Always that surname. She wished she could put a face to the name but she can't. Perhaps he was one of those loners or perhaps he was a lower or upper class man. She's too focused then on adjusting to Hogwarts that a million other people could have came and went and she never knew a D. Malfoy.
Pity too. He borrowed the book the same day she returned it. They could have talked about it.
The boy with the platinum blonde hair carried on reading. She glimpsed over his shoulder. Her forearm briefly brushing past his black blazer. The warmth and the sensation were familiar which is weird because she knows no one that's posh enough to wear blazers on the casual.
He smells like money too. Crisp. Tones strong and overlapping each other. Not subtle. Dramatic and demands for you to go near and take a whiff of him.
Yes, someone like him demands the attention. Like he has a note pinned on him that he will not be overlooked.
Hermione is getting weirdly conscious of how she will look when the boy looks up from the book.
Chapter One
The Evolution of the Flying Broomstick
No spell yet devised enables wizards to fly unaided in human form.
Still on page one? What a slow reader. Or perhaps a daydreamer. He spaced out on the first page.
But even so she's getting vaguely aware of how delicate fingers looked against the book spine-- does he hold all other things that way-- will he hold her like that? Hermione is only human after all and he's beautiful. Long, fair lashes fluttered absent-mindedly as he stared at the first page of the book. Gray eyes bright and alert. He doesn't look like he's daydreaming. Every action is calculated.
"Quite the view, am I?"
The boy's voice was clear and filled with dizzying confidence. It echoed in the empty space of the library.
"Careful now. You might fall from the height of your ego and stab yourself in the heart with your chin," she retorted with venom.
He smirked lazily taking the insult with a fake offense and a chuckle. "Quite sassy aren't you? Are you curious about what I do to sassy girls?"
She glared at him bitterly.
But her body is already leaning towards him. She's curious. Perhaps a bit too curious.
Curiouser and curiouser and curiouser.
There was an exaggerated sigh from the boy. "Do you know where all that curiosity would look good on?" He was whispering on her ear. His breath was warm and minty and it gave her chills. She can't think of a single clever response even though she feels like she knows what he's about to say next. "On top of my bed. But only if you leave that god awful cardigan on the floor."
He eyed her body from head to toe as if examining her outfit choice. But his eyes settled on her face.
Hermione would die first rather than let the boy see her blush. How can a stranger affect her so?
"I'll report you! Do you hear?"
A lazy smirk made it's way across the boy's aristocratic features. Hermione hated herself from getting stupid enough to get affected as roses bloomed on her own cheeks. "Of course, you would, Granger. Wouldn't want to miss anything I do, won't you?"
"Git."
She let the unsophisticated word out her lips.
It only earned the word a laugh as the boy closed the book and stood up. He left the book on the table, it looked lonely to be left by him just there all alone on the weathered but regal study table. Like how she is feeling that he's about to leave.
"And I know for a fact that you won't be able to report me," the boy said as he put the chair back to the table. An act of a gentleman, even as he is as far as Earth to the sun from being one.
"And how so?" Hermione folded her arms to her chest. Irritated. Annoyed. Focused solely on him.
"You don't know my name, do you?"
Hermione begged to differ. Of course she knows. It's- It's- It's-
It's hanging on the tip of her tongue, dangling on her lips, scratching at the surface of her brain. Like it's the most well known fact in the world. Like how she knows that the color of snow is white and the color of blood is red.
"It's-- It's--" it's as if she knows that he'll leave if she don't get it right.
He let out a sigh through smiling lips and sad, tired eyes. "It's-- too bad."
"Farewell, Granger."
The boy walked through the labyrinth of the library. His Converse squeaking as he went.
Hermione could only follow him with her eyes. Like she was being urged on with curiosity or something stronger. Something much dangerous.
"Hey! Hey you! Hey--"
But try as she might the boy's name didn't come out.
Hermione Granger stood waiting, eyes blinking , for the first time she didn't know the answer to the question. And she knows that this time it really counts.
His form has long disappeared in the towers of books. Tentatively and with careful certainty, she retraced his footsteps, she has to see him again. Why? She doesn't know.
Three steps in and she was out of the library, she looked back and the towering shelves were gone. All was replaced by hedges of dark green, on her feet were dried up grass, like something once rich and then left neglected. There are all overgrown. Whoever thought of putting the hedges here in the first place might have thought it will look dazzling in the summer what with the white rose bushes growing in thick throngs through the metal framework. But now against the heavy dark clouds that implied an incoming storm everything just looked sinister.
"It's about time, don't you think?"
Hermione looked at the direction of the voice.
She was in a clearing. In the center was a long table covered with a cloth of embroidered silver filled with uniform china caps with steel linings and white gold ware glinting dully under the gray sky.
"Time for what--" she looked at the old man with white hair sitting at the head of the table "--sir?"
"For us to start."
The table was long and laden with every single piece of pastry and sweet. Bertie Bott's Every Flavored Beans spilling from the boxes into a bowl, chocolate frogs struggling to jump out of their boxes, steaming treacle tarts, pumpkin pasties, Fizzing Whizzbies, cauldron cakes of every flavor, lollies, chocolates from every corner of the magical community-- she could tell with the different languages on the packagings and tea. Of course. Lots and lots of tea. Pots all steaming.
"Are you waiting for me, by chance, Sir?"
A pot filled the old man's waiting tea cup. Sugar and milk jumped into his tea and a silver spoon stirred everything in. All the while Hermione watched the old man, he didn't have to say another word for her to establish that he is man of means. From the emerald brooch on his chest, the ring on his finger, to the emerald cufflinks by his sleeves-- she doesn't know anyone that's compelled to wait for her, much more someone like this man.
"Who else should I wait for?"
She find herself sitting in front of the old man despite being answered with questions. She was curious.
A pot came over and gave her tea. It was strong, not the least bit sweet. Just exactly how she liked it. A drop hit her on the wrist, torrid against her unexpecting skin, she instantly grabbed a napkin by instinct to dab on it. The napkin was smooth but hard and starched. On it was the embroidery of the letter 'M' in silver thread. She wondered what in the world it could stand for.
So she asked.
"Malfoy," replied the old man as he sipped his tea, looking at the sky, on the jar of yellow things beside him, on the cakes, anywhere but her.
Weird.
"Malfoy?" She repeated. "What is that?"
"A family name. They have old money, those folk. Don't worry about them. Have a cake," but even as he said it, his voice was croaky and he pulled out a copy of the Daily Prophet to immerse himself into. Putting a wall between them.
"Sir?" She tried to peer past the newspaper but the harder she tried to peer the more the old man dodged. "Are we, by any chances, related?"
An empty laugh that could have shook the dead labyrinth hedges. "Thank Merlin not."
Perhaps it was the laugh. Perhaps it was the laughter and the relief from being as far as he could from her family line. Or perhaps it was his blatant ignoring of her. Hermione has had enough. "I think I'd better go."
The Prophet stayed as the wall between them. "Are you sure about that?"
"Yes," Hermione said already getting up from the table. She doesn't regret not even touching a single piece of cake.
"Certainly?" The old man's voice was deep and roughened by age. Like he had screamed and screamed back in his youth. For reasons that Hermione figured she should not concern herself with.
"Certain--"
Her eyes flitted to the jar of yellow by the old man's side. It's a jar of lemon drops from a muggle shop in London. The only muggle treat in the whole table of confectionary.
"Why do you have those?"
A frail but protective hand was laid on the jar's red lid. "This is my medicine."
"No, they're not. They're lemon drops, they're more sugar than they are lemon. Who sold them--"
"It doesn't matter!" The old man's voice cut through her own. It was sharp and vindictive, a shadow of the man he might have been in his younger years. "Ever the bleeding know-it-all, are you? You just have to have a say in everything."
"Well, all I'm saying is.." but she let her message disappear through the wall of paper between their faces. "It doesn't matter. I'm going."
Hermione turned her back and headed for the darkness of the labyrinth. It doesn't matter now where she goes from here.
"Are you giving up on me, Hermione?"
She chanced one look back and she saw that the old man has laid down the newspaper on his lap. His gray eyes were the color of rain clouds. The same color as the sky. The same color as trouble. But it was misty with age.
"It doesn't matter," was all she said.
He put up the wall of paper again, concealing his face and then putting it down again.
"How about me? Are you giving up on me as well?"
It was the boy reading 'Quidditch Through the Years'. Hermione had to calm her heart just so it won't race at the sight of his devil given smirk. It didn't make sense that he was there in place of the old man but it was a welcome distraction from the craziness. It was taking more effort than necessary for her not to act on her attraction-- yes, that might be the word for the feeling-- that she has for him. She wanted no more than to sit on his lap and run her hands through his silky fair hair, kiss his warm pale skin... The images are so strong that it can't be her imagination. It looks and feels like memory. And if she touched him, it will be a reconnection.
"Do you want me to kiss you? Or..."
He showed her a devil sent smirk that gave her life threatening palpitations.
"Or do you want to kiss me. Only two ways to go about this, isn't it, Granger?"
"I'd rather fight my way through a horde of mountain trolls, Malfoy," she retorted with simultaneous and equal parts irritation and excitement.
Even she didn't know where that came from.
But it earned a chuckle from the fair haired boy and a smile. A smile not a smirk. One that looked like it belonged with rainbows instead of stormy skies.
"Almost. Almost, Granger. But still wrong."
"What do you want from me?"
A shrug. The subtle lift of the broad shoulders under the blazer. "Only what you can give. Can you give me my name?"
No, she can't.
He's a stranger in every sense of the word and she shouldn't dawdle. She should go. There are places she has to be. People she has to...
Even though she can't remember a thing.
"You're always in such a hurry, always going from here to there before I even got my shoes shined in the morning," the boy said with such familiarity that Hermione was tempted to sit back in the table again. "If I can't make you stay--" the boy put the newspaper in front of his face again.
"Then how about me?"
He was the younger boy with the ring too big for his finger in the room filled with portraits of fair haired men with steely eyes and stone cold expressions.
"Not that I'd like to stay and chat with the likes of you. I have friends, unlike you. I have class, poise, manners, unlike you..." and it went on. Insult upon insult coming from the small, innocent looking boy. His eyes were squinting in annoyance but his lips were twitching, like he might cry any second now. His voice scratchy and wet. "No, I don't want to be friends with you."
"Alright."
There was a small silence.
The boy fidgeted with the big ring on his index finger. "Well, you know you can stay. Just... just don't talk to me." His voice small and pitchy, hushed and afraid. Gray eyes looking around. For what? For monsters. For disapproval.
Hermione was silent. She really should go.
"I'm afraid I'd have to say goodbye."
The boy bit his lower lip. "Don't say that you're giving up on me. You're giving up on me, aren't you?"
She is. She's tired and she just wants to go.
And it doesn't matter.
Right?
He's just a stranger.
The boy grabbed on to the newspaper and hid behind it.
"If you go on there," it was Converse boy again, "we'd follow you. I'm seventeen, the other one is eleven and the last one is just fucking old. We can do this forever. You can choose an age and stick with it forever. We can be forever young. You don't have to say my name. You can stay here with us. We can finally have it easy. We can finally have forever. No more uncertainty."
He stood up to his full height and reached out to touch Hermione. Her head only read his chin. If he touched her now, she knows that it's going to be over because she'd let him.
Icy hands touched her skin. The way that it was so cold made her felt like she was steaming, like she had actually been waiting for this moment. It was like a dream—trippy—surreal. Like how a boy as pretty as him would touch a girl like her.
Their lips connected. Again. And again. And again.
Fate sighed at the scene. She did all that she could for the girl. Perhaps it was too hard a task for someone who has had her heart broken again and again. Maybe the girl thinks that this will be the only way she'll have the boy. Death was already looking on his clock, they've idled too long. As much as Fate favored the brave, Death is busy. War is a busy time for both of them.
Hermione looked up to meet the boy's clear gray eyes. There are worlds behind them. Stories. So much to uncover.
Already her head is reeling.
"We have to go back. It's not supposed to end like this..." she has to say his name. His name. "They are waiting for us. We can't be forever young."
"But why?" Already he was holding her again, he was warm this time as he held her to his chest. Heart beating against her cheeks. Gods, he's so real.
"Because staying as is and never growing up and being certain about everything means that you're dead! We have to get out of here!" Hermione can't believe even herself. Her heart has settled the moment the boy touched her but her mind is reeling. Her mind said that she needs to be elsewhere. Her mind said that she has to go.
"Are you sure? How can you be so sure that you want me to go with you when you don't even know my name?" the boy let go of her hand.
And she remembered.
He's always asking for his name. That time in the bath. Sometimes when they kissed. Never when they are about to say goodbye. It was the only thing that held him down. The only thing that he truly owned. The only thing that he was sure about.
He might not be a Malfoy tomorrow. He might not see Hermione but he will always be...
The stars that snaked across the wide starry sky appeared on her mind. Each star brighter than the one before it. Flashing and guiding.
"Draco!"
She was crying now, reaching for his hand. "Draco! We have to go! Draco! We have to get out of here!"
But the boy wearing the Converse shoes has bowed like an actor after a performance just before the curtain fell. He was only getting farther and farther away everytime she called his name.
----
Ronald Weasley is having by far the worst day of his life.
He lost a brother, almost lost his best friend and he is about to lose the love of his life. He held on to her right hand, kissing it and trying his hardest not to break because her heart is still beating no matter how weak. There's so much blood.
Wake up, Hermione.
If she does and looks at him first, maybe then will he actually let the tears fall.
---
Voldemort is dead and Harry Potter is alive. He's the victor and the hero. The whole Wizarding Community is saved but once the big picture was captured, you'll get back to the little things.
Like how hard his hand was holding on to Hermione's quickly becoming cold hand. He didn't care that his tears had mixed with the soot and the grime and they have stained his broken glasses. He's looking out in a hazed out filter.
Everything might as well be wrong when one of his best friends is not there to point out the wrongs.
---
Draco woke up screaming her name.
It was dark and he woke in the pool of blood. His own and the Death Eaters. He grabbed a random wand. Yes, a brush from death did not take his wit away nor is his care for hygiene. He scourgified himself from the blood.
Not much time has passed.
Or not.
It's so quiet. Too quiet. No more explosions, no more shouting but the sky is the same color as the color of the pool on his feet.
He had a dream. In it he was to go somewhere. There are a thousand different directions that are pulling at his body like how they are pulling at the insides of his mind. Always like this. Always never letting him choose his own way.
So he screamed her name. That way they can never pull her away because she's the only direction that he's certain of.
And he woke up.
He survived. He actually survived the suicide curse.
But Hermione was nowhere to be found. He knows that she isn't dead. She can't be. He never had the best of instincts when it came to these things or he might still be dreaming and being delusional but it can't be.
He ran off looking for her in the eerily quiet aftermath of the war.
All the while trying to brush off the dread and the unmistakable scent of death and how people that were once close to him had a hand in all of this. Don't vomit. You already look ghastly as is.
There was only one place in all of Hogwarts that was still bustling with activity. Only one place that was alit. Only one place where everyone has gathered.
The Great Hall.
Yes, The Great Hall.
He used to think that he owned The Great Hall. Yes, he strutted like it and he most certainly bloody looked like it.
But come recent events, like that small, truly no big deal happening of his family being exposed as Voldemort supporters, he felt like he had no right to walk right there. In the midst of all those people.
In the midst of all that light.
The Great Hall's door was intimidating. It never loomed at him before, rays of light seeped from the crack.
Maybe the real fight is just beginning, it was a passing thought that fleeted his mind as he listened at the giant of a door creak, announcing his arrival.
The light and the warmth was blinding. He had been walking in the dark for far too long. As soon as the blur subsided, he saw all of them—the people he never considered—all looking at him. Judging and gawking. Already reaching for their wands.
That was when he heard it. The sound of his name.
It was small, merely a groan. But he swears by it that he might not have supernatural hearing but he'll hear her voice call him even in a noisy room filled of people who want no more than dump their lukewarm postwar coffee on his head.
He stepped forward, the tip of his shoe barely into the room.
But a hand held him back.
"Mother?"
He has never seen her mother looked haggard, of her lips not having any rogue on them, or hair being out of place from her bun even when she checked on him at night. Narcissa Malfoy was never tired. It was always poise above everything.
"Son, we can go home now."
How funny was it that those words that would have comfort a tugging at the skirts, sniveling child caused him so much agony.
Draco wanted to cry then and there as he heard Hermione call his name again. He knows what his mother will say. Somehow, it felt harder to admit to his own mother his feelings than telling Hermione.
Maybe because the consequences are bigger. When he's with Hermione, just the two of them, he's just Draco. Just another boy.
Right now, he's not just a boy, he's his mother's only son—the heir. If he tells her maybe then he'll only be Draco. Because he will lose them. His family. He could go ahead and tell the world that he never loved them because they were evil but that would be lying.
He's not sure if Hermione will love him forever but...
"Mother, I love Hermione Granger and I want to be with her." He said it as straight out as he can, like saying what he wants for dinner or the place where he wants to go on holiday.
But he knows he'll never love anything as much again.
He reached for his mother and hugged her. She smelled of traces of perfume and smoke. It was as if she stopped breathing.
Then finally she spoke, "The world has gone to hell as it is. Be happy."
She was crying as she embraced him. Like it is the last time. Or maybe it will be. Who knows really.
And Draco turned away from her and walked into the room.
The glares and stares felt like needles on his bare skin. The murmurs were daunting. He wished he was brave, as brave as her.
The walk to where she was is a battle of its own right. He can't run and he most certainly can't hide. His steps are even and there is no music to hide the sounds of his noisy, nervous breaths.
Two pairs of eyes watched his approach. Both calculating, both not willing to let go of Hermione's hands. Never for him.
It was so easy for him to say her name out loud in his head. To call for him. But now.
Her eyes are still closed, her clothes bloody still but there seemed to be no wound that needed tending. She's going to be alright.
The lump on his throat was not getting smaller but she's so close now. All he has to do is be brave enough to call for her.
So he kneeled beside the two other boys who loves her and fizzles with hate for him.
"Hermione, won't you wake up? I'm here now."
The Weasel looked at him in disgust. "Sod off, why don't you? She doesn't need you here. She needs—"
"Draco."
Hermione murmured his name again. Draco reached out to touch her cheek, a brave action, probably as brave as kiss would be to a cursed sleeping princess, considering the crowd that had gathered around them.
He's declaring that he cares for her.
To them.
To the world.
"Hermione, please. It's me. Draco," he whispered to her. Tears are flowing from her closed eyes and her pale lips trembled, none of the bronze glow now, but she was still beautiful. Iridescent. He wished that he could hold her hand but the Prat Patrol certainly gave no indication of willing to let up anytime soon.
And like how it was in everything that relates to her, he said 'Sod it, sod it, sod it...' a million times in his head, because kissing a girl after being apart for what feels like an eternity shouldn't be this difficult, right?
It is when said girl is Hermione Granger.
And there is only one Hermione Granger.
And as many times that he could live his life over and over again it will always end up with him crying over broken dreams or it could end up with him kissing Hermione Granger for once.
He chose the latter.
He leaned forward and their lips touched. Her lips are moist and trembling, his are cold, dry and split. There was a noisy buzz all over the room, of people trying to pull them apart but it all quieted down the moment she kissed him back.
The noises outside and inside his head slowed down in a sweet crescendo.
She opened her soft brown eyes and took all of him in.
"Draco," she smiled. "You smell like blood."
He laughed. "Does it matter?" He might be imagining it but his eyes felt damp. The lights in the room felt brighter but softer. Like it became friendly.
"No, I don't think so," she said.
He kissed her again. The angry voices inside and outside his head have quieted and he found that Hermione is holding him now, the Weasel and Pothead have released her. "Yes, it doesn't matter. It never did."
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Man, I hope that was worth the month and more wait. I really tried my best. I hope I'll still see all of you in the epilogue and the alternate endings. Stay awesome! x
BTW, please do checkout the vid up top! It's Scientist but dramione! >__< It's made by phoenixrising934 and it's beautiful!