As always, I own nothing.
I have a few bits of stories kicking around in my brain. Here's one. Trying to get back to writing so I can work on Imitation & Playmate again. On the upside, my pre-req's are done and I just got accepted to RN school!
"Hermione, LOOK OUT!"
The shout comes too late. The poster child for arrogant Mudbloods everywhere falls, a resigned expression on her face and her lips downturned. Her life fades quickly, rushing from her as the crimson in her side joins it.
Malfoy watches from a few yards away, as he's watched everything else. To anyone noticing, the scion of the Wizarding World's most elite Pureblood family has failed to assist either side. He taps his wand to his lips thoughtfully and flees the battlefield for a safer vantage point. Draco watches out a window on the top floor of Hogwarts as St. Potter defeats the Dark Lord. And not a moment too soon, now the brains are gone from his group. He huffs at the thought and the space to his left grows cold. Great - a ghost. Not just any ghost, though. Her. It bloody has to be. He turns to his left expecting to see her face contorted in anger. Instead, she gives him the saddest look he's ever seen on her. On anyone, if he's to be picky.
"What, Granger?"
"You'll figure it out eventually. Just remember earlier- before the war." And she's gone.
He sits on the stone steps, thinking back to an unpleasant encounter he had with her an hour or two before the fighting hit fever pitch.
"You go out there and you're dead; you know that, right?" He leaned against a pillar near the library, appraising the effect his callous words had on the witch.
Should've figured: nada. The little swot didn't even blink before answering.
"Whether or not I'm killed depends on a particular factor, Malfoy. And if I do die, at least I'll have done it in the service of something worthy."
"Like anything is worth death. I always suspected you were mental; this confirms it." He paused, examining her words. "And what factor? Don't tell me it's a prophecy or something. Everyone knows you don't believe in that rubbish."
She hesitated, her eyes darting to the side before they rested on him with more intensity than he'd seen from her before. He backed up a step.
"I do when I'm the one who sees it. As for the factor, it's you."
"Me? What about me? I want nothing to do with you OR your miserable kind! You disgust me. Not even fit to clean my boots, you jumped-up little bitch! I -"
"Silencio!" He glared at her as she assessed him coolly. "Thank you; that will be quite enough. Now I know. I'm sorry, Draco."
His reaction was nearly apoplectic. Malfoy raised his wand, spelling out one word in fire: 'Sorry?'
"For you," she said. "Finite Incantatem." Then she turned from him without another word, and joined the chaos outside. He followed before he could think about his actions.
And here he was now, still on the steps, relieved the ghost had taken her leave. Not like that meeting beforehand meant anything anyway; how could it?
Draco tells himself this for months. He repeats it with the utmost force after each of her weekly-or-so visits. He practically shouts it in his private chambers after every failed date with a Pureblood princess. He screams it as he watches his life stagnate, accumulating failure at every turn. Sometimes mocking, musical laughter answers him, though she doesn't bother with the energy necessary to show herself.
He isn't sure when the visits turn from something hostile into an almost-companionable silence, or when he starts to confide in her. It takes at least a decade. He doesn't want to take over Malfoy Industries, and he could care less about being the perfect little prince anymore.
"Prince?" She snickers and wrinkles her freckled nose.
"Fine. Earl. Is that better?"
"Nope. Still equally obnoxious." She laughs again, but the meanness has bled from it, and he no longer minds her teasing. Her visits increase until he sees her daily, and society finally stops waiting for Malfoy to take a bride or continue his family line. He tells no one of Granger, and as his parents and friends die off over time, he is increasingly glad that she still comes. She's never explained the conversation they had the night she was killed, and he still hasn't figured it out.
"When will it make sense, you rotten wench?"
"Soon, Draco. Very soon now." She looks away, pretending to finger the bedspread on which she floats. He swears he can see ectoplasmic tears on her still-lovely face, and this disturbs him more than he ever thought it could. He reaches for them and his hand goes right through her cheek, causing a small laugh from both of them.
"You know, I wondered, when you first insisted on haunting me, if this was my own personal hell."
"It wasn't. I promise."
"I know. Figured that out after a few years, when I would start to miss you if you were gone too long. Where did you go, anyway?"
"Doesn't matter. All that matters is now. Sleep, Draco," and for the first time, she brushes her lips against his. His skin cools and his blood heats at the same time.
"Granger -"
"Hush, Draco. Sleep. I'll stay with you until you do." The sad look graces her face again. He wants to inquire further but finds himself too exhausted to ask another thing.
His gray eyes close for the last time, and she gently runs her hands across his face.
"I'm sorry. So sorry."
Draco regains consciousness in what appears to be the Slytherin common room. He knows it can't be. He's never returned to the school after the night Granger died. His father, Pansy, Goyle and myriad other Death Eaters are seated around him. Lucius leans forward, elegant as always.
"Welcome to the after-life, Draco."
"Is - is this...Heaven?"
Laughter rings round the room at his presumption.
"Granger?" Nothing. "GRANGER?" Panicked calls to his personal angel go unheard.
"She won't answer, son. She'll never respond. Just like Narcissa has never made a sound. Nor have Blaise, Crabbe, or anyone for whom our co-habitors care. I ask you: do you think this is Heaven?"
Draco hangs his head and cries for the first time at the loss he never knew he'd feel. He finally understands about the factor, and he weeps at the thought of all they could have had if only he had cared enough to protect her.