The Boys in the Square
The boys had been congregating in the square for hours, ravenously campaigning. They shoved ribbons into the hands of the people in passing and raised their voices above the crowd in proclamation. All of them wore the colors of the French flag branded on their chests- the strapping young boys in tall collars and boots.
Among their ranks stood a young blonde boy in a black waistcoat and white linen shirt. Like his friends, he rose his revolutionary voice and passed out leaflets to any hand that would take them.
He was a bit disheveled as the public was often unkind to political activists, but the message must be heard. They believed their day of freedom was fast approaching.
In all the hustle and bustle about him, he hadn't noticed a very frightened looking girl pushing her way through the crowd that had formed on the street.
"Draco!" His head swivelled to meet the familiar voice, her hair had been haphazardly pinned up and out of the way of her face and she had a tarnished white apron still tied around her waist. His wife had finally made her way through the crowd and she gripped his arm. "Draco, you know this is dangerous, how can you possibly justify standing out on the street surrounded by revolutionaries? Someone could see you, you know they would not hesitate to tell your father."
"My choices should not concern my father. I was practically disowned when I told him of our engagement, he has already distanced himself from me and has no intentions of mending our relationship." Draco averted her gaze and gnashed his teeth. "I doubt my actions will do anything to sully his reputation." He finished pointedly.
"You should not completely alienate him, Draco." She looked rather exasperated with him at this point, "If any of his fellow politicians got word of this, it would ruin his good name. I know you would not willfully inflict that upon him."
"This is something I believe in. My father has no wish to repair what he has so flagrantly destroyed and I have no wish to reconcile. If you question my will, then I question whether you truly understand my intentions at all." He pulled his arm from her grasp and turned to continue their crusade.
Day Before Death
Draco sat at the corner table of the tavern surrounded by his compatriots. Tomorrow was the day that they had been anxiously anticipating. There was an eerie uneasiness that had settled in the room.
They had laid out a plan of attack. Lamarque's funeral procession would be moving through the streets of Paris and they could think of no better time to make a statement. Once the army came after them, and they knew that they would, the rebels would hasten to the barricades.
Draco was staring at the red wine sitting at the bottom of his glass, like a pool of blood. It wasn't that he was having misgivings, he would not desert this cause, but all of them were trembling in fear for their lives. They were willing to die for their cause, but Draco did not think that any of them had truly grasped the potency of such a phrase until now. Now that they stood at death's doorstep awaiting rapturous applause.
Eventually they had decided that they planned as much as their feeble spirits could take and retired for the evening. Draco was one of the last to leave. He rose from the table and made it to the door before glancing back at their table. The boys had sat at that table for ages. Now, the empty chairs at the empty tables looked more so than ever. It was almost as if the furniture itself knew they would not be returning for another glass of wine.
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Draco arrived home rather late, but Hermione had waited up for him, regardless. He found her sitting at the table with a book when he walked in. He greeted her as with a small kiss on the cheek and sat beside her at the table.
"How was everyone doing?" She asked, obviously concerned.
"I think all of us are frightened, in the very least nervous."
"I still don't understand how you can go through with this. I can see the hopelessness in your eyes. You're afraid and refuse to acknowledge it, I am your wife and yet you will not confide in me. You tell me what you must to appease me. Draco, why are you doing this?"
"I don't believe our efforts will be in vain, regardless of the outcome. You of all of people are not one to discourage fighting for a cause; but this cause is gruesome and I want to spare you the worry and fear. I am afraid, and I don't want you to be. Surely you can understand that?" His voice was faint as he looked up into the bright brown eyes of the girl he loved. He certainly loved her more than cause and country.
"You must promise me something." She said, he nodded in response. "Please do not wake me tomorrow morning. Because if you wake me I will not be able to let you go." Her voice began to crack with pain. "And I know you wish to."
"Hermione, I do not want you to think of me poorly. When I leave tomorrow, it will not be to throw away my life on a foolish dream, but rather to stand by my fellow countrymen in strength and loyalty." Draco could feel the need to cry rising up inside his chest, but he held his composure. He did not need to be strong for France; he needed to be strong for Hermione.
Hermione's sobs had somewhat subsided, she moved her hand to grasp his. "I cannot tell you how proud I am for your devotion." She smiled slightly and her expression began to soften. "You do love your country."
Draco smiled, "Ah yes, but I could never love my country more than my wife. To do so would surely be my ruin."
Barricade Day
Sleep had not come to Draco the previous night. He had sat up all night, his back against the wall with chipping green paint and his legs underneath the creamy white linens of the bed. He had looked at the silhouette of his legs under the fabric. If he were to die at the barricades, his dead body would be draped in something similar. And it would not be covered so as to respect the lives of the fallen; no, it would be covered so as to shroud the public from the mess of bloodied corpses.
When light had began to thrust itself through the slits in the shutters, Draco knew it was time to go. He looked down at the gentle face of his wife sleeping by his side and remembered their agreement. He wanted to wake her, he wanted to say goodbye, he did not think he would be returning, but he wanted to give her hope.
He slowly pulled himself off of the bed and proceeded to pull on his boots. He managed to quietly open a trunk at the other end of the room and pulled out a coat adorned with brass buttons and gold piping on blood-red fabric. Oh, how fitting for the occasion.
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Hermione had heard him leave. Her mind had been stuck in the stage between sleep and awake. Her worry had made sleep difficult but waking would bring on agonizing fear. Sleep pushed her away but she resisted waking. She finally relented and opened her eyes to the empty room.
She tried to go about her day as if nothing were out of the ordinary. As if Draco had not left early in the morning to perhaps meet his death. She said small prayers to herself when she found herself dwelling on it, "bring him home" she would whisper to the grey sky above.
Later in the morning, she overheard in the street that the rebels had interrupted Lamarque's funeral procession and were fleeing to the barricades. She waited with baited breathe for more news. The sounds of muskets firing were echoing throughout the streets of Paris.
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Fighting to the death. That had been their resolve when they saw the number of troops advancing on the barricade. Draco was covered in sweat and his clothes had been stained with the blood of his dead companions. The fighting had been going on for hours and only a handful of rebels remained standing behind the barricade.
The army was closing in and the last few rebels awaited their arrival, their fear was very apparent but they would remain valiant. They stood together behind the barricade, staring down the barrels of muskets held by the French army.
Draco's mind went immediately to Hermione. How stupid could he have been? He believed in his cause, he wanted freedom and change, but he was leaving behind the only other thing he cared about. He would be leaving Hermione alone in their small little house. She would have no one to look after her. All he could think about was her.
It was too late for him to make amends, it was too late for him to change his mind and run back home to her. He was surrounded by his fellow freedom fighters, their faces fraught with fear and exhaustion but prepared for what was coming and looking into the faces of their enemies with courage. He was prepared to face his ruin.
He took one last look at his friends before turning to meet his match. They were dead men surrounded by killers who had not even shot yet. And then they did. And everything went black. And Draco's dead body fell to the floor in a heap of blood, flesh, and helplessness.
Those Lovely Barricade Boys
Days later, Hermione found herself looking at the paper that had been thrown on the doorstep. It was full of obituaries. And she was much too afraid to search for Draco's. Her grief had overcome her, she found herself shaking -unable to control herself- when she tried to sit still. She cried continuously, often silently as she tried to occupy her ever-reeling mind. She felt she may run out of tears. Or simply lose the will to keep crying.
She eventually had moved herself to search the paper. Her eyes moved across the rows and rows of dead men memorialized in black ink and uneven typeface. She reached a page marked XII: three rows down, third bracket to the right. His name was printed in slightly bolder letters than those that followed. The small box merely said he had been killed at the barricades and that he would be dearly missed. It was alike so many of the others. The only thing personal about it was his name, and that was only because Hermione had identified his body when asked. So many others had not had the same chance. Their corpses laid in lines on cobblestones awaiting recognition, only for their lifeless body to be added to a tally of casualties.
She lifted her head from the crowded pages. Looking around their small home made her feel empty. They had only been married a few months but the house had once held happiness and now, all she knew was grief.
The tears had already begun to stain her sullen cheeks. She had not noticed.
Reunion in Departure
19 Years Later
The light began to stream through the shutters of the shabby room as it did every morning. The green paint had almost chipped away entirely and was clinging to the corners of the wall, but the cream colored sheets were still the same. Older and tattered, yes, but still the same. Only on this particular Sunday, something was very different. Peacefully laying underneath the sheets was Hermione's body, unmoving, unbreathing. The break of day trickling into the room and over the bed and body.
Grief had taken its toll on Hermione, but she had finally come to terms with it.
At only 41 years of age, Hermione had passed away contentedly. The first face to meet her was that of her beloved, blonde, barricade boy.