The Alcove
After it was done, after it was all said and over with, Hermione went back to that little alcove on the third floor, past the blank tapestry, before the turn that took you to Vector's advanced Arithmancy. Hermione had only been there once, for a short time in sixth year, and a boy a little younger than she and a little less important would sometimes stay up all hours of the night thinking it might have changed her – affected her, in some small way – and that would prove he meant something, just a little bit.
The dust was still settling that night, the fires smouldering in heaps of glowing ash. The bodies of the dead were probably still warm. Hermione knew she'd have to be back soon; there were speeches to be made, people to honour, awards to be given—lost memories and chances and possibilities to be mourned. Graves to be dug. Individuals to be missed. Futures to be grieved.
But she went anyway, thinking maybe it will work this time. Maybe I can help. Maybe, since I saved the world and all, my words will mean something this time. Maybe if she had been stronger just a year and a bit ago, so many lives would be something else.
All those butterflies caught dead in the air and plummeted, heavy like lead anvils in her stomach. He wasn't there anyway. Hermione figured. She was a little older, a little better, after all. He wouldn't have come. He wouldn't have remembered a small night in sixth year that didn't mean much to her but kept him up still at night—
"Thought you'd be down in the hall." A little older, a little more broken. Dark circles lined his eyes. There was a rip on his shoulder, his robes crusted there. It was only a dull ache, now. The gash was anesthetised with exhaustion. There were no fancy painkillers for criminals—only the slow procession of life.
Hermione shook her head. "I had to get away."
"I know how you feel."
Somehow he did.
Funny thing, this alcove. It was in a barren expanse of hall, just slightly past the blank tapestry that was always a conundrum to her – why have a blank piece of art? – but was always a little beautiful in his eyes. The alcove was set into the wall in no particular fashion, just a small space like the builders didn't have enough stone so they left it unfilled. Or maybe that was the point. Blank and unfilled. They made a pair.
"Do you remember—"
"Of course," he told her. His eyes were wide and shining, drooping with exhaustion, dull and jaded. "I… I wanted to get away, too. There were so many things to do, to… get settled. I couldn't get away, Hermione. I just couldn't." And suddenly his eyes were churning pools of vulnerability and fear, staring straight into hers. And hope. She'd seen fear in them before, and underneath that – buried deep – vulnerability. But she never thought she'd seen hope. He never thought he'd felt it.
"I just couldn't get away. Until now…?"
The question was frank, loaded. It tore up some part of his heart, thinking on all he'd always supported, lived for, justified himself with. But looking at her, out of a war, after seeing so much and doing so much and saving so much, and here she was, a hero, come to this strange, nondescript alcove on the third floor past the blank tapestry before the turn to Vector's advanced Arithmancy class. Because they'd met there once before, when times were better, when times were worse. When more people were alive – good ones, bad ones. Terrible ones. When he wasn't willing to listen. When she was.
And she still was.
She nodded. "I understand."
And somehow she did.
They walked together back to the hall, back to the celebrations, back to the grieving, and they passed the small alcove and the blank tapestry – and Draco looked back, and gave it a smile – and somehow, after everything was said and done – it wasn't.
It was just beginning.