Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. I own nothing but the plot. Please Review
Three years have passed since the defeat of Voldemort at the hands of the Boy Who Lived. The scattered remnants of his Death Eaters are being rounded up and carted to Nurmengard. In the entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic, where once there stood a statue of pureblood wizards standing above and trampling those they considered beneath them, muggles, goblins, and such, there now stood erected a memorial for the Dark Lord's victims. It was the statue of a phoenix, risen from its ashes to live again. Inscribed on its base were the words, "Gone, Though Never Forgotten,"along with the names of all who died.
There was peace now, finally, after so long a time of living in fear.
But Hermione Granger, teacher at Hogwarts and one of the heroes of the Second Purification, knew that this was not enough. She had enough experience to know that peace was difficult to obtain, but that even more difficult a task was making that peace last. Voldemort might be gone, his followers leaderless and few, but there were still many witches and wizards who thought as he did. It would be all too easy for someone else to rise to the position the Dark Lord had left vacant...and all would be back to the way it had been.
In order for the peace to last, to be real, steps had to be taken to ensure that the atrocities committed in Voldemort's name were never repeated. The lessons of the First and Second Purifications needed to be remembered and kept sacred, the pain of loss absorbed into the collective conscience of the wizarding community. The war needed to be given substance, memory.
It needed to be written.
And that is exactly what Hermione Granger had been doing throughout her summer holiday; she was writing the histories of the First and Second Purifications, from Voldemort's rise to power, to his fall at the hands of a mere infant boy, to his final defeat by that same infant, grown into the legend that was Harry Potter...along with everything else in between.
Hermione acquired the necessary information through old Auror reports, and memories, some from wizards, some from obliviated muggles. She was given all this by an extremely cooperative Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which was no doubt being leaned on by one Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was currently serving as Minister of Magic.
Hermione drew also from her own experiences, remembering with sadness the death of her friends.
Her heart beat within this book, as surely as it beat within her.
At the moment, Hermione was taking a break from her writing, choosing instead to peruse her yearbook, which she had purchased upon returning for her seventh and final year at Hogwarts. This yearbook was different from previous editions. Before, the student portraits were categorized by year and by House. In a feeble attempt to do away with House prejudices and promote inter-House unity, this yearbook was done in muggle fashion, separating students by year only.
Hermione smiled as friends and old acquaintances waved at her from the pages. There was Hannah Abbot, a former Hufflepuff who was currently dating her friend, Neville. There was Terry Boot, Ernie McMillan, Neville Longbottom, and Luna Lovegood. All friends, all member of Dumbledore's Army. They had all fought that war together, forming ties so strong that they were almost family.
Hermione's smile disappeared as she reached the "M's." She didn't want to read his name, or see his face.
She didn't hate Draco, not really. If she were being completely honest with herself, Hermione didn't know what to feel where that particular Slytherin was concerned. There were too many conflicting emotions there, too many feelings.
On the one hand, he had been a complete prat to her while at school. He always had something derogatory to say about her hair, her attire. There was that incident with her teeth in their fifth year. And of course, his favorite topic: her filthy, tainted blood. She bore his ridicule, never letting on, save for that one incident at Hagrid's second year, how much it hurt. And it did hurt, a lot more than it should have.
Then, in sixth year, he became a Death Eater. He hurt innocent people in his botched attempts to murder Dumbledore.
All of this should have made Hermione hate him.
And yet...
And yet, when the time came, Draco couldn't do it. He couldn't kill Dumbledore. When she, Harry, and Ron were captured and taken to the manor, he didn't give them away. He hadn't tried to help them, either, but he had tried to protect them, in his own way.
Draco's actions confused Hermione, to the point that she became so confused about her feelings that she just became exhausted.
Her eyes find his name, only to see an empty square where his portrait should be.
That's right, Hermione thought to herself. Draco never came back for his seventh year. After the war he just...disappeared. He could be dead, for all anyone knows. Try though she might, Hermione could not suppress the twinge of sorrow she felt at the thought.
The faint smell of burning wax drifted over to Draco, but he paid it no heed. All his attention was given to the monument before him, to the man nailed to a cross. Try though he might, he could not suppress his anger at the sight of it. The thing burned him, scorched him as surely, as hotly as the mark on his left arm.
The irony of the situation did not escape him. Draco Malfoy was in a muggle church, praying to a god he'd never known existed, let alone believed in.
But what more could he do? He could not go back to the wizarding world, where the taint of his family, and his own actions would follow him forever. For the last three years, Draco had taken refuge in the muggle world. Here, he was faceless. Here, he was nameless. With that anonymity, he had hoped to finally find peace.
But peace would not come to him. If anything, his nightmares had grown worse with time. The Astronomy Tower, the death of Professor Burbage, Granger's torture, it all lay squarely at his doorstep; mocking him. Haunting him. Because he knew the truth now.
Three years in the muggle world had shown him that he was wrong. Muggles were not inferior. They were just as intelligent, if not more so, than wizards. Their science proved it. Muggles had no magic. Yet they could fly, move across oceans, create moving pictures, heal... live.
...And they were the only people who ever showed him an ounce of kindness.
His mind flashed back to that day in his old home. The image of Granger was seared onto his eyes as she cried and screamed through the pain... while Bellatrix carved that horrid word into her flesh, the one he himself had used to torment her at school.
Mudblood.
He was a coward, and knew it.
Still, he could not stop the question from passing his lips.
"Why?" Draco asked softly, staring at the cross. "You died for their sins; you martyred yourself so you could take them into your heart.
"Why will you not do the same for me?"
"Because you do not deserve forgiveness, Draco," a voice said. Draco turned... and saw himself.
"You caused pain for enjoyment," Malfoy continued. "Simply because it amused you. You made Granger's life, and countless others, a living hell. Now that you are finally getting your comeuppance, you pureblooded snob, you dare ask for forgiveness?
"You're pathetic."
"My son?" A voice cut through the darkness. Malfoy disappeared, leaving a priest in his place.
"Have you come for confession?" he asked.
"No," Draco replied as he lit a candle.
"You should not be afraid, child. God hears all, and forgives all."
"God does not know me." With that, Draco obliviated the priest, and disapparated.