Disclaimer: All that you recognize is not mine.

A/N: This is a new fic I have started. It's going to be a weird sort of plot, and I don;t blame you if you don't get the hang of it in the first few instalments. But not to worry; everything will be explained. I personally think it is pretty creative.

On with the story. Not gonna be tragic as far as my inner writer tells me. Short chapter, I know, but it's just like a preface so the next ones will definitely be longer.

Chapter 1: Communication

Hermione Granger, Mistress of Magic, relaxed into her chair as she finished going through the pile of files in front of her. Not that it seemed much work; war casualties had been rounded up long ago, death eaters caught and killed—some given the Dementor's Kiss when necessary—and children of Death Eaters were sent to Rehabilitation. As much as most had had their brains Scourgified of all that darkness, some were still adamant in their pledged loyalty toward the now inexistent Dark Lord.

Hermione sighed. The war had seen the loss of Fred, Lupin, Snape, Tonks...

Ron.

Hermione's jaw tightened. Yet she felt relieved that she herself had administered the Dementor's Kiss of his murderer...saw his soul get sucked in and fragments given back to him, fragments that made the holder wish that death befell him...and then his soul was sucked in again, worse fragments recycled...and the cycle went on until there was no life left in the glorious limp body of the Pureblood Prince.

Draco Malfoy.

While his body was on that cold rooftop, waiting for the Azkaban Guards to pick it up and bury it somewhere, Hermione had taken the opportunity to stab it with a knife transfigured from her hairpin. She watched as she anointed that sinner's body with the frozen waters of vengeance. She watched, and wished that it were alive to scream in pain and beg for mercy as the pain was inflicted upon him. She watched, and wished that his screams were there to fully quench her thirst for vengeance.

He took away her fiancé, her love—her life—and he had paid for it. Maybe not well enough, but he had.

Her eyes remained dry as she looked at a picture of Ron and her stoically. The pain of the loss had transfigured into apathy and before she knew had imprinted itself onto her soul.

Hypothetically, even if a newcomer to her life had said that she bore a broken soul, they would be horribly mistaken. Ghosts of scholars from the past would resurrect and scratch that line with red ink from a quill and write on the margin in bold letters:

She had no soul.



Sometimes Hermione tried to differentiate between herself and Malfoy. He always seemed to have a better luck as he died in a short time. In her case, she wanted to die, reconcile with her sweetheart and emancipate her poor soul from the soreness. What was the poor soul's fault anyways?

Just that it ended up in a walking corpse.

She sometimes wondered if there was a rule in the Ministry papers about putting a dead person in charge of the Wizarding World. She assumed not, or else she would long have been disqualified.

Ron. His whispers of sweet nothings that still blew in through Hermione's open window at night with the cold chilly wind. The moonlight reminded her of the way they beamed in each other's company. Running water reminded her of the way he chuckled. Insomnia reminded her of the many times when Ron had fallen asleep beside her in the library as she carried on with her extensive research through the night. Pain reminded her of the way he groaned the next morning, definitely grumpy with the neck pain due to an uncomfortable sleeping posture with his head on the library table. Dreams reminded her of the way she saw him in his dreams every night. Seeing his face in her dream was the only reason she even bothered to sleep, and with the dream over, she would wake up immediately. There was no use sleeping after that. Blood reminded her of the seeping blood right from his heart in the war.

And it was also a faint reminder of an endearing entitlement she was given by Ron's murderer.

Mudblood.

But she didn't let it bother her. She herself had seen Draco Malfoy's blood spill, and it was filthier than scum. Filthier than mud. Filthier than Voldemort.

But never filthier than himself.

Another stoic sigh followed. Harry would be coming over to her house for dinner, and in a sudden urge to see Ron again, she fell asleep.

A running redhead.

"Come catch me Hermione!" he gurgled.

"I love you 'Mione!"

"Wait up, Ron!" She scampered behind him.

Darkness.

Wait...what was that?

She decided to wake up. Now...

Wait...why couldn't she get up?

A dark room. A sinister voice booming through the confining walls.

"Mudblood." Draco Malfoy sneered.



"What do you want?" Hermione said after a moment of silence, in the same stoic voice.

"By the fact that you haven't lunged at me to kill me yet, I assume you are delighted to see me," he chuckled his dark, undecipherable laugh. The kind of laugh that had no humour folded between its sound waves.

Not even evil.

"I've already done that. Malfoy. You're dead. Dead and pathetic and craving for life when none is present."

"We're on the same page. I see. Not for long, though. It's time the page was turned to chapter named Reality," he said, a scholarly look donned over his face.

"What do you mean, Death Eater?" Hermione spat.

"I didn't kill Ron Weasley."

"What are you even trying to imply in here, Malfoy? Everyone knows the truth. You killed him. And now you're dead. Weasley's dead. Happy? Now go away to your deadworld and never bother me again." Annoyance laced her voice.

"I didn't kill Weasley, Granger. You did."

A/N: Review sweethearts.