Disclaimer: Harry Potter & the characters in it, sadly, do not belong to me. They are the works of the wonderful J.K. Rowling.
a/n: Hello! This is my first fic, so constructive feedback and general comments are very much welcome. I don't have any beta readers, so I apologize if there are some grammatical mistakes. edit: I've tried to fix the mistakes that I've found, but there might still be some, so again, my apologies. 3
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The war has been waging on for a while now. She has lost track of the days, having given up by the first year. It was pointless. The end never came nearer anyway.
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She stumbles upon him; he on the ground, her running. She trips on him, and both have their wands out at each other before anything else. She almost falters when she sees his face; it's been too long since she met someone she knew. She lowers her wand ever so slightly, mouth ajar, but the brand on his arm shoots signals through her brain and the words were out of her lips even before he got to say anything at all.
She has almost let her guard down. Almost.
She has never let her guard down; it was essential to her survival. Let her guard slip for just a fraction of a second, and that would be the last she'd see of the world.
She wonders what has happened to him. She looks around, in search for Death Eaters. She decides she is safe; she wouldn't be alive if she wasn't. She edges towards the unconscious body carefully, and prods it with a stick, making sure he wasn't an imminent threat. Then, she comes to a crossroad. Should she kill him, or should she not? The choice was never usually this difficult. It has even come to a point where she doesn't question herself anymore. He, however, was different. He'd spark something in her. First, he'd paused her for just a sliver of a moment. Then, he'd left her lost and confused. What next?
She couldn't figure what about him had changed something in her. She figures it was because he was someone she knew. Somewhere in the future, she would change her mind on that. Now, however, she remains adamant on that conclusion. After all, it was very much possible. A familiar face was a refreshing change for her.
She had been separated from Ron and Harry in an ambush. They'd ran away in separate ways. That was the last she saw of them. She could never find them again. She'd search everywhere- their headquarters, their hideouts, their secret meeting locations, but she'd never find them. Everything had been deserted. The Burrow, 12 Grimmauld Place. She would come back every day, and wait. Not for too long, but just enough to maybe hope to catch a glimpse of someone she knew. It all came unfruitful. She soon learnt to give up.
Somehow, she decides not to kill him. She does not know why. It annoys her not knowing why. Compassion and trust are no longer traits she upholds. She's spent too long fending for herself to believe in them. Either you prey, or you be preyed upon. So why was it this any different? She guesses it was that same thing. The same spark. She hates it, it didn't do well for her survival.
She takes him to her shelter underground. It was a shabby spot she found while she was hunting. A small space beneath the earth, just big enough to fit herself and what little she had left with her. It was only temporary, before she continues on her trek to nowhere. Sometimes she wonders why she even bothers to continue trekking through the forest, when she has no real direction to go. Sometimes, she lets herself believe that she was keeping herself safe; it was never any good to stay in the same area for long periods of time. Other times, she lets herself indulge in the belief that there was still hope out there. But she knows, somewhere in her, that it was neither of those things. She was just lost. She has nothing to do, nobody to talk to. She was lonely, and venturing out simply keeps her sanity in check. It was pitiful, really.
He is still unconscious when she finally lowers him into her shelter, so she takes this opportunity to heal him. She had first noticed the wound when she was bringing him towards her shelter. The blood had darkened parts on the front of his shirt, and she'd touched it to examine what it was. She had rushed back when she'd realised what it was. Peeling off his clothes, she reveals a deep gash across his chest. She doesn't know how much blood he'd lost, but she knows she couldn't waste any more time. She immediately sets off to healing his wounds. She had thought it wouldn't have taken so long just to heal a simple wound, but her hopes had been shattered. She tries spell after spell, but she can't figure a way to seal the wound. She keeps trying, but the wound would somehow unravel itself again. She was lost.
Occasionally she looks back at his features, and she sighs at how much he's changed. How long had it been? She'd last seen him in their sixth year in Hogwarts. She stops to reminiscence about everything she'd lost. She stops to reminiscence about him. Somewhere, in their sixth year, they'd become something almost like friends. She had stumbled upon him, just like she has now. She had been running, he had been on the ground. They'd both met each others' eyes, tear-stained and horrified. She had gingerly taken a step towards him. He hadn't flinched or moved back or screamed at her yet. She had taken it as a sign she could move further. So she did, and soon, she'd found herself beside him spilling her heart out as he sat there and listened. She'd found herself beside him spilling his heart out as she sat there and listened.
It went on: their little rendezvous. Always a different location, always a different time. They'd sit. Sometimes they'd talk, sometimes they'd just sit there in silence. Sometimes they'd fight, sometimes they'd laugh, sometimes they'd cry. Sometimes they'd sit as though they were worst enemies, sometimes they'd sit as though they were lovers. Sometimes they'd sit there for hours, sometimes they'd sit there for a few minutes. However, things never changed outside their secret meetings. They'd kept up the façade of foes. He'd shoot insults, she'd shoot witty comebacks. Sometimes, they'd let their eyes wonder, but they'd cover it up before anyone could notice. It went on that way through their sixth year.
They'd formed this inexplicable bond over their meetings. They were comfortable around each other, but they were not close friends; she didn't know if they were friends in the first place. She'd become something almost like his confidante, and he her confidant. Sometimes, she felt like it was more than just that. Sometimes she'd wonder if what she felt towards him was more than just friendship. Sometimes she'd wonder if it's something akin to love, but she'd smack herself in her mind immediately. She didn't believe in love. Or at least, she tried to convince herself.
Occassionally, she still thinks about him, as she thinks about the Order. She'd told him to come with her to them, once, but he'd refused. She'd told him they would be more than willing to help him, to save him, but he'd remained stubborn on keeping things as they were. He grew reclusive, choosing to hide in the safety of his shell. Long gone were their tête-à-têtes. She tried to talk to him, to comfort him and to care for him, but he'd just snap at her and leave. She'd try and try until she grew sick and tired of trying. She stopped catching him around the corners or in secluded parts of Hogwarts. She stopped catching his eyes with her own or sending owls to him. She stopped caring. That was the last that she'd seen of him.
When she does think of him, she wonders what he's doing, whether he's well. If he's nice, warm and comfortable. She wonders if he's ever regret his decisions. She wonders if his decisions have given him an easy life. Sometimes she wishes he were with her, so she had someone to spend her time with. So she wouldn't be alone. But then she remembers how different things may have become.
While trying to heal him, she wonders if he is still the same boy she met there underneath the staircase-lost, afraid, alone. She wonders if she was risking her life doing this, if he'd kill her as soon as he roused from his unconsciousness. She decides that she isn't in danger. She decides to trust him.
"Granger...," he croaks, grasping at the fabrics of her shirt. His voice pulls her out of her reverie. She runs her fingers through his hair. His face scrunches, beads of sweat forming on his skin. He's burning up. She sets herself to work even quicker, not responding to his words.
"Granger."
"Hush now, you're making it more painful than it should be."
"Granger, just listen to me," his voice is barely and audible whisper, so soft that she has to lean in to catch his words. "Granger, I... I love you." His words have caught her dumbfounded. She stops just for a second. She could feel the tears coming.
"What?"
"I love you. I always have, and I always will. Remember that."
"It's your fever, it must be acting up."
"Just listen to me. Please."
She hates him for doing this to her.
"Why," her voice is thick, and it is then and there that she realises just how tired she is, both physically and mentally. "Why this, why now?" She lets her tears fall at that moment. She thinks about how much she hates his words. She thinks about how she never wanted any of this-the pain, the suffering, the cruel, lingering feeling of hope. She thinks about how nice it would have been for some kind of miracle to happen. Like in fairy tales, where tears could heal and kisses could revive.
"Because I won't have another chance," he gives her a faint smile. She understands he has submitted to his fate. She doesn't understand why.
"No! I won't let you die, not here not now, do you understand me? You. Will. Not. Die," her vision blurs, and she tastes the salt in her mouth. She has missed him so much. She realises that she still cares. She has never stopped caring. She tries again. Spell after spell, incantation after incantation. Nothing changes. She doesn't want him to go. Not now. Not ever. She has so much to tell him, so much to ask. All the things she's never spoken of, all the things she's never done. She needs time. She pulls him closer to her. Her whole body reverberates with her sobs.
"Granger, Granger... Always the fighter," he slips his fingers through hers. She watches his smile grow wider, as his eyes begin to close. She sobs harder. She doesn't want to lose him. Not now. Not ever. She wants him. She needs him. She wonders if God would be kind enough to her, to finally grant her luck after dealing her a bad hand after all this time. She wonders if God would save Malfoy, just like He has done to so many other people before. She wonders if God would just grant her this wish, for once.
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That night, she stops believing in a God.
That night, she sleeps alone.