Ghosts Of The Past

What a cruel thing is war: to separate and destroy families and friends, and mar the purest joys and happiness God has granted us in this world; to fill our hearts with hatred instead of love for our neightbors, and to devastate the fair face of this beautiful world.

Robert E. Lee, 1864

The night outside his window is black, empty of stars and completely as soulless as he is (for who could see what he has and still remain fully alive?). His bedroom is clean, with bright red walls (the same colour as blood), a massive bed that he rarely sleeps in and a large window that shows both Diagon Alley's suburban district and the main street. His flat is between the two, belonging in neither and teetering on the edge of acceptance in both. That is the exact reason for his purchase – it is a representation of him (he is both saviour and monster; tolerated and hated).

A groan comes from the occupant of the bed, Susan Bones, as she awakens. Her clothes are scattered somewhere around the house, forgotten in the haze of passion that left her asleep and him satisfied and forgetful of the past. She sits up, gloriously naked, and feels the bed next to her. It is empty.

"Harry, it's four in the morning…" She whispers to the darkness.

He nods, though she cannot see. "I know."

They lapse into silence because there is nothing to be said (the truth swirls around them, yelling but the lies hold strong and all is well). He does not sleep in his bed but they do, the woman who he fucks (it is primal and animalistic; there is no love [he doesn't know what love is anymore]) do. Sleep eludes him and he has long since learned to live without it. The nightmares do not necessarily come with only sleep, however, and in the silence, screams can be heard and blood is once more on his hands, so he finds another willing body and he loses himself in screams that are in ecstasy and not pain (in the overly loud silence, the screams blend into one and he doesn't know which he prefers).

Susan slides down the bed, surrounded by the mass of covers and despite her voluptuous body, she looks innocently childish (there is no innocence in war and children become adults far too quickly) before she turns over, away from his cold gaze, and falls back into the abyss of sleep. Etched into the creamy skin of her back are scars, faded by time but still screaming the tale of their creation. Together, they spell out the word 'traitor', carved into flesh as an eternal reminder of her torture. He cannot imagine anyone so loyal (a Hufflepuff through and through) and he clenches his teeth because this wasn't supposed to happen (the plan went wrong and they veered down a road with a dead end, unable to stop in the maelstrom).

The silence is there once more, consuming him and the ghosts return, screaming and crying and sobbing, as though there is a chance that they may be saved (they are beyond saving and they know it) and though the bodies are dead, the voices remain alive in his mind, tortured (and torturing him) until he joins them in death. His eyes are open but he cannot see beyond the veil of memory that blinds him (he is frozen with the intensity and wants to forget but their fingers scratch desperately at his skin, pulling him close and refusing to let go). Blindly, he stumbles over to the massive bed, falling on the soft covers, almost hitting Susan.

"No," he whispers into the pillows.

Dead eyes stare at him, placed on a table and the body which they came from – Daphne Greengrass – flails piteously against the chains which bind her to a blood encrusted wall. Walden MacNair laughs as she struggles, his wand in his hand as it ignites at the tip and then it's moving towards her exposed flesh… she doesn't see it coming (her eyes are useless, blankly staring and dead) and her screams are so very loud that it wakes Hermione from her slumber (if only it had all been a nightmare).

"Oh, you woke up the mudblood!" Bellatrix coos from the corner, the skull of Dennis Creevey in her hands; the skin, eyes and brains have been Banished callously (is there any other way?) but several blood stains remain against the white bone. The contrast is sickening as it gleams under the dim lighting.

Hermione whimpers. Her pale arms are covered in a crisscrossing pattern made by Bellatrix's knife; the word mudblood is carved into her exposed abdomen and she cannot sit up. Her eyes swivel madly around the room, drinking in the sight of Daphne Greengrass and MacNair, Harry in the corner, silently watching but having small spasms every so often and Bellatrix, watching her like a predator (Hermione is the innocent prey, frightened and waiting for death because that is all she can hope for).

Bellatrix laughs. "Do you see that, baby Potter? The mudblood is in pain!"

There is no reaction but a glare. He has screamed and yelled until the point that his throat has torn and he cannot speak anymore. The Cruciatus Curse is a horrible one, the pain being mental but tricking the mind into thinking the body is feeling pain. Phantom pain makes his muscles seize as though it was real and he wants to hurt Bellatrix (his bloodlust is only the beginning…) and all the other Death Eaters.

MacNair waves his wand and Daphne's clothes vanish. Her body has small, circular burn marks that are causing her to sob (she has no eyes to cry from) and there is a horrible smell in the air that burns their noses (the acidic smell of charred flesh). MacNair laughs and manoeuvres the girl and God, she is screaming as the former executioner rapes her…

Susan leaves early the next day (no strings attached) but Harry's too busy drinking to notice. He started some time after five, after the screams stopped (never forgotten, just pushed away) and he doesn't know what time it is now and that is so fucking hilarious that he laughs and laughs until he can't even remember why. He's probably supposed to be somewhere – work, meeting, the Burrow – and he's probably in trouble for not being there and he doesn't care because they're dead (it's his fault, always his fault).

Later, when the sun's shining over Diagon Alley and the Alley is bursting with life (only a cover for the death that lies beneath), he's in his study, looking through his drawers for no apparent reason ("There's always a reason, Harry, even if you can't see it.") until he finds one draw is locked. He unlocks it with a wave of his hand and it slowly opens. Inside, there is only one thing: a parchment envelope, his name written in neat, precise script. He pulls it out with clumsy fingers and reads it with half blind eyes (blind enough for things to be blurry but clear enough to see the lies).

Dear Harry,

If you don't answer your Floo or open the door soon, then I'm going to break in with a sledgehammer! It's not your fault, Harry, and there's so many out there who need you to be strong for them. I swear, it was Voldemort, not you, who killed them all. You're a hero! No one blames you. We just want to see if you're okay.

The funerals are going to begin tomorrow. You said that you'd be there for them. And Ginny's is happening then, too, and Fleur's and Fred's. Molly can't be there – she's still in a coma – but I know George would appreciate it if you came. I know Arthur considered you part of the family, even though he's dead too.

Look, please Harry… I need to see if you're okay. Once we're healed, we can start taking action to prevent another Voldemort and we can get rights for Muggleborns and other races. That's what Remus would've wanted. God, Harry, I need to see you, please. We're the only ones left now and if I lose you… I don't think I'll make it. Please.

Love Hermione.

Harry puts the letter down with shaking hands. He realises now why he chose to look through the drawers.

Hermione (sweet, naïve, innocent Hermione). He had needed to reassure himself that she was alive, that she had once existed. But with her existence comes pain and memories (she is but another memory in his lonely path) and his Hermione, smart Hermione who had tried to change the world, is gone. For all her smarts, she was naïve (another child in an adult's world). She should've known that the wizarding world didn't want to change. She paid for her beliefs and the stubbornness of the aristocracy was shown, telling tomes to all those who could see beyond the lies told by the regime.

But Harry knows what Hermione refused to believe, knows what Hermione's death proved: the Ministry doesn't want to change and Mudbloods will always be nothing.

Hermione strides next to him through the Ministry, wearing long sleeved robes (she hides the horror that marks her skin underneath) with a large file clasped primly in her hands. Her bushy hair is in a ponytail and he looks at her in the corner of his eye, wondering if what she about to do is wise. She is undeniably brave (or very stupid, for who in their right mind would tackle the Wizagmont with only a large file?) as she walks proudly, head held high, through the Department of Mysteries.

"Hermione…" He sighs. It is pointless to tell her she should not do this; she has made up her mind and nothing will change it.

"Yes Harry?"

He takes a deep breath and his frame wracks in a spasm for a short second (phantom pain still haunts him, along with so much more). "Are you sure that this is the best way to do this?" He knows the answer before he finishes the sentence and a feeling of dread coils in the pit of his stomach, poised as something akin to trepidation washes over him.

"Of course."

They continue silently, ignored by whispering Unspeakables who glide down the corridor with haughtiness palpable in the air as they pass. Harry wonders, not for the first time, if Hermione is trying to make up for Ron's absence (reckless, loyal Ron, who should've died like a hero, not after being impaled on a rusty pole) before deciding he doesn't care (Ron is gone and Hermione is all he has left to remind him of better times, before the world erupted in Avada Kedavra green and the scarlet of blood).

The doors of Courtroom Ten loom closer. This is where they part. Harry hugs Hermione and whispers something about good luck (you make your own luck, good or bad; Karma's out to get you) before going to find a seat in the crowded bench area. She smiles at him (her last smile) and she walks into the area with the chair that Harry vaguely remembers being tried in before, so long ago. She stands tall despite the mutterings that break out and her speech is proud, filled with good points and is purely Hermione.

"Muggleborns are exactly the same as Half-bloods and Purebloods. What does blood matter when it is spilling on the floor?" Here she glares at Delores Umbridge (the bitch should be dead). "It is like the concept of racism, the pigmentation of ones skin does not define a person, in the same way that blood does not make someone who they are. So I beseech you, Wizagmont, to r-" Her pleas will never be heard (she was such a smart girl). A hooded figure bursts through the door, the epitome of dramatic and a Killing Curse (the colour of Harry's eyes, it's been said) flings from his wand, heading speedily towards Hermione, who is too shocked to move.

And Harry is running. It is not fast enough (too late, always too late!) and she has been hit and she is falling to the floor (going, going… gone!). He reaches her seconds after her body falls to the ground but she is already dead, killed by the hooded assassin. He turns around. The assassin has not moved, merely holding his wand aloft wearily, almost resignedly, as though he expects Harry to go after him.

He is right to expect that (there is no logic in grief and there is no regret in revenge… the two together are lethal). With a roar, Harry is running towards him, wand aloft and a snarl on his face (this is the monster, the one they hate and Harry basks in the Darkness). The assassin doesn't even move. He lets Harry bind him, lets Harry punch him until the Auror sentries pull him off. His hood falls back and the narrow, bruising face of Draco Malfoy is revealed.

"How… how does it feel… Potter?" He rasps pathetically from the floor, silver eyes gleaming (so much like his father) and an air of smugness surrounding him (too much like his father). "To know… that she's… gone and you couldn't stop… it?" Malfoy gives a small laugh, his body heaving before passing out.

Grasped with a rage so strong that he can't even remember rationality (Fate is laughing [hahaha]), Harry punches the Auror behind him (sometimes violence is the only way) but before he can reach Draco, someone is yelling and he is falling to the ground, a mockery of Hermione's death, only he'll be able to get up again and as he falls, he sees someone talking to Draco (why is he not being taken to the Holding Cells?).

Then it is dark and his eyes see no more.

He brings seven red lilies when he visits her grave (merely one of many that cluster the grounds of Hogwarts nowadays). Maybe it's tasteless, bringing flowers the colour of blood to a place where so much was spilt but Harry never found out Hermione's favourite flowers and it's a small way to say that she died proudly, in true Gryffindor fashion. He brings the same flowers to his mother's grave, sometimes white and red; it seems fitting to give the same things to the two most important women in his life. He's not got anything else special for her – she never really liked a fuss being made over her, anyway – but the red flowers look pretty after he arranges them, one by one, on the grass, leaning on the headstone delicately.

Her grave is in a nice spot, being one of the later ones (most are from the war, but it's become a memorial sight for heroes of the war, whether they died in it or not) and the marble of the headstone is still shiny, probably preserved by some nifty charms. Behind her grave, there are rows more and when he comes here, he normally goes and visits the Weasley graves (Ron, Ginny, Fred, Arthur, Percy and Molly) but today he only wants to see Hermione.

After all, it's the anniversary of her death. Five years. No time at all, really, when he thinks about it.

She would've been twenty-six in September. He could imagine her, radiant and happy, still arguing for the muggleborn's rights that would never be granted (for the Wizarding World is far too bigoted to allow equality and liberty to those considered inferior) but even though her pursuit would be useless, she would be alive. She might've even settled down, had kids… but he would never know.

Harry sits down, leaning his left shoulder onto the headstone, careful to not jostle the arranged flowers. Neat words are engraved into the marble and he traces the letters with his fingers, though he knows the words off by heart.

Hermione Jean Granger
19th September 1979 – 3rd August 2000
Here lies a hero, loved and missed.

The headstone seems innocent and it is. Looking at it, it says nothing of how she died, says nothing of how she was murdered and it definitely doesn't say anything about how she was avenged. Harry smirks. He knows (he can still remember Draco's face when he was killed) and while he also knows that Hermione wouldn't have approved of his methods, it makes him feel better now that he's hurt the system which allowed Malfoy to roam free in the first place.

Maybe the bastard didn't have to die but that's not really the point (it never is).

Blood coats his fingers, a bright shiny scarlet that is morbidly beautiful and a body lies at his feat, broken and mutilated and twisted ("Murderer!" the darkness screams. "Murderer!"). Somewhere, in the distance, far, far away, the Aurors are attempting to break down his Wards and they will break them, of course, but they are already too late to save Malfoy. The body is already beginning to cool, a large hole in the left side of his chest, over where his heart used to reside. However, his heart has been torn out and he is already dead.

Staring down at the body, there is no elation, no satisfaction for his revenge. There is a sense of nothingness, a void that has opened in his chest and has sucked all the feelings he wants to feel inside, like a black hole. Surprisingly, he feels a slither of disgust and that is strange because he has seen much worse (blood everywhere… dead unseeing eyes… "Murderer! Murderer!"… burning flesh…) and he has done much worse, too. The blood covering his hands suddenly feels disgusting and he rushes to get his wand, removing it with a simple spell. Though the blood is gone, the sensation remains burned into his memory, lingering like the phantom pains from his Cruciatus Over-Exposure.

Astoria is tied up, having watched the whole thing. She is young, innocent even (how can she be innocent when the war rampaged, stealing innocence and destroying all that was good?) and he gave her a choice: watch or tear your eyes out. Saying that reminds him of Daphne and MacNair (ironic that he should offer that to Daphne's sister, considering how she died [the irony makes it more appealing somehow]) and for a moment, he is lost in the past as the screams overwhelm him.

She cowers in the chair, tears leaking out of her eyes (the same eyes as Daphne) as Harry approaches her. His hand reaches out to caress her pale cheek but his eyes are looking at the dead body. "How does it feel, Astoria," He whispers, echoing words spoken by the very same man he had just killed. "To know that he is gone and you couldn't stop it?"

He laughs. It is a hollow, empty sound, almost unfamiliar to him. His laugh is almost hysterical and he cannot stop and he feels the darkness receding, still yelling insults but he laughs it off for it does not matter.

(The darkness is screaming and the ghosts of the past are gripping on so tightly… he is a slave and they are suddenly laughing because they know it too, like they knew how close death was when they were alive but then he sees Daphne and her eyes are watching him, torn from their sockets and why is he doing this?

"Hermione," he growls, as if that makes it right. It doesn't. He is a monster and maybe he doesn't mind that because Hermione is gone and there is no reason to be good anymore.)

"W-what?" Astoria whimpers, staring up at him with wide, broken eyes that are no longer innocent. Like fractured mirrors, the eyes reflect him in a dark light, with his face basked in shadows and his eyes glowing like a cat's through the dark. Again, Harry questions himself before his resolve kicks in and tells him that he can leave no loose ends ("Murderer! Murderer!" they scream).

"It's a shame," Harry sighs, "but there can be no loose ends."

They both know what is going to happen.

"Avada Kedavra!"

That night, he is walking through Diagon Alley to the Leaky Cauldron, his head held high and his shoes making slight noises on the cobbled ground. People are staring, disapproving of his continued existence (they hate him – the one who has killed so many, has become so dark – and yet, they are in debt to him for saving them all and with that comes reluctant acceptance) but unwilling to say so out loud. It does not affect Harry because they are nothing and they are not worthy of his attention.

("Harry… when did you start to sound like Malfoy?" Angelina whispers, moving some hair out of his face as they lie next to one another.

Harry sighs. "I don't know… I just don't know."

And he truly doesn't.)

He doesn't actually make it to the bar. Just before he gets there, someone stumbles out, obviously drunk and they are singing quietly, a song with mumbled words and slurred sentences. Maybe it's coincidence (there is no coincidence, only conspiracy and Fate playing with her fucking chess pieces) but she happens to stumble into him. He stares down on her before recognition sets in.

"Mmmm… hello handsome!" Fay Dunbar giggles, her arms creeping around his neck and her face leaning closer to his.

Harry takes a step back. "Hello Fay," he smirks.

Fay takes a step forward. They are back where they started, in close proximity with staring eyes burning holes into them. Their eyes meet and there is no love, no compassion but there is a deep need, a need to forget. Harry does not know what Fay wants to forget but he wants to pretend that the hole inside his chest (the hole that Hermione caused when she fell to that floor, never again to get up) isn't there and that everything will be okay.

It won't be but in the throes of ecstasy, the future doesn't look so bleak and Harry can convince himself that the darkness isn't calling, that he isn't slipping into it.

No words are spoken as Harry Apparates away to his apartment, only down the street but too far away for him to bother to walk. Immediately he is ravishing her and she is moaning, screaming and it blocks out the nightmares, the darkness and for a moment, it doesn't matter that Hermione is dead. Harry enjoys it while it lasts (Hermione was his light, his good and of course it matters that she's gone) because all too soon he's going to face it all again.

With each movement, a bit more of Hermione fades. He forgets the feel of her cold skin (much too cold for life), the sickening thud as her body hit the floor and lastly, he forgets her lifeless eyes (unseeing and dead). He reaches the proverbial edge and falls over, vaguely aware of Fay doing the same, and he falls into bliss, forgetting all the death, all the horror and Hermione.

As the feeling of unawareness fades from his body, the darkness beckons, taunting him but he just starts pounding again because once just wasn't enough…

Later, when it's over, he is looking out the window again. Fay is asleep, like Susan the night before and Padma the night before that.

It is a cycle, continuous everyday.

This is his future, to be tormented by the past and teased by the darkness until he gives in; it stretches out in front of him, bleak and unappealing.

Harry closes his eyes and sighs.

Oh Hermione, why did you have to go?

Yet another One Shot! Maybe I should change the rating on this for over-excessive bracket use... hahaha :D Anyway, what do y'all think? Love it, hate it, like it etc.

I'd like to point out that the war was much more violent and gruesome in this story, causing Harry significant mental trauma (causing the 'haunting' from the 'ghosts of the past' [Oh God, not another bracket!]) and Hermione helped him through the healing process. They had a much stronger bond that in the cannon series, making her death hit him that much harder. Hermione was the most important person in Harry's life; she was really his reason to pull through, to live.

Hope you liked it,

DarkeDreams.