A drabble based on Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling.

-Main pair: Hermione Granger / Tom Riddle

-Genre: Romance

-Rating: K

-Based on PROMPT: Music

-Beta: None (This story is not revised yet)

Summary:

In her old age, Hermione isn't afraid of dying.

Hermione died, her face wrinkled and her hair bright white, in a warm bed looking towards the Sun dawn.

She had been visited by her family every day since she fell ill, however she never let them stay long, life must live on. Nights had been peaceful, falling asleep with the melody of nature and the light of the moon and stars over her skin.

When her eyes stop seeing, her mind became drowsy and her body didn't feel the sheets anymore, Hermione could still hear. What she thought were the birds beginning their singing was instead an opera. She recognized the orchestra first and then the voices too flowing in the space, resonating on the walls and the ceiling at Wagner's rhythm. Yes, it definitely was Wagner, "The Rhine Gold" prelude.

Sleepiness was gone replaced by the curiosity and pleasure that the music provoked her.

She sat up on the bed, still, though, her eyes were closed, not wanting to bias her hearing. She pushed away the covers and stood up. Her legs sustained her firmly as they hadn't for years. She straightened her back and felt freedom. Freedom from her own body, which had been a prison to her mind and her spirit lately.

The crescendo was long gone, now the three nymphs of the river laughed at the harasser dwarf. Hermione moved towards them, towards the conflict, towards the music source. The lack of vision didn't hinder her, not even when the familiar rooms of her home changed to some other place. Still she didn't open her eyes. She kept walking, flowing with the flow of sounds.

Finally she arrived into the room where the music was born. The sound was stronger and she could hear the noise of the disc being played on a phonograph. There too was a fire. She could hear it cracking and feel the warmth it emitted on her skin.

'You came then.' Someone said in front of her and she, finally, opened her eyes.

A man sat, his back to her and besides the old phonograph, on the floor in front of the fireplace. Only a Persian rug separated him from the cold and hard stone.

'Yes, I did.' She answered back.

He got up and turned towards her. He was beautiful, white skin, black hair and a delicate face structure.

'You were dead.' She said, surprised to see him.

'You should be too.'

'Aren't I?'

'Not exactly. I got you on time.'

'I was ready to die. I've lived long enough.' She defended. She was oddly calm, even content of seeing him once again.

'But not intensely enough.'

She looked to the floor, not wanting to meet his eyes and get lost in the trap of his dark red eyes. Not wanting him to see her weakness, she was ashamed of her own long forgotten feelings.

'Did you miss me?' He asked with a playful voice.

'No. You had to die if we wanted to live.'

'I wanted you at my side.'

'I wasn't the only one at stake.' She said defensively. 'Did you miss me?'

'I've thought a lot about you.' He answered seriously.

'I'm now here, what are you doing with me?'

He smiled and approached her. She was attracted to him and she felt her body leaning towards his. She could feel his breath on her skin. He raised his hand and caressed her cheek with his knuckles.

'Dance with me.' He demanded while taking her right hand with his left and then pulling her to lean fully on him. She molded into his body and laid her left hand on his shoulder and he embraced her with his right.

They danced with the laugh and the weeping of the nymphs for a long time. They kept dancing when the act finished and only noise of the moving disc remained. Relishing the moment and savoring each other. She felt better as time passed. Her body felt more alive, she sensed more her surroundings, the air in her lungs, the strength of noises and light that crossed her eyelids.

She opened her eyes, curious, and felt overwhelmed by the surprise that met her eyes. A line of cliffs went to the infinite beside them.

'Where are we?'

'North cape.'

'But, aren't we dead? I can feel, we can't be ghosts.

'No dear. I must thank you, though. Dumbledore was really right when he said love was the most powerful magic. I couldn't have done it without you.' He said and kissed her forehead. 'Welcome back home.'