Foolish Mudblood
The Light had won the war.
He was thankful. Of course, he was thankful.
Of course, he hated it as well.
Perhaps, it was his mind was warring within himself with psychotic thoughts, driven by too many Dark curses and hexes both as a child and as a soldier in the Second War. Perhaps, it was the lack of feeling that had accompanied him in the aftermath of the final battle. His enemies turned allies had fallen, fallen when he should have instead.
He had more sins after all.
Potter had died in the end – struck in turn by the same curse that ended the Dark Lord's existence.
Weasel had died on a hospital bed a week later.
And Granger, well, Granger had died to save him.
He had tried to tell himself that he didn't care that she had sacrificed herself for him. It was her own foolishness, he claimed. He had tried to pin her as ridiculous girl – too caught up in the mundane, not aware of what she was doing. But he could not help knowing, all along, that she was an insufferably, intelligent woman.
She knew exactly what she was doing, life debts and wizard oaths, sacrificial love
Stupid mudblood… Stupid Granger…
Stupid bleeding wounds left gaping in his heart when he caught her lifeless body in his arms.
His father had meant to kill him. Lucius hated the thought that he had missed his target, but enjoyed taunting his excommunicated son one last time, laughing at the mudblood's dead form.
Draco couldn't deny that he was angry for he was. Anyone who saw him duel his final with his father could tell that he was albeit sated in fury. He hated the man – a man he had tried so hard to please, even when fighting on opposite sides. He hated him in that moment with Granger growing pale and cold in his own arms.
Yes, the Light had won the war. He was thankful.
No Dark Lord.
No raping, no killings, no meaningless destruction…
And no Granger…
No Granger…
Of course, he was thankful they had won.
Of course, he hated it as well.
He tried to tell himself that he didn't love her.
He had killed his father for her. He hoped his debt had been paid.
Even as he stood by her grave, his name not her own on that stone, he knew he couldn't thank her. Perhaps, he should have told her he cared, he loved her, shown her how thankful to her he was that she had taught him to love.
But he hadn't.
And he hated it.
But not her, even if she was a foolish mudblood.
