Disclaimer: I own nothing. I only enjoy writing fanfiction. All rights belong to JK Rowling.
A/N: omegaverse A/B/O marriage law - omega law fic. Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger. If you like it and want to review or PM me, feel free. If you hate it and want to flame or PM me, feel free.
No regrets...
THE SANCTITY OF MARRIAGE
The Open at the Close
After the Battle of Hogwarts
The three friends walked haphazardly, but together, back to the castle. They stepped through the stone debris and over the corpses of their enemies and friends, taking great care to not disturb the dead. The Elder Wand was now resting safely in Dumbledore's tomb, where it would remain for eternity; the memory of it, hopefully, to be forgotten with time. At least, that was what Harry anticipated. Hermione felt that the wand should have been snapped in two and left to the giant squid in the Black Lake. Or, perhaps, set on fire. Both acts sounded delightful after all the trouble that ridiculous piece of wood had caused.
"I think you're mental, mate," said Ron, shaking his head. "Bloody mental."
"I like mine more," Harry replied. "And there's no need for the Elder Wand now. Voldemort is gone. We're safe."
Hermione felt a twinge of uncertainty at Harry's words, but she took each boy's hand and squeezed. "It's for the best. No more death from now on. There's been enough of it already."
Harry, Hermione and Ron stayed close to each other as they entered the Great Hall, but Hermione had released their hands long before they reached the entrance to the castle. There was a low buzz of celebratory conversation, but also a tone of solemnity that kept the boisterousness at bay. People were paying their respects; families mourning, friends grieving, survivors stumbling around in silence. It was a grim sight, the dead being laid out in honor of their sacrifice, and there were still more on the battlefield that were waiting to be brought inside.
How many were out there in the grass and the sun? How many people had died throughout this war? How many were still missing, because their bodies had not been found? She found it hard to believe that the death count for both sides of the war could be so few. Less than a hundred? The numbers did not compute, not to Hermione. The total was much higher, it had to be. The first war, alone, had estimated a death count of over two-hundred. Voldemort's resurrection had brought with it more violence, more abductions, and more tyranny. She was certain the numbers would round out to well over three-hundred casualties for this war. How could anyone describe that kind of loss?
The word tragic came to mind.
"Mum and Dad aren't going to let you just shut yourself up in that old house," Ron told Harry as they weaved through the groups of people in the chamber. "You'll always have a place at the Burrow. Mum'll insist on it."
Hermione slowed behind them, looking around at the damaged walls and the shattered windows. What caught her attention was the human-shaped aperture in the large window behind what used to be the Head table. It stood out amidst the destruction; a singularly independent act that had left clean lines and minimal damage. There was just that shape in the middle of all that glass, and Hermione was confused as to how that much space had been left untouched once the battle had moved into the castle.
She never could tolerate not knowing.
"Harry?" asked Hermione, walking faster to keep up with the boys. Harry paused in his reply, shifting his focus from Ron to Hermione. He did not need to speak for her to know that she had his attention. She simply pointed to the window and asked, "What caused that? Did something fall through it?"
"No, it was Snape," replied Harry, his lips pressing into a grim line and his eyes tightening at the corners. "He escaped through the window when he was dueling McGonagall. Flew off in that...black smoke...like Voldemort."
"Oh."
What else was there left for her to say?
The boys were already resuming their discussion of living arrangements as they joined the rest of Ron's family. Harry was embraced by everyone. Hermione was acknowledged with the most welcoming expressions any of them could muster, and it was obvious that all they wanted to do was celebrate the end of the war. They wanted to rejoice that it was over, but all they could do was grieve. Ron was sitting down with his brothers, the whole family congregating around what used to be Fred Weasley.
Hermione couldn't look at him. She couldn't bear looking at any of the dead. The faces were supposed to be smiling, the eyes were supposed to be glittering with joy and light. The skin wasn't supposed to be turning grey and waxy. They were all supposed to be alive; dancing, drinking, enjoying a more exuberant festivity than this charade of victory.
What had they won? A slew of funerals and years worth of rebuilding? Wounds that would never fully heal? What sort of triumph was this if the people they cared about most weren't around to share it?
Fred had died with a smile on his face. His lasting memory would be that he had passed on with a laugh. It did not change the fact that he was still laid out with the rest of the bodies, a cadaver on a table. There was no longer that exuberance taking control of a room, no warm undertone of nutmeg and alpha musk slipping by everyone's notice, no full bellied laughter. That lively fire that identified him as Fred Weasley had been snuffed out.
The same could be said about the Lupins. Remus and Tonks had been placed next to Ron's brother, and the sight of them cut just as deep. What would happen to their son? Teddy was just a baby, barely a few months old. Who would take care of him now? He was too young to remember his parents, just like Harry. All he would know of them would be the stories people had left to tell. He wouldn't remember Remus' compassion and unwavering patience. He wouldn't have the memories of his mother changing her nose into a pig snout, or sporting vibrant pink hair. How well off had Harry been with the memories other people had to share of his parents? It did not change the sharp sting of jealousy of having no memories of his mother and father to cherish for himself. Was that to be Teddy's fate, as well?
Hermione knew that Harry would cling to the ghosts of his loved ones that had surrounded him in the forest. She could tell by the way he spoke about it, as he explained his decision to face Death as a friend. If she never read The Tale of the Three Brothers again, it would be far too soon.
To Fred's left rested Colin Creevey. It was impossible to believe that little Colin Creevey had snuck back into the battle, but there he lay, inert and stiff like the others. It was unnatural to look upon that face without the jittery energy and eagerness always present after the flash of his camera. It was shocking, because he was far too young.
Then there was Lavender Brown, who had chunks of her missing in places - as if she had been eaten. And Nigel Wolpert, whom Hermione had not known well, but she recognized the face all the same. As well as the numerous others being pulled inside from the Hogwarts grounds and laid out for people to pay their respects. A good handful had been Hermione's classmates, carefree only a few years ago; eager to graduate, to present and know their designations, to find themselves outside of the academics of school. None of them would ever truly know what it was to live, or love.
Again, the word tragic came to mind.
This entire war had been one tragedy after another, and none of it seemed fair, because none of it was fair. The war, the youthful faces staring blankly up at the enchanted ceiling - it was simply wrong. It played in the back of her mind, nagging at her sense of justice. She thought back on Fred and Colin Creevey, and part of her could not force out the image of life leaving Snape's eyes, or the sound of his last breath. She could not help but question that moment. It had been a messy, violent death, but the bottom line came down to the fluidity of Snape's last seconds. Was death always that swift? Was it really that effortless? Had Colin's last breath rattled in his lungs? Had the light in Fred's eyes - all the joy and mischief - slipped away in a sigh? All these questions, all this death, and no answers.
"Hermione? You're crying."
"What?"
She looked to the side and saw Ron's freckled face. His blue eyes were wide with - concern? No, unease. He was watching her as if she were fragile, as if she would flee at the slightest movement. She was not some delicate, doe-eyed girl who needed mollycoddling. She was just processing the victory differently. She obviously hadn't known the tears were flowing, otherwise she would have choked her sadness down for later, in private.
She had been raised to be strong in the face of adversity, and all that. 'Never let them see you cry, Hermione,' her mother had said. 'There's great beauty in strength.' At the age of six, Hermione had taken it to heart, which is why she spent so much of her school years hiding in the girls bathrooms. As her mother schooled her disappointment and smoothed out her daughter's ungodly curls, Hermione had cherished that snippet of advice more than anything. It was one of the few times her mother had shown her any sort of attention. No, affection.
Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she sniffed and rubbed the back of her neck. "I think I'll go wash up and lay down."
"If you need anything," offered Ron, his long, nimble fingers tucking a crooked lock of her hair behind an ear, "all you have to do is ask."
She nodded, tensing in his arms as he pulled her close. Usually, she craved affection, but she had never known how to handle it when she received it without initiating it. At some point they would need to discuss the kiss, as well as the other problems between them. They could never move forward until all their issues were laid to rest, but it could wait for another day. There were still rough times up ahead; the coming weeks would be busy and stressful. When the waters settled, Hermione and Ron would clear the air. For now, she needed to think. She was certain that in the coming days Ron would need his friends. He would need people to lean on, while his family mourned their losses, but for just a little while, she wanted nothing more than to carve out some time for herself.
Her main concern was to find a quiet place to decompress and process the last ten months. There was too much death everywhere she looked, and she had never processed it well. She had laughed during her own grandmother's funeral years ago, because all the sadness had been overwhelming. She was starting to feel that same overwhelming sadness press in on her from all directions, and there was a churning in her chest, or lower. Her mind was jumping from one question to the next, and she hated not having any answers.
With a sniff, Hermione and Ron separated. She gave her excuse to the rest of the family and left the Great Hall without looking back. The corridors were unnaturally quiet as she climbed the staircases with heavy limbs and clouded thoughts. She let her feet guide her through the castle, while her thoughts drifted elsewhere and nowhere. She didn't pay attention to where she was going until she was standing in front of the large bay window in the library - the one tucked in the back corner, where no one else ever dared go. It was her favorite place in the library, because the window had a ledge wide enough to sit comfortably. All she needed was a quick Cushioning Charm, which is exactly what she set out to do.
Perched on the window ledge, Hermione brought her knees to her chest and allowed her despair and tears flow freely. She gasped through her sobs, unable to catch her breath as the death and horror of the last year overwhelmed her mind. The cost of victory choked the air from her lungs as it all sank in, as she watched the ruins of the castle smolder below. She was watching her childhood turn to ash, but, then again, when had she ever experienced a childhood? She had never connected with other children before Hogwarts, and upon admittance into the school for witchcraft and wizardry, Hermione had spent most of first year and onward keeping Harry and Ron from failing. The more accurate phrasing could only be that a large part of her life was gone, and she was at a loss at what the future held.
So lost in her thoughts was she that Hermione never even noticed that she was not alone in the small corner of the library.
"Sickle for your thoughts, Granger?"
Her wand was pressing into Draco Malfoy's jugular before she realized what she was doing. The look on his face stopped the curse before it took form on her tongue. Wide eyes filled with terror, hands up to show he had no wand, just a book - he had apparently slipped away from his parents with the same idea as she had. She found no inclination in his eyes that he meant her harm, and he wasn't aiming a wand at her in return. He wasn't even pulling away from her, as if he was familiar with the need to stay still and be submissive when faced with danger. It didn't stop her from digging the tip of her own wand into his neck, wide-eyed herself, and questioning his motives for being in the library.
And then she smelled it, that undertone of alpha hiding behind his apprehension and fear. The stress of the last two years must have triggered him to present early, but it didn't seem as if he had reached the point of maturity, yet. Hermione should know better than most, and she could sympathize. She had presented as omega during her recovery in St. Mungo's at the end of her fifth year. The pain of the hex burn, the stress, and the grief of watching Harry lose Sirius in the depths of the Department of Mysteries - her hormone levels had skyrocketed, and she had been housed in a special unit while a team of beta witches had treated the hex burn during her transition period, still months to a year away from her first heat, something that had yet to come. She had been brewing suppressants and scent blocking potions in secret ever since, refusing to go through a maiden heat, or any heat, until the war was over. She hadn't wanted to be viewed differently, or treated differently. Omegas were rare in the wizarding world, and viewed as weak, needing protection. She was far from submissive and incapabable. The only people who had known had been Professors Snape and McGonagall. Not even Dumbledore had been advised, both professors wary of how he would use the information to benefit Harry. She had agreed with their sentiments.
The malnourishment and stress of the year spent on the run had, at least, prevented Hermione from going into heat, but she had still pushed herself to get creative about hiding her designation from the boys. And it seemed Draco had been hiding his designation, as well, if the smell of fading eucalyptus was anything to go on.
"What are you doing here?"
The corners of his lips curled into a growl, "I came for the solitude, obviously. Not to be assailed by some -"
"I would consider your words carefully," warned Hermione, digging her wand a bit more viciously into his jugular. "I wouldn't hesitate to reacquaint my fist with your nose."
He glared, but there was a flicker of regret in those grey eyes, and recognition as his nostrils flared. It was hardly noticeable, but it had been there, flitting through his features before he quickly buried it. And another, less tangible emotion that lingered at the corners of his eyes and lurked in the depths of his pupils. For the life of her, Hermione could not place what he was thinking, but she suspected he might have caught a whiff of her underlying scent, as well. How long had it been since she took her potions?
"It must feel wonderful to be on the winning end of the wand, Granger," countered Malfoy, his features resigned. "If you ever feel like gloating, be sure to drop by Azkaban with your friends. You can all point and laugh at me through the bars."
She withdrew her wand and pushed him away, settling back against the arched inset of the window. The words that passed her lips were laced with disgust and dripping with her own indignation at the very assumption. As if she would ever stoop to such a level.
"There's nothing to boast about, Malfoy. There was no triumph," said Hermione, resuming her vigilant watch of the burning, crumbling bits of castle strewn about the school grounds. "No one won this war, not with this death toll."
"What the bloody hell are you talking about, Granger?"
"So many innocent people died in order for Harry to succeed - for the wizarding world to survive," she explained, continuing to gaze out the window. "Parents are going to be burying their children, and vice versa. How is that a victory?"
"It's a victory for you," murmured Malfoy, a breath of bitterness to his words as he sniffed. "I'll be the one sentenced for life. Don't be fooled by all the celebration. I may be sitting here, but it doesn't mean that I'm innocent in anyone's eyes. My family will be arrested before the day is out, and I'm certain Weasley will be pleased."
She sighed, looking sideways at him and watching as he sat on the window ledge. He had obviously slipped away from the crowds and the all-seeing gaze of his parents, seeking out a few moments of quiet contemplation. She was certain he had come to this spot in the library to cry freely without recognition or judgment. He would not hurt her, not now. There was a high probability that he never would. There was something different about the way he was interacting with her that did not feel threatening. If anything, he seemed on-edge, and after his last remark, she could understand why.
Still, she did not think she could ever forget the horrible things he had said and done to her over the years, no matter how badly he had suffered recently for the mistakes of his father. She remembered every verse the Good Book spoke in regards to the sins of one's parents. The Bible also preached forgiveness, and she realized that she already had forgiven him. He couldn't have helped how he had been raised, and there had been a distinct change in him since their sixth year, if she really thought about it. Today she could allow him a tentative step towards a truce. It wasn't much, but it was something that she could control. She could, at the very least, offer silent companionship on this day, of all days.
She noted how he leaned back, resting his arms on the points of his bended knees, limbs rigid with tension; the peculiar way in which he set his jaw, the anxious twitch of his cheek, the agitated fidgeting of his fingers, the unrestful tapping of his foot against the stone ledge. It was evident, in that moment, that Draco Malfoy had been just as innocent as every other child fighting in the war. He was just as haunted as she was, and then, perhaps, more so.
She remembered the decline in his glowingly pale complexion her last year at the school, the desperate nature of his actions and the hollow look about his eyes. She was acutely aware of the fact that Malfoy had been under extreme duress for the entirety of their sixth year at Hogwarts, but she never knew the repercussions following Dumbledore's death. Had not the Dark Lord ordered Malfoy to murder the Headmaster? What had happened after Snape cast the spell instead? How horrific had his situation become?
The sallow sunken sockets of his eyes spoke volumes to many a sleepless night. The haggardness of his features relayed long-term stress. The pinched wrinkles between his brow alluded to copious amounts of time spent considering, contemplating, searching for answers. Draco Malfoy had once been attractive, arrogant, ignorant and obnoxious. Now he was subdued, and the vague hint of alpha was covered up by anxiety and fear. Life had a way of altering the things that define people most. She didn't pity him for the suffering that caused his enlightenment, nor did it absolve him of past transgressions, but she could see how he had finally realized the error of his ways.
It was just odd, finally seeing through the filter of House rivalry.
"They may arrest you, but the charges won't stick."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You won't rot in Azkaban, Draco. You and your mother, at least, are safe from that."
Hermione did not know what made her say it, but she refused to regret it. He looked at her, all confusion and fear mixing together in those wide eyes. She didn't have the energy to explain it to him. With another sigh, she extrapolated. Otherwise, she feared he would keep pestering her with questions. All she wanted to do was come to terms with the fact that she had no clue what to do with her life now.
"I don't understand."
"Harry told us..." She cleared her throat and tried again. "Harry told us that when he went into the forest, and he sacrificed himself for...everyone, really. Your mother was sent to check and see if he...if he was dead. She lied to the Dark Lord, for Harry."
"That doesn't mean anything," scoffed Malfoy, looking back at the book in his lap. "It only ensures my mother walks free."
"You're more innocent than you think, Draco. You didn't kill anyone."
"No one will care. All they see is a Death Eater." He was focusing on just that, but there was so much more to his situation. She wished he could see that. "There are no fair trials for Death Eaters."
"But how willing were you? He branded you to punish your father," said Hermione, continuing with a sigh. "'The son shall not suffer for the iniquity of the father, nor the father suffer the iniquity of the son.' I'm sure the wizarding world has their own interpretation. Secondary to that, you helped us escape when we were dragged into your home."
"My Aunt Bella tortured you, Granger-"
"But you didn't identify Harry," Hermione insisted, hyper-aware of how much regret, and something unidentifiable, he still felt after watching her torture. It had been more than just traumatic for Hermione, that was for certain, and she had managed to escape. What had Draco experienced when the Dark Lord appeared, and Harry was gone? Draco had suffered, too. She could tell without hesitation or doubt, he had experienced far worse than anything his aunt had done to Hermione in those few hours. "You stalled as long as you could. I remember. You were just as afraid and disgusted by what Bellatrix was doing to me. If anything, I can testify to that."
"I'm still afraid."
"I know," Hermione admitted, tears falling down her cheeks, taking his hand in her own with a squeeze. "I am, too."
They settled into companionable silence, Hermione staring out through the window, sniffling and continuing to hold his hand, while Malfoy perused the book, now propped against his knees. They did not look at each other, nor did they speak. It was an unspoken agreement that they would share this space, for the short amount of time that they had, and then they would part ways with no mention of it again. Or she hoped he understood that this was what she planned on doing. He seemed more than amenable to sit in comfortable silence.
The day passed them by without notice, as they had both fallen asleep on that windowsill. Too exhausted to notice their eyes closing, they slumped against each other, and then shifted on the wide ledge. Their scent blockers had started fading, and when they finally woke, it was to find their faces pressed into the crooks of each other's necks as the sun set below the horizon.
When vulnerable and non-dominating, alphas had a comforting scent for omegas, and vice versa. Their base instincts must have surfaced while they slept, and they had sought that comfort in each other's scents to ward off the nightmares. To say their parting had been awkward would have been an understatement, to say the least. They hadn't said a single word as they left the library.
Hermione was still exhausted and ready to collapse into an actual bed, while Malfoy needed to return to his parents before they lost their minds. They had probably already begun scouring the castle for him, if they echo of voices vibrating through the stone halls were any indication. They were most definitely overly protective of him. If there was one thing she envied Malfoy for having, it was his family. Putting aside the fact that Lucius and Narcissa were bigoted snobs, they did share an unconditional love of their son. They were an actual family.
She wondered how many families had been destroyed, ripped apart, killed during the last few years. How many children were being told that their parents were gone? How many parents would be burying their children in the coming days? She had asked herself these questions earlier, but they made her seriously consider how lucky she was, and how unfair it was, all this death.
She chewed on her lower lip as she took the staircases up to the seventh floor, she contemplated the existential dilemma of war. How could anyone call this a victory when the bodies were being lined up? There would be lists of the dead, the injured, the missing. There were orphaned children who would have no place to live. Who would be responsible for the funerals? Who would house all these homeless children? And there was the question of Hogwarts, too. Who would rebuild the damaged portions of the castle? Did the magic to rebuild itself exist in each stone, or would it be on the staff and the Board of Directors? These problems existed with no solution or strategic plan in place.
Would they be advertising for volunteers? If so, Hermione would more than willingly sign her name to the effort. The charitable part of herself was adamant to help in every way that she possibly could. The rebuilding of the school, attending the funerals, all of them. Fighting for a sanction for some sort of orphanage or shelter, with proper care and mental health options to handle the overwhelming issues these children would be facing.
Actually, scratch that. There needed to be mental health options for everyone during the postwar. It wouldn't just be the children suffering. Everyone would be suffering. Everyone would need help. People would need counseling and assistance to assess their emotional wellbeing. It would be a long road going forward, and not everyone was equipped to handle what was coming.
Reaching the seventh floor, Hermione turned down the corridor and could hear the Fat Lady conversing with her friend when the castle foundation seemed to shake. What could only be described as a rumble echoed up, followed by a crescendo of a ear-splitting, guttural scream. Hermione, on pure reflex, had her wand at the ready and sprinted down the corridor towards the stairs. Flinging herself down the steps, the adrenaline dissolved the exhaustion and her wandering thoughts. Flying down the corridors, she cringed against the ear-splitting scream vibrating through the stone of the floors and walls. She practically bowled people over as she reached the Entrance Hall, shoving past families and groups of friends running from the vast dining hall.
BANG!
The door to the chamber housing Voldemort's corpse blew off its hinges, shocking everyone and creating a panic. Sheer terror ripped through the crowd of victors as the force that caused the disturbance was roiling inside that room, the wind roaring and rumbling but never leaving. Hermione, on pure reflex, had thrown herself in front of Malfoy with her wand at the ready, while Draco stared in abject horror. His parents were already pulling him back from the crowd, a family united. The thought of Voldemort returning would terrify them more than anyone. They had literally just escaped their personal warden, their vindictive master. For the Dark Lord, in fact, to not be dead, after all? It was something they could not possibly fathom, the one thing they would fear most.
Hermione slashed her wand through the air, creating a large gap in the crowd, and nudged the Malfoys toward it, "Get to the library! Take as many as you can! Go!"
All the people that had been congregating in the Great Hall began screaming, families huddling together and friends clinging to each other as everyone started rushing for the exit. A fair few drew their wands and formed a wall behind Harry and Ron, but no one was going to willingly enter that chamber. As Hermione pushed through the small group who had stayed behind to fight, if it came to it, she saw Harry banging his fists against an invisible barrier. Ron stood next to his friend, complexion green and expression less than enthusiastic about the possibility of what was happening. She yanked Harry back and cast at the ward, only to have the spell explode into a thousand red sparks.
It all happened so quickly, she didn't even know what to think.
The second the sparks died out, Hermione felt a tug and was suddenly being pulled by an unseen force. Ron grabbed for her, but he was too late. She had been sucked into the chamber with the Dark Lord's corpse, and no one could hear her through the howling wind. There was something more to it; a voice screaming through the destruction.
The air was whipping about the room like a violent storm through the topics, thrashing her hair and clothes about her person. Hermione spun around, trying to find the doorway through the tangled mess of her frizzy hair. There was something abnormal and unnatural in there with her, and it made her skin crawl. She wanted to get out of the room. She needed to get out of there that instant.
Hermione managed to get her unruly, matted hair out of her face and turned again to find the exit, but not before her eyes landed on the corpse of Lord Voldemort. It was the most alarming thing she had ever witnessed. This went against nature and broke through all boundaries of magic.
The Dark Lord's body was incinerating itself.
All the power used to create that body was burning through those dried veins. The whirlwind had to be his magic, the ungodly noise could only be the last pitiful shred of his soul, as both had most likely been adhered together and were still linked to the corpse. The body he had created in that cemetery, born out of a cauldron full of blood, bone and sacrifice - everything he had done for the sake of immortality - it was only logical to assume he had solidified his magic and soul into the corporeal form to further prevent death. He had only one tattered piece of his soul left, he couldn't risk it if his contingency plans went to pot. With all the boundaries he had crossed to survive the natural course of life, she had wondered about the implications a few times during the last year. It was a brilliant idea, in theory, despite the fact that it hadn't worked in the end, but it did not make it any less difficult to watch.
Hermione looked on in awe and dismay as the corpse destroyed itself. The body turned as black as scorched a log in a fire, the flesh cracking like old paint on a house. When she realized the extent to which the Dark Lord had gone to secure his survival, she still hadn't expected this to happen, nor what was coming.
It was clear now that Voldemort had been weak before his death. Given his immense power, she had assumed there was more time to find a way out before it happened. He must have lost more than just his souls with each death of his horcruxes. No wonder he had spiraled so spectacularly the last year. With each piece of soul lost, his stronghold on mortal coil had started to sip through his fingers.
He had been dying anyway.
"Hermione Granger…"
The cold, high hiss of Lord Voldemort's voice slithered through her head, and an unnatural chill weaved through her chest. It was supposed to be over. He was supposed to be dead. Why was this happening? What the bloody hell had she been thinking going near that goddamned door?
When the veins began glowing like fire under the skin, she stumbled backwards until she met a point of resistance. Back pressed flat against a battered wall, she was acutely aware that there was nowhere to hide, no way of escaping. She was trapped in the chamber until whatever was happening was over. Nothing seemed more terrifying than being warded into a room with the burning corpse of the Dark Lord, not even going into heat in the middle of an alpha filled building.
"Ron! Harry! Someone!" Hermione shrieked, eyes large and flitting everywhere in the hopes there might be some small hole in which to escape. "Get me out of here! Please!"
As the force of the magic started pulling her with it, Hermione threw herself against the ward with fervor and vitriol. The corpse was beginning to smolder, which meant soon…
"GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"
Hermione screamed as she was pulled into the eye of the storm, the body exploding in a cloud of ash. It filled the chamber, churning around her as that raw power turned turbulent. There was no escaping the inevitable act of inhaling contaminated air. She choked on the ashes, feeling them sear her lungs and compromise her very soul by being inside her. She suffocated as it all pressed in on her, circling her and forcing its way into her with each breath until the ashes were gone.
The windows shattered and the wind escaped, leaving Hermione in the middle of the chamber among the wreckage of furniture, barely conscious. With the ward gone, people rushed in to help, but Hermione could barely hear anyone, or anything, through the blood roaring in her ears.
It's over. It's finally over, Hermione told herself as she gagged on the remains of Tom Riddle. He's dead…
That night, Hermione was kept quarantined in one of the isolation rooms in the hospital wing, encapsulated in a rather pretty dome of golden light. It was a day or two before St. Mungo's healers managed to get to her, as there had been too many injured that had required immediate assistance. Whatever magic or power that had caused the destruction of the Dark Lord's corpse had compromised her immune system from the moment she inhaled the ashes, and it became clear that it was far beyond Madam Pomfrey's capabilities.
Working like a toxin in her blood, Hermione dramatically grew worse and had to be transferred to St. Mungo's for special care. They managed to keep her alive, but just barely. Weeks passed before the damage was able to be reversed, and it had been Draco Malfoy as the messenger. There had been a rather lengthy parchment and one of the Dark Lord's confiscated grimoires, detailing the antidote and spellwork necessary to save Hermione's life, by way of a few disgruntled aurors that had guarding the Malfoys while they were under house arrest. There had even been a sealed letter for Hermione, written in Draco's own hand, and delivered by a rather terse auror, name of Stonewash. She couldn't read it herself, but one of the medi-witches that sat by her bed and monitored her vitals had offered, and the letter had actually been one of the most tragically informative, heartbreaking missives the bushy-haired witch had ever received.
Once she was on the mend, and it was declared she wasn't contagious, Hermione had demanded to be taken to the trials for the Malfoys. She had already had several medi-witches owl the prosecuting orators, requesting to testify on their behalves. She didn't stop the owls until the Wizengamot agreed, and she refused to listen to anyone who attempted to dissuade her of going.
The Malfoys had given the Ministry everything, all the information, grimoires and parchments belonging to the Dark Lord, in order to help aide the healers in saving Hermione Granger. They didn't have to do it, but Hermione was fairly certain Draco had asserted some of that alpha dominance and pushed his father to bend, for once. It had been Draco's way of paying her back for saving him in the Room of Requirement. And testifying for him and his family was her way of repaying him for turning out to be a fairly decent human being, at long last.
