Two different endings. One sad, the other less so. The first ending is in this chapter, the second is on the following page. I hope you enjoy.
Harry Potter, it's characters and story belong to JKR.
He comes at night.
At least, she thinks he does. She can't be sure. There are no windows here in the dungeons; nothing that lets her see the passage of the sun and moon. Instead, there are bars. And pain. And cold, rough stone. The pain is transitory, sharp spikes that come and go like the flow of the tide, but the cold never leaves. It stays with her always, seeping into bones and making lips go numb. Sometimes, the chill is so strong that she crawls over to Luna, and the two girls huddle together, seeking warmth in proximity.
It's not much, but it makes the cold retreat, if only for a little while.
Luna always whispers when they do this. Usually she's silent, unless the pain and hunger make her cry, but when Hermione nuzzles close, she starts whispering into the brunette's ear, telling her about nargles, crumple-nosed hornbacks and all sorts of mythical beasts.
Hermione knows they aren't real, but the tales allow her to distance herself from reality, and she listens raptly to these whispers in the dark.
It's one of the only two things she has: Luna and him.
He comes when the cold is at its peak, and the house above has grown still. A quietness descends all around, and it makes her think of a tomb. A grave that she will lie in forever, wasted and forgotten. No one will remember her here, no one will care. It's just her and the void, and the void is slowly winning.
But then the silence is disturbed. There's a soft scurry, and a tapping and the sound of something being dragged across the barren stone floors. Hermione and Luna glance up hopefully, and, indeed, it is him.
He's small and furry and his whiskers are stark white, although they've begun to droop as of late. A ferret.
He always brings them something. It can be a roll of cheese or a slice of ham or a carefully bottled pain potion. Sometimes, the burden of his load is great, and by the time he reaches them his legs are weak, and he collapses, panting shakily.
They pet him gratefully, regardless, and tell him how thankful they are. On rare occasions, the praise makes him preen, but usually he just stares back at them with sad eyes that always grow damp like he's trying to express how sorry he is.
Sorry for everything.
He stays with them an hour or two, letting them cuddle him and rub his soft fur. The tactile touches inevitably bring on memories of happier times. For Hermione, they consist of library stacks with mystical tomes; the comforting glow of the fire in the Gryffindor common room; Crookshanks nestled on her lap, purring staunchly; and, of course, her recollections of two boys, boys that are her best friends, whom she will gladly die for, but she better prepare for that occasion, because it's probably not that far off.
A lump grows in her throat then, and the tears come unbidden. It's not fair. She's only seventeen. She should have a whole life ahead of her, a life with happiness, marriage and kids. She has dreams and aspirations, places she wants to see and books she's planned to read, but has never gotten around to. She's never had sex yet! Never even kissed a boy.
Odds are, she never will.
The ferret presses himself into her chest, right near her beating heart, and Luna's arms wrap around, and she starts again about the nargles and how they live happily in a land far away.
When morning comes – she thinks it's morning, because the cold recedes and the house starts making noises again – the ferret is gone. He might return. He might not.
She hopes he will.
. . . .
. . . .
Another day, another trial. Bellatrix has come this time, and she's brought her nephew with her.
"DO IT, DRACO!" she screams. "JUST DO IT!"
"Cr– Crucio," the blond finally stutters, but his hands are shaking so hard that the wand is pointing anywhere but at her. The spell, when it comes out, looks nothing like the signature torture curse. Instead, its color is deep-blue, almost lilac, reminding Hermione of the irises she saw when she visited the Pyrenees last year with her parents. Draco's spell hits the ground, four feet to her left, and winks out harmlessly.
Bella spits, looking away in disgust. Then she backhands the blond. The force of the blow is so strong that he slams into the wall behind him, a trail of red creeping down his chin.
Hermione feels sorry for him, which is almost funny, considering her circumstances, but she feels it nonetheless.
"Look how it's done," the mad witch growls then, making Hermione tense in response.
She knows what comes next. She hates herself for it, but a part of her prays that Bellatrix will chose Luna this time. Not her. Please not her. Oh, God, please don't let it be–
Pain rips through her frail body, shredding it like nails, and she screams. She screams until she can scream no more, and only odd gurgles come out. They don't sound human.
They aren't, in a way. She isn't a person right now. The spell has stripped away all the layers of her humanity, leaving only something biological behind; meat; a bundle of stimulated nerves that is being cooked alive.
...When Hermione becomes coherent again, Bellatrix is gone and the cold has returned.
Luna is close by, murmuring softly. Hermione's eyelids flutter; eventually, lulled by the soothing lilt of the Ravenclaw's tone, she dips into a weary slumber. A gentle prodding rouses her soon. It's the ferret, he's brought a potion to ease the aftereffects of Bella's crucios. Hermione drinks it groggily, and then her head falls down again, and she drifts away into the lofty realms of sleep.
It's nice there. Her body is free of torment, and she can rest and dream.
She dreams of life.
It doesn't last, of course.
She wakes, and it starts from the beginning. It all repeats, just like before: the pain; the madness, shrieking; the bitter clutches of the war.
It's a demented loop; her personal hell.
And she's afraid that it will never, ever end.
. . . .
. . . .
She doesn't know how much time has passed since Harry and Ron failed to rescue them. A week? A month? A year? Maybe a whole decade has flown by, and she's just withering away, already an empty shell of her former self, mad from torture and pain.
She remembers that Ollivander was executed right after Griphook, but that memory is dim, like a postcard that has slowly faded over time. It's just her and Luna now.
Well, and her thoughts. They're always there.
Sometimes, she thinks about her parents and wonders if they're safe. She wants to hug her dad. Tell mum she loves her. She hasn't said it enough.
Maybe they'll have another child, she hopes. A boy, but not a wizard. Just a regular boy that won't, one day, erase his parents' memories and send them on a voyage from which there is no return.
Other times, Hermione ponders the past and the curious road that brought her here. She recalls her friendships, time spent with Harry and Ron. A desperate fury claws at her soul when her mind turns to them. Why are they free, while she rots away? Why haven't they tried to rescue her again? Have they abandoned her? Do they not care?!
The shameful questions wriggle around like a swarm of worms in a coffin and it can take hours to weed them out, but she always does.
She knows her boys. They must be trying everything. She just needs to hold on, just a little bit more, a day or maybe two, and they'll save her. But, if they don't...
Then she needs to die. Quickly. That thought hurts, but it's the truth of her grim reality, because Voldemort hasn't visited her yet.
She doesn't know why. Probably because he's too busy doing evil...Voldemort things, but the second he descends into this damp, dark dungeon, is the moment the war is lost.
He'll pry her mind open like a rusted tin can and peer into it, discovering everything about the horcruxes they've destroyed and how truly close he is to the edge of oblivion. And she can't let that happen. It's the only chance that they...that Harry and Ron have of winning this war. And she won't betray her friends. She won't let them down.
So, at night, when the ferret comes, she holds him tightly and explains what she can of the situation. Voldemort can't know what she knows, and there are only two ways out: for her to escape the Manor, or for her to die.
She knows the ferret won't risk the first option, so she begs the second. A knife, she asks. Bring me a knife from the kitchen. You don't have to do more. Just a single knife, and I'll take it from there.
The ferret looks at her with hollow eyes, and says nothing. When he returns the following night, there is some meat and even a flask of pumpkin juice, but no sight of the blade she requested.
Still, she tries again. She'll continue to do so till she can't.
And it all goes on.
. . . .
. . . .
There's something different about this night – she can feel it in the air. It's charged, vibrating like an energized particle. It sends shivers down her spine.
The wind howls ominously outside, and here, when she exhales, the vapor from her breath condenses into a thick and ugly cloud. It drifts away slowly, a taunt to her helplessness.
She's scared. Her teeth chatter, and when a dull sound echoes from the upper floors, she jumps.
A door creaks.
A scutter.
Her heart is thumping wildly, a thousand beats a minute. Voldemort? Is it him?
But only a paw emerges, dirty-white. It's the ferret, and, in his teeth, a wand. He scurries up, glancing nervously over his shoulder, slides through the bars of their cage, and transforms.
She's not surprised. She's figured it out long ago – it's the only thing that makes sense.
"Hi, Draco," she says quietly. Calling him Malfoy seems silly now.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he kneels down by their bodies and starts undoing the charms that bind them to this cell stronger than any chains or manacles ever could. She takes a moment to observe him then, noticing the heavy bags under his eyes, the pallor of his skin, and the bruises on his face, all purple and black – signs of Bella's "affections".
All together, he doesn't look much better than her. Just a little more meat on his bones, that's all.
"He is coming," the blond suddenly speaks in a rush, making Hermione's innards tremble with fear. There is only one 'he' whose name can be spoken with such hatred, such fear. Such cowing respect.
Voldemort.
The Slytherin continues to cast, muttering as the magic leaves his wand, tearing into the binding charms.
"Dear Auntie–" the sarcasm is palpable "–has gone to meet her Lord, which means that it'll take some time for her to realize when her spells are broken. You can use that time to run. I'm sorry…" His voice breaks suddenly. "I'm sorry I couldn't do this before. And for everything else...I'm sorry."
His movements are hurried, and his fingers tremble. When the magic holding them vanishes, he helps them rise and both girls hug him, tight.
"Don't be sorry," Hermione says. "It's alright. Just come with us."
"I can't." His voice is hoarse. "He'll kill my parents then, and they're...they're my parents, you know?"
"Let them come with you," she begs. "The Order...we'll protect them, I swear."
"They'd never go, Granger. And they'd never let you go, either. It's just like that."
And there it is: the predicament he's in. It's either them or his parents. And he's made his choice: cast his lot in with two girls he barely knows.
"He'll kill you," she whispers, horrified.
A wan smile flickers on his lips. "Maybe not," he responds, trying to look brave. "I'll beg. I'm good at that. He'll let it pass, I think. Now, take the wand. There's not much time. Linny will lead you out. Linny!"
She tries to get him to change his mind, but he won't. In the end, she presses her lips to his cheek, and Luna gives him a little charm she's made out of the pebbles and straw that line that floor.
"Return it to me later," she says pleadingly, holding it to his chest. He takes it, clutches it so hard that his fingers turn white and nods.
"Now go!" he exclaims, looking at them with lost eyes. Linny, the house-elf, is already here, tugging at their hands so that they can run. "Go!"
...When they make it outside the Manor grounds where they can apparate away, Hermione turns around. She gives the dark, gloomy estate a final glance, praying that one of its inhabitants will find sanctuary from the evil that comes.
She holds that wish, a moment, a breath, and then apparates away.
. . . .
. . . .
...May comes, and the war is over. Voldemort falls in a heap of ash. Hermione doesn't have the strength to care. Her eyes sweep the smouldering battlefield instead, searching for that telltale sight of blond hair.
But she doesn't see it, and her heart clenches. She knows.
She knows.
10 years later.
Malfoy Manor is a museum now, dedicated to the war and the high costs of prejudice. Draco lies on the far edge of the property, down by the path where the nettles grow tall. Almost no one goes there. Most years, it's just Hermione and Luna, who make their way through the odd twists and turns, using their hands to brush away the creeping foliage and the spider webs that sparkle with morning dew. The path meanders, going to and fro, until it finally comes to an abrupt end at three small grave markers.
The last of the Malfoys.
The two witches don't speak, there's no reason to; by this point, they've established a routine. Hermione kneels down to sweep the leaves and fallen branches from the gravestones; remove the wilted flowers from thier prior visit. Luna walks around, placing little charms on the twigs of trees that ring this mournful place.
There's a lot of them now, the charms, hanging down, twirling with the wind, but each one is unique. Luna works hard, making them. She does it all year.
Inevitably, as she tends to the site, Hermione's mind starts to wander. She wants to think he'd like it here. It's quiet and serene, so unlike the days of the war. Birds chirp merrily, wind rustles through the trees. The sun shines brightly above.
She wants to think it's something he would approve of...but she can't. She can't because she doesn't know. She'd never talked to him, not really. He was a whole person, someone with a personality and likes, dislikes, hopes and dreams, but all she knows is the insults and barbs they traded in school, and that he saved her life at the cost of his own.
And no matter to how many people she has spoken about him, or how much information she gathered, it all seems meaningless because it didn't come from him.
It is second-hand. A passed-down account. Hearsay.
She'll never get to know that prattish, and foolish, and, in the the end, selfless boy. Never talk to him without the oppressive clout of pureblood bigotry hanging around them like a shroud. Maybe they could have been friends, she thinks. Maybe their children would have become close, playing together while the adults enjoyed good drinks and conversations in another room. Maybe…
But there is no maybe. He'll never have kids, or drinks, or any kind of conversation – good or bad. He managed to become an animagus by sixteen; he must have imagined a glorious future.
One that will never come.
Never...
At this point she breaks down and starts to shake silently, raising her hands – her dirty, smudged, mudblood hands – to cover the trails of tears that stream down her face. Luna has been expecting this; it's happened every time. She hangs up the last of her charms and kneels by her friend, embracing the crying woman in her arms, just like she did so many years ago.
And just like so many years ago, her lips start moving, murmuring the quiet tale of a distant land where creatures roam free.
"He's there," she whispers. "He's happy and safe."
Hermione listens and nods. She trusts Luna; she's learned to believe.
Because how else could she go on?
They leave, eventually, and the sun sets and the moon flies high.
And only the nettles stay, swaying under a gentle breeze. They hush and murmur among themselves over a ring of stones with three small grave markers.
They hush and murmur…
They hush.