Chapter Four

In the harsh light of the morning that swept into the nearest corner was Hermione. She had curled herself into a ball, her chin between her knees, watching him blink in the sun's rays. She was innocent and frail and unreal to be in the days honesty. Like a child. What kind of cruel twist was it that someone had to die when they were seventeen? They were only seventeen...

He pushed the blankets off of him, ignoring the chill that made his hair stand on end. It was always colder with her in his room. "What is it?" He knew what was wrong, but something still compelled him to ask.

"I want to go home."

"Follow the light, Hermione." It was part of a joke, but he was serious. This unfinished business was bollocks. If there was to be a light for anyone to follow, it should have been for her. She didn't deserve to be stuck in this horrendous world. He wasn't a fan of what was fair, but in her case it made no sense. How could anyone take away the wings of an angel?

"No... I can't. I... just... can't. You have to help me."

"What do you think I've been trying to do," he snapped, but instantly felt remorse at the sight of pain in her eyes. He didn't want to hurt her, he only wanted her to go away. "I don't help anyone. Why can't you disappear?"

"There is no bright light! There's nothing to go toward. Draco, I know when you find my killer then I can leave. You have to find out who killed me and then I can move on. I can't do it myself. Time will run out. Whoever it was... Harry and Ron should be at rest. They won't..."

"So that's what this is about? It's not about you. It's about Potter and Weasley."

"Time will run out."

He shook his head. "Why do you say that for?"

"We're in the midst of a war. When a Wizard dies, if his wand is not stolen then it is broken. Surely you can figure out the rest for yourself."

Draco hated being talked down to like a child, and he wanted nothing more than to hit her – girl or not, but she was right. Hermione Granger was always right. Most times, that was what he hated most about her. If the person that killed Granger was killed, then they would never know who it was.

"I have every Wizard checked when he comes into the Manor. Why don't you get it through your bushy head; accept that it's your blood-traitor Weasel that murdered you!"

She floated upright, staring into his eyes. It was unsettling, for he didn't see any trace of the dirt brown that he loved. There was nothing but mist. It sickened him, a reminder that she wouldn't be the Granger he loved to loath. She wasn't anything at all and she should have never been something in the first place.

"Please."

The whisper was a dagger. He wasn't able to speak, he simply walked out of his room, leaving her there with every possibility to follow and knowing that she wouldn't. She was crying, and the fact that he couldn't hear her meant nothing. She was always crying.

Draco shut himself in the study. It was darker but somehow, the books lining the cold stone walls warmed him. As if their stories shielded him from her but it did little good, as books and Hermione, they went hand-in-hand.

He waved his wand to a few of the brackets and flames shot up and shadows eclipsed him. It was a trick of the eye, fooling him to believe that ghosts were everywhere. Ignoring the feeling that he was being watched by her - or worse, Death Eaters, he snatched a random book from a random shelf and pointed his wand at the meaningless words on a page too dark to read. He then pointed in front of him over the bookcases and the brackets and over the windows, the brightly glowing words settling in the air. From crevice of the ceiling to the floor he traveled to every wall of the room until all was covered in shiny inky words.

Again, he was at a lost for why he was doing it, why he was being nice to the former mudblood. Especially now.

Perhaps because, like she said, there was no blood to discriminate against. She was dead.

"What's better than a dead mudblood? Two!"

That joke used to make him laugh. He would sit in his common room at Hogwarts listening to Blaise Zabini's lame jokes, and he would laugh prompting Gregory and Vincent to laugh as well as they were too slow witted to catch up on their own. However, when her face came to mind, Hemione's face with her light freckles unnoticeable until closer inspection, it twisted his stomach. She was really dead, and those freckles, they weren't there anymore.

How was one supposed to mourn for someone they were supposed to hate? How were they supposed to mourn when that person wouldn't stop haunting them?

Draco fell into a cushioned chair, staring at the words waving before him, transfixed. It would have been nice, to talk to his parents, but they never knew about the real Hermione. If they did, he would have never been able to return home, and maybe that would have been best, in retrospect. Maybe his family would be safer, and maybe Hermione would be alive.

Whoever killed her must have taken her off-guard. She was anything but an easy kill. While she wasn't the best in Defense Against the Dark Arts, she knew spells that would make the Snatchers weep. It couldn't have been an important Death Eater, in that case. Snatchers were the most pathetic sort. Except... Scabior was knowledgeable. He wasn't thick, wasn't bright, but he was the most valuable Snatcher there was. If he snuffed her life while she was running... If she didn't see him... It was plausible.

He had his first suspect. Now how to get to Scabior to test his wand...

The worst case scenario was that he was going to join Hermione if he was caught. It was not the most pleasant thought, but it was better than thinking he'd be living with a depressed ghost for the rest of his life.