Disclaimer: All J.K. Rowling's

SHADOWS OF OURSELVES
Chapter 25: Post-Mortem

Post-mortem: Analysis of a game after it has concluded.

Thursday, January 1, 2004

Hermione slowly opened her eyes and stared up at a slightly revolving pattern of gold gilt curlicues. She squeezed them shut for a moment before opening them again. This time the ornate rococo ceiling didn't move. There was only one place in the Manor where the pastel green of her rooms and the dark green of his came together in a tasteful, seamless combination.

The Malfoy Bedroom.

Her head swam slightly as she pushed herself up into a sitting position. She slipped out from under the thick comforter, her feet sinking into the lush carpet. Standing felt strange, as if she hadn't done it in a long time. She had to steady herself on one of the posts of the bed as her legs lazily protested taking her weight.

After a moment, she felt steadier and made her way rather ungracefully to the bay windows. She was just about to open the one that led out into the verandah when—

"Ah, Sleeping Beauty finally wakes."

She turned in time to see Draco walk in, flawless in a dark grey wool suit, crisp white shirt, and Slytherin green silk tie. He was balancing a tray of food on one hand, a copy of the Daily Prophet tucked under his arm.

"Good morning," he greeted, as if bringing her breakfast in bed was an everyday occurrence. He set the tray and paper down on the bedside table, picked up the dressing gown that was draped over the foot of the bed, and walked over to where she was standing. Reaching around her, he opened the doors. Instead of being blasted by the cold, winter air like she expected, a warm, spring breeze flitted in.

"Weather Charm," Draco explained, "but, still, put this on."

She stared down at the robe. It matched the light green silk pajamas she was wearing.

"You wear it," he said as if talking to an particularly slow person, "like so." She stared at him as he took the robe and forced her arms through the sleeves. His face was perfectly expressionless, but he tied the belt for her rather more roughly than necessary. Double knot.

He went to the balustrade, looking out over the manor grounds. He cut an impressive figure standing there, the master of Malfoy Manor. Yet it all felt quite strange, it didn't feel quite … real.

A startling thought occurred to her. "Are we … alive?"

This forced a laugh from Draco. "Yes, Granger, we're alive," he assured her. "Just barely in your case," he added quietly, so she almost didn't hear. Almost.

"What happened?"

He didn't turn around. "Your stupid idea worked," he said, speaking to the horizon. "The Avada destroyed the parts of Voldemort's soul that were inside you and Potter. The sword was already in Voldemort's chest, so he burned as soon as they were destroyed." Something seemed to snap in him. "What a fucking stupid gamble, Granger! You had no way of knowing that the Sacrificial Protection Spell would work that way, on both of you!"

He took a shuddering breath. She wished he'd turn around so she could see his face.

"Your stupid idea worked," he repeated, calm once more. "And it nearly killed you."

"But it didn't."

He let out a slow breath. "No, it didn't."

"But it worked?" she croaked.

"The other Death Eaters are still at large, but they'll be rounded up soon. There's an interim Ministry set up until elections can take place. People are starting to return."

It was too good to be true. She was too scared to believe it. Any second now, she was going to wake up and find out it was all just a wonderful dream.

He finally turned around. He'd set aside his mask for the moment, and his gray eyes were a swirl of emotion.

"You did it, Granger," he said, eyes shining with pride and admiration and ... something else. "Well, Potterhelped, I suppose, but you."

"Do you mean… Is it really over, Malfoy?" she asked in a strangled voice.

His eyes softened. "Yes, Granger," he said steadily. "It is."

Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle the single sob that escaped her. She tried in vain to marshal some semblance of control, but it was too late. They had survived. They had won. It was all over. It all had been worth it. She was shaking, sobbing, shattering into a million pieces. With two strides, he closed the distance between them and pulled her tightly to his chest, holding her close, holding her together.

"Granger, are you all—?"

The world spun, and suddenly she was inside again, lying on the bed while Draco settled himself into the comfortable armchair next to it. "Do you want something to eat?" he asked. She shook her head. "You'll have something to eat," he decided, pouring her a glass of juice. If she hadn't been too busy crying, she would have told him exactly where to put the piece of toast he was shoving at her.

"I'm not hungry," she said, wiping futilely at the endless stream of tears coming from her eyes.

Draco sighed as he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out an immaculate silk handkerchief, and handed it to her. "Of course you are. You've been out of it for a week. Oh, Happy New Year, by the way."

"What?!" That was enough to jolt her out of her tears. "I've been unconscious for a week?!"

"Yes, dying can really wear you out. Eggs?"

"Malfoy! What about everyone else? Where are they? What happened to them? Are they all right?"

"Calm down before you make yourself sick. Honestly, you almost die once and suddenly it's high-strung Prefect Granger resurrected."

He took the time to calmly finish his coffee, and Hermione was ready to strangle him by the time he got to the last drop.

"The Order is intact … mostly," he said, setting aside his cup, settling back in the armchair, and brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "Of the 'only remaining members of the glorious Order of the Phoenix', only Moody pegged out. Well, pegged-leg out, actually…"

"Malfoy!" Hermione objected sharply.

Her relief quickly giving way to anger, she glowered at him as she viciously stabbed at the eggs and tore at the toast he had offered her. The effect of her glare was entirely lost on Draco, since she rather resembled a squirrel storing away nuts for winter with her cheeks bulging like that.

"Slow down before you make yourself sick," he said, pulling the sausages out of her reach and doling out a couple links onto her plate. "Prof. Werewolf and Crazy Hair made it out with just a few scratches. Shacklebolt was hit with a curse in his shoulder, but it's mending, thanks to Red, who turns out is a bit of a Healer."

She gulped down her orange juice. "And Harry and Ron?"

"Weasel got a good knock on the head, but even if there's permanent damage, I'm sure we won't notice any difference."

She had no idea where this carefree, flippant Draco had come from, but she certainly didn't prefer it to the dark, brooding version. Definitely not. Maybe.

"And Harry?" she insisted. "Harry's all right, of course?"

"Of course," he agreed. "Potty just had to, er, flush a bit of Voldemort out of his system, just like you."

"And he's gone for sure? There aren't any more Horcruxes? There's no chance he can come back?"

"See for yourself."

He reached over and pushed her sleeve up to expose her Mark. She suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature … because she suddenly felt inordinately warm due to his proximity. A smile teased his lips, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

"It's fading," she realized.

"It's already lighter than the lightest it ever was for my father in the years after Voldemort first fell. In a few weeks, it will be gone complete—Merlin, you're not crying again, are you?"

Hermione had turned away and was using her hair as a curtain in a desperate attempt to hide her tears from him. "No," she replied, in a very shaky, very unconvincing voice.

Draco gave a long-suffering sigh. "Haven't you run out yet?"

"I think I've earned it," she snapped, though an adorable hiccup quite ruined the effect. She swiped at her cheeks with his handkerchief, but the tears did not subside.

"You do understand that we won, correct?"

She buried her face in her hands. "Yes, yes! It's just … I can't even begin to wrap my head around the fact that it's over. Pinch me or something, Malfoy! I can't believe it—"

He did something better. He kissed her.

There was nothing gentle about the kiss. It was as jarring and bruising as a pinch, a sharp jolt of reality and the stuff dreams were made of. It was everything that Draco was: insisting and relentless, selfish and egotistic, always demanding more of her and somehow giving her even more than that. She found in that moment she didn't care if this was all real or not, as long as he didn't stop ... as long as he never stopped.

When they finally pulled away for the sake of air, she found that he somehow had moved from the armchair and was now sitting beside her on the bed. He met her gaze steadily.

"Draco…" she breathed.

"It doesn't sound right when you call me that." He smirked, but his voice was soft.

"Malfoy, then…" she amended.

"Yes, Granger?" he prompted.

She couldn't remember what she wanted to say. Her mind felt sluggish. Well, she had been asleep for a week, after all. It had nothing whatsoever with the way he was looking at her.

"I…"

He was much too close, crowding logic and sense out of her mind. Not that she minded. Ha.

"You…?"

With her hair frizzier than usual from laying down for so long, her cheeks pale and tear-stained, and her eyes red and puffy, Hermione looked a far cry from the glamorous Madam Malfoy who had once been on the cover of Witch Weekly. He found he quite preferred this version.

"I'm glad you didn't die, Malfoy," she whispered, linking their hands.

He smiled. It would never be direct with them, and he would have it no other way.

"I'm glad you didn't die either, Granger."

They were much too close, but neither tried move away. His hand tightened around hers almost painfully. Almost. The distance between them was slowly closing once again—

Crack!