She wasn't really sure what "come home" was anymore.
Odd, flitting memories of a warm kitchen and smiles. Lots of people, crowded together around the fading wood of a large table, eating roast chicken and laughing about … something. She couldn't remember that part.
Then—barely-there recollections of a stone castle. A red and gold room with loads of children, talking or playing or reading. Odd. There was no kitchen or bedroom or family, but somehow "home" echoed through those rough-hewn images like the shimmering vapors at the edge of a fire.
Next—an old, decrepit house in a large city. Well-hidden—oh, and that it was black, but she couldn't remember why. There had been a table there, too, and more laughter. But also lots of fear. Not that fear kept it from being a home, or resonating with that word. Far from; fear played louder notes than laughter now.
After that: the cell. She'd landed there one day, too exhausted to remember why. The dank, stinky stones had become her walls, her roof, her bed, and her family. She'd been alone there, starved, sick, and crazy. But when they'd taken her from it, she'd missed it, and that made it a home, she vaguely recognized.
Then her home had been the rooms of her old arch-enemy, the one from school. They were vastly warmer than the cell, and lighter than the black house, but colder than the red and gold room and sadder than the large kitchen table. Here she was bathed and fed until her body was healthy again, but the boy—man—didn't touch her. She slept on the bed, he on the couch. Her mind considered healing, and remembered the word 'lonely'—but she couldn't bear more than that.
They'd taken her from him, ripped her away, and she'd gone to live with a new arch-enemy. He was cruel, and she would wake up with wet streaks on her face and wonder where they came from. He laughed and told her that the kitchen table and the red-gold room were gone, and he had happily watched them burn to nothing. The baby died while it was still inside of her.
Now, today, this moment, with the man—Draco—at her window, extending his hand, and inviting her to "come home," she wasn't really sure where she would land next.
But she took it.
A/N: It's not weird. It's experimental.