A/N: Surprise!
Chapter 43 - Strength
When Hermione opened her eyes and pulled away from Draco's hold, dust rained over Malfoy Manor.
The world hadn't quaked at Voldemort's death.
She felt no great, life-altering shift in her soul.
Instead, she was weary, deep in her heart, desperate for solitude and peace. Peace that wasn't punctuated by fear, by desperation.
Her bones ached.
Her throat burned, eyes gritty from the debris that lay scattered on the ground.
Above, smoke curled up into a bright blue sky, visible beyond great, gaping holes in the ceiling. A mosaic of painted canvases littered the floor, mixing garishly with the bleeding bodies of those they had lost. Within the ruined portraits, the painted memories of witches and wizards peered back at them with wide, horrified eyes.
Other paintings snarled nasty curses on the Order's bloodlines. Those were the ones Hermione waved her hand at, shredding the canvas over their mouths and stripping the paint away permanently, to hide venomous words from the survivors.
Survivors. She hadn't allowed herself enough hope to ever consider that word, and yet it hung over them, an entirely new weight she wasn't sure she could handle in the light of day.
Death Eaters and Order members alike lay scattered on the floor, wands discarded and eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling.
Even Voldemort's blood was indistinguishable from the rest, his body limp and ruined in the middle of the cracked tile floor.
Mortal.
A finger of lingering fear ran down Hermione's back at his sightless gaze, and a sharp jerk of her hand sent his body rolling to its stomach.
Around them, the remaining Order members slowly eased out of defensive crouches, disbelief turning to joy as they realised the war was over.
Finally, after long years of hiding, they'd managed to escape the oppression of Voldemort and end his reign forever.
Hermione knew she ought to have been more excited, should have felt more than the unending chasm that had opened in her chest, but she couldn't dismiss the foreboding that rioted in her core.
It was the end of the war, yes… but the rebuilding would take years, and she was sure it was only a matter of time before the Ministry reformed, then came after her and Draco for their role in the destruction.
She was Gryffindor's Golden Girl no longer.
The furrow between Draco's brows confirmed his thoughts mirrored her own, but with a squeeze, she tilted her face up to his, wiping her eyes against the hem of her shirt.
"Can I have a minute?" Her voice was hoarse from tears and the furor of her spells in battle, the sound of it strange to her own tears. "I need to—" A knot in her throat forced a crack into her words, and she swallowed sharply, trying again. "I have to say goodbye. Even after—"
She couldn't bring herself to say out loud that he'd been her friend, that she owed Ron a proper goodbye. But Draco seemed to understand, bringing their clasped hands up to his lips and pressing a kiss to her split knuckles. "Go. Do what you have to do. Theo, Luna, and I will be in my quarters." He squeezed her hand once more before he stepped back with a soft smile. "We'll meet you there."
Her answering smile was tremulous, a fresh wave of tears threatening as she turned back to her friend.
Ginny had been pulled away at some point, led to the area where a witch she didn't recognise tended to the wounded.
Already, witches and wizards were flitting about the drawing room, searching for the injured and dead. Kingsley was rounding up those who were uninjured, directing them towards the Death Eaters in various stages of incapacitation. But Hermione took a deep breath, settling down on the floor next to Ron.
His wand lay discarded at his side, but his left hand still wrapped around a familiar chain.
Part of her felt guilt at prying his fingers open, slipping the locket from between his fingers, but the other part needed confirmation that he'd found his way back to the light in the end.
The locket's edges were worn with age, a dark, mottled burn seared through the side where Ron had destroyed it. With a deep breath, she clicked the metal open, seeking what she was certain lay within.
Nestled within the ruined emerald velvet, a nondescript, crudely crafted stone stared back at her. Divets were etched into the edges where it'd once been set into a ring band, so familiar from her memories of the band Dumbledore had worn, and Hermione smiled sadly.
Tipping the locket over, she dumped the stone into her hand. Its unassuming weight rested in her palm, light bouncing off its facets. The remaining third of the Deathly Hallows.
She allowed herself a moment to grieve their loss of innocence, the destruction of their childhood, before she slipped the locket back into Ron's fingertips, closing them tightly over the metal and leaving his redemption with him.
With one last squeeze of his cooling hand, she stood, making her way toward the hall, through the double doors that hung haphazardly from their hinges, the Resurrection Stone still cradled in her palm.
Marble busts had fallen from their stands, the countenances of wizards long dead shattered on the floor. The remaining frames lining the halls were empty, their backdrops standing in sharp relief against the golden filigree of their frames. The painting she had contemplated with Narcissa so long ago was eerily cheerful among the destruction, and the painful reminder of where she'd been when she last looked upon it, the memory of the woman whom she'd forged a tentative truce with before it, forced another lump in her throat.
It seemed her journey was bookended by tears.
But as she turned to the door to her old quarters, a bright, tinkling peal of laughter sounded within, and a small smile worked its way to her lips as she pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold.
Luna lay sprawled on her old bed, the hangings she had shredded long removed. Theo sat on the edge with her head cradled in his lap, running his fingers through her long, blonde curls as he worked out the knots and debris. They spoke lowly to each other, entirely lost in each other.
"We've come a long way." Draco's voice sounded right beside her, and she startled, turning toward him.
He stood with his hands in his pocket, gaze alternating between the low-burning fire and their friends nestled together. In the low light, shadows cut across his face, emphasising the stubble on his cheeks and the hollows beneath his eyes, as though the weight of everything they'd been through had finally settled fully on him.
Stretching out her hand, she beckoned him toward her, a fresh wave of tears threatening, but when he slotted his fingers between hers, she aimed a lop-sided smile at him. "They deserve the reprieve. We all do." Lifting up onto her toes, she pressed a chaste kiss to his lips.
His response was a study in contrast, his tongue darting out to trace the seam of her lips as he twined his fingers into the hair at the base of her neck. It was a welcome distraction, and she melted into him for a brief moment, her hand fluttering up to ghost over his jaw, before the clearing of a throat interrupted them, drawing them apart.
"I'd say to get a room, but it looks like we've stolen your space," Theo snarked, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, softening the quip. "Hard to believe we made it out alive."
Luna smiled serenely up at the ceiling, the constellations painted on the moulding winking down at her. "Narcissa isn't a woman to be trifled with." She grew silent, pensively sucking her lip between her teeth, correctly herself quietly after a moment. "Wasn't."
With a gentle tug on Draco's hand, Hermione led him to the bed, settling on Luna's other side and grasping the girl's hand. "She wasn't." After a moment, she lifted her gaze to Theo. "What happened at Hogwarts?"
Theo settled the Sword of Gryffindor on his knees, frowning down at it. "I almost didn't believe it. Thought it was a trap." He grimaced, tapping the ruby in the centre thoughtfully. "We arrived in Snape's office; Narcissa brokered our entrance—she said something of a life debt."
Hermione's lips flattened into a thin line, wondering at the many secrets the woman had taken to the grave with her when Theo moved, jostling Luna as he lifted a swath of fabric from the duvet. "I think you ought to have this."
Before her, the fabric swirled and shifted, taking on the characteristics of the room behind it. Her breath caught in her throat as she fisted it, bringing the fabric to her face. Memories of nights running through the castle with Harry and Ron beneath its weight flashed through her mind, and she imagined if she concentrated hard enough, she might be able to smell Harry's shampoo or Ron's chocolate in its folds. With a deep breath, she turned to Theo, tears of gratitude blurring his face. "Thank you."
He didn't answer but for a slight nod, and Hermione looked away, trying to gather herself.
"Professor Snape was injured," Luna said, her normally whimsical voice breaking the silence Theo's gift had brought, a dulled quality colouring it as she stared sightlessly upwards. "He didn't fight her, and when we returned, he wasn't in the headmaster's office any longer, and Narcissa—"
"She was gone," Theo finished, his voice rough around the emotion that shined in his eyes. "But it was peaceful, I think." He squeezed the hilt of the sword, his lips twisting to the side as he fought for the words to say. "As we were leaving, the Sorting Hat spoke. Said that we'd showed a courage far beyond the leaders of the wizarding world had, that we had earned the honour of wielding the Gryffindor founder's legacy." He huffed a laugh. "I almost left, couldn't bring myself to turn around to accept the honour—old habits and whatnot—but Luna stopped me." He aimed a bright smile at her. "The sword was resting on the desk."
Hermione nodded, but Luna interrupted, her high voice serious. "The hat said that help would always be given to those at Hogwarts who asked. But I suppose sometimes it knows what we need without asking."
Theo cleared his throat, directing his gaze towards the ceiling. "There were so many other people who needed help… Narcissa. Neville. All those first years the Carrows tormented. Why—"
But Draco shook his head, drawing Hermione's attention. His eyes were rimmed with red as he pushed upright, crossing the room to the door that separated his quarters from hers. "She knew. Mother knew what would happen. If she'd wanted to avoid it, she had plenty of opportunities." Ducking his head, he disappeared into his quarters.
Though Hermione ached to follow him, her heart heavy in her chest, she allowed him the privacy distance afforded. Theo and Luna clung to each other, guilt evident in every line of Theo's features, but several minutes of silence prompted all of them to follow him, crowding into the door frame.
Draco stood in the middle of his threadbare room, hands shoved deep in his pockets again as his shoulders curved inward. Unable to stop herself, Hermione crossed the room, threading her arm through his.
Despite the sorrow rippling off him, she offered him her strength as she leaned into him.
Draco was rigid beside her, his face chalk-white as he breathed shallowly through his nose and exhaled slowly out his mouth. "Was it—"
"Snape?" Theo finished from the doorway. Shaking his head, he crossed the room and settled a hand on Draco's shoulder with a rough squeeze. "No, mate. I think— well, I think she just passed."
Nauseated, Hermione looked up, her hand clenching tighter around the Resurrection Stone as she fought the tears that threatened again. "She sacrificed herself for us, Draco."
If his body stilled any further she'd have thought him stone. When he finally looked at her, red ringed his eyes. "How do you know?"
Emotion staying her tongue, Hermione reached for him. "I felt it—felt her." She cleared her throat around the knot lodged in it. "She brought the warding around the manor down. While your father was… while he was torturing you, she brought the walls down. It's how the Order got in."
Turning away from her, Draco picked up the photograph of him and his mother, the place it had rested clear of the dust that covered the rest of the table. Draco wrapped an arm around Hermione's waist and propped his chin on her shoulder. In the photograph, Narcissa stared down at Draco adoringly.
"When I was a boy, my mother stayed in the room that was yours, Hermione." Draco's voice is quiet, pensive and full of pain. "She was my best friend." His chin quivered against her shoulder. "And now she's gone."
The Resurrection Stone felt heavy in her hand, guilt a weight on her chest, but something told her that he needed a moment to heal before he was confronted by his mother's ghost.
Theo pulled Luna upright, making for the door, but the blonde witch stopped, flitting back across the floor to them. Before either of them could react, Luna launched herself into Draco, wrapping her arms around his waist in a fierce hug. "She was proud of you, your mother." She leaned back, a brilliant smile lighting up her face. "Narcissa will always be there, you know?" Luna leaned back, laying her hand against Draco's chest. "In there." She gestured out the window, toward the rose gardens. "Out there. She's everywhere. You just have to look."
Draco allowed a sob to slip loose, and Luna backed away with a watery smile of her own, accepting Theo's hand as he led her out the open door. Emotions threatening to bowl her over, Hermione stepped into Draco's space, fitting herself against the lines of his body and tucking her head into the crook between his shoulder and neck.
The steady thump of his heart momentarily calmed the emotions raging in her as they breathed each other in.
They were alive.
She had the stone. The wand. The cloak. They'd be okay.
With a deep breath, Draco pulled away, settling his hands on her shoulders as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Do you mind?" His gaze travelled over the room, a wistful pull at his lips. "I'd like to go check the tapestry in the library… see if it's still intact, if my mother's— if her entry has been updated."
Hand tightening on the stone, Hermione nodded, stepping out of his grasp. "Go. I've a few things to take care of myself." She leaned up on her toes again, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "If you need me, send a Patronus. I'll be there in a minute."
A tremour wracked through him as he looked down on her, but the light in his gaze didn't dim for the sorrow he felt. "I love you, witch."
Her own answering smile warmed her through. "I love you, too."
The grounds of Malfoy Manor were quiet, but a sense of peace had already begun to spring forth from the destruction.
In the haze of it all, Hermione exited the front doors, now hanging from their hinges and marred by scorch marks of deflected scars during the battle. Perhaps it was her own projection, but the air felt lighter in a way she'd not felt since her childhood, since first stepping foot on the grounds at Hogwarts.
Her heart felt like it had space to beat in her chest, unencumbered by the heavy weight of dread she had carried since her sixth year.
Around her, green seemed to seep back into the foliage, the vines wending over the manor's facade curling with vitality again. Even as the home shattered inside, it began to rebuild.
There was hope, then, for the rest of the wizarding world.
She wasn't a fool; she knew that some of the Dark Lord's sycophants had fled and were likely hiding in the wings waiting for an opportunity to rise. And they would—they'd rise.
But now, she had hope that the world over would combat them.
She wandered aimlessly, taking in the expanse of the Malfoy grounds. It had been beautiful in its day, full of rare magical plants that were likely worth more than she'd ever see—
Even that thought alone sent a burst of joy through her, that she could imagine a future again in which the banality of things like income would be of concern for her. But even as she laughed, sorrow flitted through her.
So much had been lost, and there was so much, yet, to rebuild. The Ministry was in shambles, wizards and witches missing all over London… and there would be trials.
That part frightened her more than any other, and she clenched her fist around the stone in her hand.
With a deep breath, she settled on one of the benches dotting the rose garden. The weight of the Resurrection Stone was heavy in her hand as she turned it thrice, squeezing her eyes closed against the emotion that threatened to drag her under.
Several tense moments passed, during which the sounds of nature slowly returned around her. Birds squawked overhead, returning to their once-abandoned nests. Shoulders slumping, Hermione opened her eyes, her vision blurred by unshed tears.
But she gathered herself, trying to quash the knot deep in her core, and pushed upright from the bench. Her aching muscles screamed in protest at being forced to move, but she turned toward the castle, intent on returning and finding Dra—
"Hermione?"
She froze.
The voice was familiar, though not the one she'd expected, and she bolstered herself, turning slowly toward the source.
Her gaze settled on the form—dishevelled red hair, freckles, knit Weasley jumper… he looked like her favourite memories of her friend, and she distantly wondered if the stone brought them to the user the way they loved them most fiercely. A choked sob escaped her, mangling his name until it was nearly unintelligible. "Ron."
Even in his spectral form, he blushed furiously, shame colouring his cheeks and ears. "Hi, 'Mione."
That old nickname unleashed the tears from her eyes, and she stepped forward, longing to cup his face in her hands one last time. One of her oldest friends, and he was finally back with her.
Instead, she lingered close enough that she thought she might feel the warmth of his presence had he been corporeal, and she fought the hiccup of betrayal that lanced through her.
"'Mione?" He ducked his head, a sheepish frown pulling at his features. "It needs to be said—I'm sorry. I know it doesn't make up for anything. Nothing at all, really. But—"
"It was a chance to feel like you were doing something to save your family," she finished, trying to fill in the blanks.
He shrugged, still unable to meet her gaze. "Some of it, I suppose. I wanted to give them a chance to survive. Fat lot of good that did." His voice broke in the middle of the sentence, and he paused for a moment to collect himself. "But now… I was wrong. So wrong. I thought that all I needed was a chance to prove that I was worthy of being in the spotlight. And I envied you and Harry for so long—"
Tears clouded her vision again, the reminder of who—what—he had become too painful to forgive. "I can't forgive you. Not for that. Not for becoming the person you did and inflicting all the pain you did on all of us. On Luna." The whimsical blonde's image flashed through Hermione's mind, the way she'd curled in upon herself after striking Ron down. "You've hurt a lot of people, broken too many things."
He nodded, disgust evident in his features. "I know. And I don't expect forgiveness. Whatever happens after—" Kicking at a rock in his path, his lips screwed up in an imitation of a smile, though Hermione could see the fear that shot through it. "I deserve whatever comes next, if anything does at all. I just wanted you to know how much I regret it all. And if I could take it back—"
"But you can't," she interrupted, feeling his exasperation with her. "Ron, I love you—you were always one of my dearest friends, and I'll always remember you for that. But you let your jealousy get the best of you, and you betrayed everything that we stood for. Maybe someday I'll be able to forgive you, but not now." She heaved in a deep breath, willing her tears not to fall again. "And most of that forgiveness isn't mine to offer."
It was freeing, to express her frustration and heartbreak with Ron even as her heart raced in her chest. So much of the last year had been pushed into motion because of him, and allowing him to act as though he was a victim in this wasn't a game she was willing to play. While she didn't want to be the reason his spirit lingered…
He didn't deserve her forgiveness.
"Go on, Ron. See whatever comes after this life. And when I'm ready—if I'm ever ready—you'll know." She couldn't bear to look back at him, to see the pain in those eyes—those human, familiar eyes that were so like the friend's she'd grown with—but when she finally gathered the nerve, the place he'd been standing in was empty.
"You've always been the strong one."
The voice came from behind her, and Hermione whirled, eyes wide. "Harry!"
Standing with his hands in his pockets, he smiled at her. Blue zip-up jacket, striped t-shirt beneath it, he looked comfortable and relaxed. The ever-present worried crease to his brow was gone, soothed by the impermanence of his existence on whatever spiritual plane he lingered. "You did it." He paused, a cheeky grin threatening on his lips. "Always knew you could."
If he was before her, she'd have swatted him. Since he wasn't, she aimed a sardonic lift of her brow at him. "Would have been nice to have that kind of confidence when you were alive."
Whether her acknowledgement of his death bothered him, he didn't give any indication. "It seems that death has mellowed some of my incessant arseholery."
That earned a genuine laugh from her even as emotion crowded in her throat. "I miss you."
He sobered. "I miss you, too. And yet—"
"You don't," she finished.
"No, I do." He rushed to correct her, grimacing a bit at his faux paus. "I do miss you. But, Hermione, it's like I can breathe again. Which makes no sense as I have no reason to breathe." He huffed a laugh. "But here… I don't have to worry about who's out to get me or saving the future of magic or any of that rubbish."
She smiled, the admission healing a small part of the guilt in her. "You're at peace."
He rocked back on his heels, a sheepish quirk to his lips. "Yeah, I suppose I am." He was quiet, contemplative, for a moment. "I don't know where I'll go after this; it feels sort of like a last act kind of thing. But I'm okay with it. It'll be nice, I think, to rest."
A tear rolled down her cheek, a lump of regret lodged in her throat. "I'm—" Her voice broke, and she looked away, clearing it with a harsh cough before she tried again. "I'm happy that you're content, Harry. And I'm so sorry."
Waving her away, he crossed the few feet between them, stopping alongside her. "This is the part where I reassure you that I'm fine, but I know you'll never really believe me, so I'm going to tell you something else instead."
That was… not what she expected, but Hermione tipped her head at him with a quiet sniffle, waiting.
After a minute, he started, "You know that spell that Malfoy hit you with?"
Hermione frowned. "The curse, yes. What about it?"
"It's not really a curse," he refuted, shaking his head with a sad smile. "We've all done things we regret, 'Mione, but the person you became? You were strong because you always are, cold because you needed to be." He reached for her hand and frowned when it passed through hers. "I know you, which means I also know that you'll beat yourself up for how you acted. Maybe not now, while you're still settling into this life. But you'll think about it later."
She couldn't deny that truth, the regret and horror at the witch she'd become pacing just in the back of her mind where she'd forcefully shoved it to survive.
"You're not whatever you'll tell yourself you are. You did what you had to to cope," Harry continued, smiling at her. "They made you into a weapon, but you sought peace. And you found it, in the familial magic of the Malfoys, because you knew where you belonged all along." Silence fell between them before he finished. "Survival isn't always pretty—but you made your way back to us in the end."
They were affirmations she wasn't sure she could accept at the moment, so she turned to Harry, admiring his spectral form with more than a little sorrow. But when his lip quirked up, her intuition spiked and she arched a Malfoy-esque brow at him. "What else aren't you telling me?"
His laughter shook through him, so much more carefree in death. "I've never been able to keep much from you." He sobered, looking her in the eyes. "See, the thing about being a ghost is that I get to talk to other ghosties here." Harry smirked at his own joke, shaking his head. "And— well, Aunt Walburga is more forthcoming when she's not shrieking about Mudbloods."
Huffing a disbelieving laugh, Hermione gestured for him to continue.
"Well…" He rubbed the back of his head uncomfortably. "Back in the day, it wasn't considered a curse. Though, I suppose by modern standards it would be simply because there isn't much knowledge of it and the magic is bordering illegality."
"Harry, you're stalling," Hermione warned, nerves racing down her spine.
Another sheepish grin as he tilted his head down. "Right, well, it wasn't considered a curse back in the day so much as a betrothal spell."
At that, Hermione loosened a laugh. "I'm aware of that, Harry. Narcissa noted that it was what the spell was originally created for, but—"
"It's bound by— well, what I mean to say is the betrothal is completed upon… intimate relations between the parties," Harry stammered, colour flashing bright on his ears. "What I mean to say is—"
"Draco and I are… we're married?" she gasped, her knees giving out, and she plopped gracelessly onto the bench. "I— how do we even… married?" Full sentences eluded her, so she blinked up at Harry, who offered her a pained grimace.
Settled down beside her, he shrugged. "You are—even the Black family tapestry reflects the union." He canted his head at her. "Can't be as big of a shock for you as it was for me. I had to learn that not only was my best friend in love with a Malfoy without ever having been told she was dating one but also that she was married to the git."
Automatically, she responded, "He's not a git." A snorted laugh. "Okay, he's not always a git." She moved to knock her shoulder with his, but was greeted by the harsh cold of his ghostly form. "He never wanted any of this, Harry." Gesturing toward the husk of the manor, Hermione sighed. "We were all just kids… and he wanted out so young, but his father…"
Harry shook his head. "You don't have to explain, Hermione. I've been here. For a long time. I've seen the way he treats you, the way he looks at you. I saw how broken up he was when you remembered him at the cabin, and—"
Her gasp interrupted him. "It was you. In the woods. You were watching?" At his nod, another tear slid down her cheek. "I felt you there."
"I hoped… I couldn't get to you because of the warding, but I've been here the whole time, Hermione. I'll be there whenever you need me." He gestured to the Ressurection Stone grasped tightly in her hand. "If you ever need me, you know how it works: three turns, and I'll be here."
Lips turning down, Hermione shook her head. "I couldn't interrupt your peace like that, Harry. You deserve—"
But he turned to her, expression adamant. "I meant it, Hermione. Three turns of the stone and I'll be here. You set me free of a life that made me miserable. I'll always be watching out for you, but if you need me, you know how to find me."
Bowing her head, Hermione searched for the words to respond, but when nothing came, she looked up at him, trying to memorise his features. Messy hair, lightning bolt scar, and glasses always just a hair crooked on the end of his nose, she studied him. "I love you, Harry. Always have, always will."
"I know, 'Mione." He sighed. "I know."
They sat in silence for a moment, both observing the grounds as they slowly came back to life, the bleakness lifting from them.
"You go," he finally said, gesturing toward the house. "Go find your wizard; I have it on good authority that he's panicking in the Malfoy library that he backed you into a marriage without your consent. I'll be here."
Harry's form flickered, but she caught her breath in her throat, rising quickly. "Draco— My parents—"
An understanding smile flashed across his face. "They're here, Hermione. And they're proud of you. They—" He paused, appearing to search for the right words. "Since they're not magical beings, they can't breach the plane. But they're here. And they love you." He looked just beyond her shoulder, and Hermione turned, following his gaze.
She couldn't see them, but he was right; she could feel them, almost as though her mother had rested her hands on her shoulders, her father brushing a reassuring kiss to her forehead in the breeze that blew through the rose bushes, scattering petals around her.
And when Hermione lifted her head to thank him again, Harry was gone.
She wasn't sure how long she stayed in the gardens after that, but she sent Draco a Patronus to reassure him that everything was fine, and when her tears ran dry and her emotions felt spent from the grief she allowed to pour forth among the foliage, Hermione returned to the manor.
Already, she felt lighter. The fallout of the war would be heavy; there had been too much destruction, too much violence—some even at her own hand—to make it out of this unscathed. It was simply a matter of time.
Nonetheless, Hermione felt a smile playing at the corners of her lips, a sense of hope unfurling in her stomach. It was finally over. No matter what came, she would make it through. With Theo and Luna. With Draco. Together. Just as they'd survived the war.
Rounding the last rose bush, Hermione wasn't surprised to hear an unobtrusive clearing of a throat behind her.
The spectral form reclined on one of the last benches in the garden, her face turned toward the slowly-blooming rose bushes before her. Hermione didn't break the silence between them, choosing to settle on the bench with a quiet hiss at her aching bones.
"It does my soul well to see the garden in bloom again." Narcissa's voice was wistful, but the lines around her eyes had disappeared, her mouth set in a playful tilt. "The manor was long suffocated by the darkness we allowed in our world." Finally, the woman cut her gaze to Hermione. "Thank you for driving it out."
Hermione's eyes rounded at the statement, and though her first instinct was to deflect the gratitude, something in the way Narcissa held her head proudly told Hermione that it would be a slight the woman wouldn't forgive. Instead, she settled on, "Thank you. For laying the board in a way that would afford me that opportunity."
A musical laugh spilled from Narcissa's lips, and Hermione balked as the woman threw her head back in the genuine peal of laughter. "Oh, you do indulge me so." Canting her head at Hermione, Narcissa sobered. "You saved my son. And that is a debt I'll never be able to repay."
The gravity of the words settled between them, and Hermione grimaced. "He'd have done—and did do—the same for me." She thought for a moment, chewing on her lip. "Draco is inside; you might— I didn't want to overwhelm him with—"
Narcissa reached out, her hand skimming over Hermione's thigh, and the chill of the contact pulled a shudder out of her. Frowning, Narcissa leaned back, eyes tracing the broken facade of her family home. "Not yet. He needs time to heal, I think." Eyes shining with moisture, she looked away, clenching her fingers together. "Someday, but now I would like for him to have time to heal. To move forward." A beat. "With you."
A flush burning in her cheeks, Hermione looked away, studying the roses before her. With the bulk of the war behind her, Hermione couldn't chase away the sudden and overwhelming notion that she was no longer good enough, and it bled into her answering question. "And what if that's not what he wants?"
She could feel Narcissa's analytical stare, could nearly hear the gears turning in the pure-blood woman's head. "You forget, dear, that I am a Seer. I know these things." Another bright peal of laughter left the woman. "And I know my son."
Unbidden, the question tumbled out of Hermione's mouth. "What happens next?" She coloured, embarrassed by her lack of tact, and tried again. "Is it worth it—all of this?"
"Was it worth it to defeat Lord Voldemort? To try to stamp out the darkness from the world or risk losing it entirely?" Narcissa's gaze lingered over the husk of her ancestral home. "I would say so. We— you," she corrected, "no longer have to live in fear for your life. It's over. Voldemort is gone, no more horcruxes to bring him back."
Hermione hummed her agreement. "But his followers—"
"Are scattered half across the globe, by now. Gone, taking hidden Portkeys to whatever safehold they managed to hide away for themselves." Narcissa studied her, lips pursed. "That isn't to say you won't ever have to face them—it is possible. But you and Draco. Theo, Luna, Mister Longbottom… you've all done what was needed to survive the war. Be at peace, dear one."
The endearment, so soon after Harry's reassurance from her own mother, pulled at Hermione's heartstrings, and she turned away to wipe the tears that once again threatened. Gathering herself, she turned to face Narcissa again. "I don't know how to thank you."
Narcissa's answering smile was brilliant. "Live." Unfolding herself from her recline, Narcissa approached the roses, inhaling deeply as though she could preserve their smell wherever she would depart to. "That's what you can do. Live a full, wonderful life. Make my son happy." She threw a mischievous smirk over her shoulder. "Perhaps give the Malfoy line a grandson—or granddaughter, I'm not partial."
Hermione allowed herself to crack a grin, her stomach somersaulting at the idea of a life with Draco. Of time not marked by war and terror and fleeting moments in a shack in the countryside. Fear seized her again, and she pressed the woman. "And you… know?"
Understanding washed over the woman's features, and she stepped away from the roses. "Hermione, dear, you've nothing to worry about." She reached her hand out, cupping the air beneath Hermione's chin in a motherly gesture. "There will be bumps—no path is always smooth—but it will be a happy life. A good life."
Though vague, the reassurance calmed some of Hermione's fears, and she nodded. "Thank you. For everything."
But Narcissa stepped back, allowing her hand to fall at her side as she offered Hermione a demure smile. "It is I who should be thanking you. Without you, my dear son would not be here." Her voice cracked on emotion. "Go on. I'll be here. The manor has always been my home. I shan't leave it yet. I've family to look after."
Hermione recognised the dismissal and turned, heading back toward the manor, though she couldn't help but turn and watch the matriarch disappear into the hedges. In her heart, Hermione knew she would see Narcissa again, and so she allowed the woman her rest.
The air was growing cooler as the sun set, a bite to it signalling that spring hadn't fully arrived. Hermione marvelled at the parallel to their life at the moment as she ducked back into the manor, strolling past empty portrait frames. They'd weathered the worst of it, but Narcissa had been right; there were still storms to come.
Entering the hall, Hermione found her gaze lingering on the remaining witches and wizards. Neville had arranged one half of the room in a makeshift hospital, flitting back and forth taking care of the wounded. On the other side, Kingsley recorded the names of the deceased and missing, Death Eaters, Order members, and civilians alike.
A shadow fell on her, startling her, but she immediately relaxed into the figure when they spoke low in her ear. "We made it."
She turned, looking up into Draco's deep grey gaze. Heart in her throat, she nodded. "We made it."
"What next?" Uncertainty coloured his tone, and Hermione reached down, tangling her fingers in his as they crossed the room to help the survivors.
Narcissa's words in Hermione's head, she smiled, pressing up onto her toes to place a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. They could talk through the details later.
"We live."
End of Part IV
A/N: Hi friends! This chapter is coming at you early and is a bit modified. Some of you might have noticed that the chapter count dipped by one. Because of the stuff going on IRL, I've combined what was originally chapters 43 and 44 into one massive chapter to release to you all today. That means that we only have one chapter left, the epilogue, to post—it will go up Saturday.
So many of you responded to my author's note last chapter, and I just want you all to know that I'll be responding to everyone individually but also am here. You're all so loved. Each of your reviews genuinely makes my day. It's crazy, isn't it? How a whole community of strangers can make you feel so much stronger when you feel weak? Even if we've not personally talked, I want you all to know that I see you and appreciate you. And you matter. And we'll come out of this stronger together—how fitting is it that the last full chapter is titled Strength? I feel like I'm waxing poetic here, but I just feel compelled to share my heart with everyone that I love y'all. And if I can do anything, don't hesitate to reach out! I don't have much to give, but I'll happily write you something to escape in for a bit. So if you have a oneshot request, drop it in your review and I'll try to get it to you ASAP!
Endless thanks to LadyKenz347 and tofadeawayagain for literally flying through the last chapters last night and today so I could post. This story is still being posted because of them, so drop them some love, too, if you don't mind.
