A/N: Well, since I developed a major block writing the previous story, while twiddling with it for some while, I came up with this plot. I hope you enjoy the story.


My Immortal-Evanescence

These wounds wont seem to heal,

This pain is just too real,

There's just too much that time cannot erase…


Prologue

"Who is it?" I ask, my voice unsure and quivery.

I have been asking this for weeks now, each time, for a different person, a different body, praying with all my heart that it isn't him.

"Neville Longbottom,"the person replies firmly. The person. The ward to be exact. Most patient to let me in at every check…at every...death.

I stand there transfixed, not knowing what to cry for-sadness at my friend's death, or happiness. Because it isn't him. But its Neville.and yesterday, it was Colin. Day before? Luna, Adrianne and Laura. Before that? I can't remember anymore. I don't want to either.

I give the ward a curt nod, and then walk out of the dingy and eerie room. It wasn't him. Never in the past month was it he. Everyday I would check, my hopes would be beneath a weight of anxiousness. And everyday, it wouldn't be him on the strecher; my hopes would rise, only to be crushed with the weight again.

Everyday, my desperation grew. No one could help me from the bottomless pit of desperation and fear. I was falling fast, and not a glimmer of hope shone anywhere.

"Ms.Granger?"

I turn around swiftly to the voice, its just another curt business like voice speaking to me. How many of them have I heard during this past year? Again, I've forgotten the count. But I do remember to feel my heartbeat quicken and pulse rate increase when I hear them, they are usually from Harry, or else, some important member of the order. And usually, they bear bad news. I cross my fingers more due to instinct rather than fear of the news. A regular habit.

"Yes?" The voice that comes out is hollow and soaked in tinges of fear.

"Mr. Potter has sent you a message," the man said and then hesitated slightly," he says, he didn't find him." the middle aged man ended with confusion evident in his tone and on his face. Ofcourse, it was normal for him to be confused. The message was meant for me, and no one would make sense of it except me.

"Thank you." I reply, not sure where the voice has come out from.

No one had found him. For now, he was alive, and not for the first time I wondered how he really was. And not for the first time a tear slid down my cheek. If only I could've talked to him before he left and told him what I wanted to, clearing up the mess once in for all. If only…I wipe away the tear and step outside the hospital.

Draco was still out there...somewhere.