Shades of Grey

Chapter Twenty-Five: Stagnant

"Speak low if you speak love."

- William Shakespeare

Death hung in the air, stagnant and suffocating. Hermione watched the injured carted away from Lestrange Manor with a final, detached air about her person; she was hardly aware of the people shuffling in and out of the estate. Nor was she conscious of the remaining prisoners of war who spat at her feet, deeming her a filthy Mudblood and Draco a traitor for partnering up with one of her kind.

Draco.

His name left a palpable, aching wound the size of a crater in her chest. Just before she'd gone numb and lost all emotion and comprehension, her knees had buckled and she'd collapsed down next to the white-haired wizard, holding him tight and telling him over and over again that he'd be okay, he'd be just fine, he'd be perfectly alright. There were inconsistencies in the way she talked, in her stuttering breath, in the way she tried to hold herself together even though she was very much so on the verge of busting apart at the seams. Her nerves were frayed and her heart was hammering something fierce against her chest. It was only when Neville gingerly pried Hermione's fingers away and helped cart Draco up onto a magicked stretcher—courtesy of the staff of St. Mungo's!—that she withdrew her vice-like grip on her partner.

After that, Hermione withdrew into herself.

She stayed silent as Ginny and Luna set about cleaning up the people worse off than them. She didn't utter a word as Harry limped over to her and asked if she was alright; begged her to communicate to him. She stared at the ground—at the empty place where Draco's body had once rested—and allowed her mind to wash itself clean of all thought and emotion. She was free from Lestrange Manor and the monsters who had held her captive and tortured her, but in her mind, Hell was waging its own vicious war.

"Hermione." Harry's voice. Calling her; beckoning her to join him and Ron in the future. But try as she might to move her lips, Hermione found that she couldn't speak. She felt as though her head had been shoved underwater, and if she dared to open her lips, water would rush down her throat and crush her lungs.

"Mione." Ron's voice. Begging. She didn't answer.

She was vaguely aware of someone with red hair and a warm voice leading her away from the destruction of Lestrange Estate and towards the warmth and comfort of a place she'd so frequently called home. The Burrow was waiting for her with hot food, relieved smiles, and tight hugs…none of which she could properly return. She wouldn't touch the soup Mrs. Weasley had painstakingly prepared for her, feeling a sharp stab in the pit of her stomach each time she gingerly shook her head and denied the Weasley matriarch the ability to pamper her. She tried to think of compliments and gratitude—what did she say? How did she react?—but only one thought thundered across her mind. Draco.

Her silence continued long after she'd changed into a pair of flannel pyjamas Ginny had given her, and she'd been prepared to slip into the spare bed left behind in the absence of Percy—who lived in his own flat now—when there was a knock at her door. Harry squeezed inside but left the door ajar behind him. He eyed Hermione warily, as though she were a foreign creature he didn't know how to approach. She wanted to comfort her best friend; to tell him that she was alright, just fine, thank you, but found that the words tasted sour on the tip of her tongue. But Harry, sensing a disturbance in Hermione's normally chatty behavior, instead ran a hand through his hair, heaved the haggard sigh of a boy who had borne too much, and spoke the soul-crushing words that snapped Hermione out of her muteness.

"Colin Creevey's dead." Her head snapped up, her lips forming the question she couldn't dare ask, but Harry just shook his head and averted his gaze from hers. Before the battle, then…somehow, Colin had gotten wrapped up in everything, even as nothing more than an informant.

"It was clean," Harry said, though she didn't miss the angry tremor in his voice. "We found him when we were rounding people up afterwards; must've been hit with the Killing Curse shortly after informing us of your location. Anyway, I…er…came to tell you his service will be in three days' time. Gives everyone time to prepare to say goodbye to him and all. Figured you'd want to know. You don't have to feel obligated to…"

"I'll go, Harry, of course I will," Hermione said quietly, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper. Harry nodded, clearly relieved, and one of the many worry lines that were permanently etched onto his features thinned out a bit. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and soothe his worries…but she knew Harry wouldn't appreciate others feeling sorry for him. Not when he felt that he was personally responsible for the destruction of so much.

Harry lingered for a few more moments, as though he hoped to say something else, but finally turned and made his way towards the door. He rested one palm against the doorframe, and Hermione—as if sensing his discomfort—parted her lips and said the first thing she could think of.

"I love him, Harry."

If Hermione had been expecting some sort of astonishment to show on Harry's features, she was sorely disappointed. He merely gazed at her, anxiety ridden all over his features, and Hermione felt herself shift uncomfortably on Percy's bed.

"Harry, it's not like anything's going to come of it. I just…thought you should know. There's nothing to be worried about. He's engaged."

"That's exactly why I'm worried," Harry answered honestly, and Hermione found herself a bit taken aback.

"Harry, I don't—"

"I know Malfoy. He didn't remain loyal to us in Lestrange Manor for the sake of protecting the Order or what we stand for. And he certainly isn't the type to risk his own neck during a fight for the sake of someone other than either of his pretentious parents."

"Harry, what are you insinuating?" Hermione asked slowly, her defenses raising slightly.

"Nothing directly. Er, well, I don't know. Maybe I am." Harry sighed in a huff, and then—pausing to consider his words—spoke slower. "All I know is that Malfoy's never once looked at Astoria the way he looked at you today."

"And what makes you think the way he looks at me is anything special or remotely significant compared to that of a betrothed?" The words stung falling from her lips, but Hermione forced herself to voice the distasteful thoughts nevertheless. What she hadn't been expecting was Harry's response.

"Because in his potion-addled state, he's been begging Neville for one final chance to say goodbye to you. Not Astoria; not even his mother. You."

"Goodbye?" Hermione gasped, her heart rate speeding up. "He's not—?"

"Godric no," Harry snorted, rolling his eyes. "You know Malfoy, though, always a flair for dramatics. He'll probably boast about that curse for six years."

A choked, strangled cry fled Hermione's lips, and she quickly pressed her fist up to her mouth, quelling the urge to cry in relief. Harry smiled softly and—understanding that Hermione needed to be alone—bid her goodnight and gently shut the door behind him. Hermione basked in her own relief for a few moments, trying to calm her racing heart and her frazzled nerves. Draco was fine, he was going to live.

Meanwhile, she was madly, irrevocably in love with him. And it was high time he knew.

a/N: It's been a very long time and my fingers feel very rusty slipping into the minds of characters who aren't directly my own for the first time in what feels like forever. Hello! I miss Draco and Hermione.