Chapter Three

Another Death Eater meeting. Another killing. The body, the blood oozing from the woman's mouth. It made him nauseous, and the only thing that healed that was a bottle of fiery liquid. He tipped the bottle back, and let the medicine burning down his throat. It made him forget for a little while what he had seen. It stopped him from caring too much.

Draco strolled into his room, and there, sitting (floating, but the silly act was nearly the same) was Hermione. Her face was tear streaked in silver.

For once, he would love to come into his room without seeing this blubbering mess before him. Quickly, he downed the rest of his drink, and laid it on the corner table. It couldn't have been what he was drinking, but he noticed her clothes, dirty and hanging off of her limp form. They didn't change. Ghosts stayed in the clothes they died in. There was a rip in her jeans, right at the knee, and a splotch that must have been blood.

"Maybe..." She inhaled a trembling breath. "Maybe we ought to have it out."

"What are you going on about?"

"Draco," she said, as if the conclusion to whatever the question was should've been obvious. "If we fight then our hatred and anger will be out of our system!"

"It's not that easy," he said coldly.

"I believe it is."

"I believe you've been dead for too long."

She drew herself up to her full height, a head shorter than him. He found it amusing at her attempts to act as though it was like old times, like she couldn't simply raise herself taller. "Ferret," she spat.

He guffawed at her attempt. "Know-it-all."

"Bully."

"Medusa."

"Prat."

They continued with their epitaphs as if they were in their First Year. They grew louder and louder and Draco was very glad that he had the wing to himself. No one was going to hear them.

"Buck-tooth!"

"Rodent-face!"

"Mudblood!"

Hermione paused, in her eyes was a flash of pain, and all went suddenly silent. Wind creaked the windows. "You just called me a mudblood," she noted softly.

Draco snapped his jaw shut. He hated the expression that he caused. He caused that hurt. He caused her pain, and that girl had most certainly had plenty of that from Death Eaters and Weasel and Potter and... Him.

Then, a miraculous thing happened. Hermione grinned. "There's no blood now, Draco."

He flinched. "Hermione..." He didn't know how to say sorry.

She shook her head. "It no longer matters. There's nothing to hate about each other, don't you see?"

Hermione was wrong. There was something to hate. Her being dead, the inability to kiss her, to hold her, to even touch her. There were a lot of things to hate, and he hated the bastard that killed her. He hated that she was taken away before he could have her. He never took the chance to kiss her, not wanting to make it permanent, to trick his brain into thinking his life was perfect, and now he would never know what it would feel like.

"Where are your parents, Hermione?" The words came without thought. It was a question that had propped itself in the back of his mind since that first night he saw her, but only then he voiced it. Then, while his liquid courage could loosen his tongue, make him act brash. In addition to that, he didn't want to talk about what occurred downstairs. He knew that she was watching, had witnessed the sacrifice of the muggle woman. It was not that spying was a Hermione trait, it was her mates trait, and unfortunately, it rubbed off on her.

She took in a deep breath, going along with not speaking of the murder. "I altered their memories. To keep them safe." She took another unneeded breath. "They don't know they have a daughter." The tears poured faster.

"Why don't you see them? Just... Disappear or something and be with them."

"I wasn't supposed to be here. Not... Stuck like this. I can't bear to be with them when I'm not alive."

He didn't understand, but he never understood Hermione's logic. At least not about the emotional blabbers.

"You think it's Ron, don't you?" She looked at him, eyes wide, ready to hear it.

He couldn't say it. He couldn't cut her to her core when he was unable to heal her. Instead, Draco didn't say a word. Apparently, that was worse than saying yes, for her eyes welled up and the sadness cascaded down her cheeks.

Why did she have to cry? She was always crying. It infuriated him. Crying was going to do her no good. Her tears weren't even real, they were nothing because she wasn't real.

Yet, there she was, collapsing on his bed, weeping. And he could do nothing about it.

"Sorry." It was short, but meaningful. He was taught at a young age to never apologize to anyone but respectable elders. That meant, he had never apologized to a friend, to an equal. The single exception was Hermione, and right then, he was sorry. He was so deeply regretful he didn't understand how he could contain it or why he couldn't shut it down. It did him no good. And the bottle was empty.

What kind of story started from the end, anyhow? They had their short-lived romance, they fought on opposite sides of a war, and she died. End of story. Bitter and tragic. It was perfect. That obviously wasn't enough for the mudblood. She had to find out who killed her, because fucking hell, it was Granger, and she had to know everything.

"Accept your death and leave this alone." He meant it. He wanted her gone.

"Not until I know it was Ron."

"Then go find him," he nearly yelled. He attempted to contain his voice only because he had no desire for his mother to run in and see her there. She would be there, he would place a bet on it, because she would worry over him all night for what he witnessed. Although, he suspected Hermione would disappear long before his mother arrived.

"Not like this," she insisted. "I don't want him to see me like this."

"He might've killed you!"

She shook her head. "Innocent until proven guilty."

He bent into her translucent face, refusing to shy away from the coldness that emitted from it. "Then I'm bloody well innocent."

She stood, and he backed away quickly before she could douse him iciness again. "If you ever cared for me, Draco Malfoy, you'll find out who killed me."

Draco didn't have the chance to argue, for she vanished right then. He wondered where she went, but decided it didn't matter.

He wanted nothing more than to refuse her, but she would never leave him in peace.

It was better to believe that he wanted to find her killer. More so, he was certain it was Weasley. Little did she know that when Weasley was found (if he wasn't killed), he would be brought to the Manor, and without questions asked, he would murder him. He would kill the man that stole the only good thing about him.