Chapter Seven

Draco's family's screams echoed in his brain. It vibrated in the sinews of his senses. It unraveled him, shook the pieces left of him. The crucio was only the second worst pain he had felt next to knowing that his family was being tortured too. The Dark Lord was merciless, angry that they got away, and Draco knew they were lucky they weren't killed. His enemies, the only people left of her family.

He flitted in and out of sleep. Dusk of orange and yellow sky, a navy blue night, and then the blackest of nights with scattered stars splayed in his window. Hazy dreams of yells and pleading. Tossing and so bodily sore that tears leaked, he was barely coherent to realize that he was in his bed, and not on the floor in the drawing room subjected to the torture any longer. It went on and on, a never-ending hell.

He shook, a chill cascading over him. Sweat like ice poured out of his pores. He begged to die, to be let go of every bit of guilt he felt. It was his fault, because he loved a mudblood girl. It was all his fault, and he was sorry.

"It's not your fault..." Whispered an angel's voice. "You don't want death, Draco... Wake up, please... You did well... You did so well, Draco."

Hermione was perched at his side, her hand of Antarctica's temperature caressing his forehead and cheeks. It chilled him horribly but he didn't dare stop her.

"Hermione," he gasped.

"Your parents and aunt are safe."

The pain of worry compressed on his chest like stones, and were suddenly lifted at those words. He felt broken, but it was nothing in comparison to knowing that it was over. The night was over, and tomorrow they would begin again to make amends, to gain back their status. However... With Hermione tending to him it meant nothing. His status was nothing if the girl was still with him. Why hadn't she moved on?

"You're still here."

She nodded, but her eyes were far away and contemplative.

"Why?"

Crossing her arms, she floated to the window. "I don't understand... I should go on, but I don't see anything. Where do I go?"

The words were out of Draco's mouth before he could stop them. "Stay here." What was he saying? He was doing everything so she would go and be out of his life. He didn't want her there, but the mere thought of her being gone... What would he do without her?

"I can't."

"Why not?"

She turned, and sighed, her shoulders slumping with a weight greater than the world. "I don't belong here. I have to leave."

"This is wrong." He was speaking out of his head again. At least, that's where he thought the words were coming from. "You shouldn't have died. You should get married, have kids. Marry the stupid Weasel, have a boy and a girl and live."

She shined at the prospect, and he wanted to hurl one of her bloody books through her head. It wasn't what he really wanted for her, but it was what she deserved. If he had his way, Potter would win the war and Draco would win Hermione. They would marry have a boy and a girl, and live. Live... Something she would never be able to do again, but the words came out anyway. "Or you could've married me."

She smiled graciously. "That is it, I suppose. I could have. If I were alive."

"Maybe there's a spell -"

"Oh, Draco. You know better than that. No spell can bring back the dead."

"To replace? Death wants a token. It doesn't matter who it takes. I'll go in your place."

The expression that crossed her was indescribable. It was a mixture of fear, of contrite, and... Something he had never seen, so therefore, it didn't have a name. "You can't bring me back, Draco."

Not to the world. Not to his world. He couldn't bring her back to him. That didn't mean he was going to give in. There was always a way out, a way around. It's what Aunt Bellatrix told him. That if one didn't get one's way, it would blast it to hell. There was a way to Hermione, a way out or around, and if he had to blast something, he would, but he would not give up. He couldn't give her up. He wouldn't give her up.

"No." She was adamant. "Even if there was such a spell - and I highly doubt that such exists - I could never - not that it would matter, because no -"

"I get it," he interrupted. "Fine. I thought..."

"I appreciate your kindness."

"Is that what it's called? Kindness?" He swung off his bed, shaking. Due to what happened in the drawing room or what he was feeling. Regardless, he felt he could barely keep his wits about him. "To bloody hell with kindness, Hermione! You think I'd take anyone's place? I love you. I bloody love you!" He had never said the words aloud, but as they passed his lips, he knew that they were truer than anything he had said in his life. "I love you."

Tears. More tears. "You shouldn't love a ghost."

"What if I do?"

She shook her head, her wild hair slapping her face without contact and faded.

"No! Hermione!"

She was gone. He stood. He stood alone in his room in the very spot where he last saw her. He didn't know if he would ever see her again, but he had high hopes. He had the rest of his life to wait for her.

The window cast back his reflection, and his spirits rose. It was where he first saw Hermione, when she first came for him. Him and no one else. Not that bloody Weasel by any means.

Then... How wretched was he to be waiting for a ghost?

He picked up his chair, firm in his hands, as real as anything, and he threw it out the window, breaking his reflection and the memory of hers.