Voices drift through the blackness.
Raised, enraged.
Hermione stirred blearily. Was someone fighting?
The voices grew louder and closer, but muffled still. She could almost make them out.
She opened her eyes and froze.
She had expected something else. A different ceiling. A different room.
She wracked her brain. Not her childhood bedroom, of pastel blue walls and whitewashed hand painted furniture. No, those days were long gone.
Nor of the utilitarian shared girls' dormitory of the Insurgency.
She swallowed heavily.
Those days too had passed.
But there had been something in the interim, that had felt like both comfort and- … and containment.
Hermione peered around at her surroundings, her heart suddenly hammering.
It was elegant and luxurious. She was laid upon a massive bed, furnished in silk, hand-carved and inlaid with gold. This wasn't her room.
She couldn't—
She couldn't recall how she got here.
There had been a dinner.
She could remember that.
A rich meal had been set in front of her, but she hadn't eaten. It had gone completely untouched.
Hermione's brow furrowed as she tried to remember.
It had been a special occasion. Someone had been toasting, she could vaguely recall.
She was in the midst of pursuing that train of thought, when the door banged violently open.
The two arguing had stumbled into the room: a young man, and an older woman on his heels.
They looked—
Hermione stared blankly at them. They had intruded upon her, but somehow, she felt like the intruder peering in on something private.
The young man was dressed in something vaguely military.
Body armour, her brain supplied automatically. Ukrainian Ironbelly body armour.
She frowned as she stared up at him.
His hair was silver-blonde, pushed back. He looked to be mid-20's at most, but exhaustion lined his face.
His face looked vaguely familiar.
"Draco," the older woman called out. Her voice was flat and detached. Dispassionate. "It's already been done. There is nothing you can do."
Draco.
From— from Hogwarts?
Hermione stared at him, her heart pounding.
His face was so familiar. His outfit, too. She could recall something. It was a word on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't quite make it out.
She wanted to say … Europe. Did that make sense? Did he have an association with Europe, somehow?
Hermione stared up at him as her brain churned. Everything felt sluggish and dull; like a book with missing pages, she couldn't help but feel as if she was missing things.
She couldn't even put her finger on what was missing. She could only rely on context clues to piece together the absence of things.
The man, Draco, she corrected herself, drew closer.
His expression was one of dawning horror as he stared down at her.
Hermione could feel a slight pounding in her head as she tried to react; to do something.
Europe.
Europe.
The word skated across her mind, drawing loops and swirls. She looked for patterns, for associations. For anything.
Europe.
The—
The Eastern Front.
Hermione's eyes widened.
His face was familiar. His armour was familiar.
He wore the same body armour when his image had been splashed across the front page of the Daily Prophet.
"Hey," Hermione said quietly. Trepidation flooded her at the lone sight of Ginny. She dropped her rucksack on the wooden floor and made her way over.
"Where is everyone?" she asked slowly, looking around.
Ginny, without answering, mutely pushed a newspaper into Hermione's hands.
She stared down at the evening edition of the Prophet.
"HIGH REEVE UNMASKED: MALFOY HEIR, WAR HERO AND GENERAL. BLOOD TRAITORS WEASLEY AND SHACKLEBOLT EXECUTED ON EASTERN FRONT."
Her blood ran cold. She wanted to tear her eyes away, but she couldn't.
On the front page of the Prophet, standing on a stage and in his full battle armour, stood the High Reeve. Even in the black and white photograph, Hermione could see the strange way that light glinted off the twisted, toothy smile of the mask. Slowly, his hand reached up and pulled off the blood red mask.
As his hand was brought down, his beautiful, cold face was slowly revealed. Tousled blonde hair, locks pushed back. High cheekbones, thin nose, defined jaw. Regal, aristocratic.
Draco stared directly into the camera, eyes glittering malevolently.
An empty, unfeeling smile slowly pulled at the corners of his mouth, before the photograph reset and looped.
Hermione let out a ragged gasp and flinched backwards. She threw himself away from him and stared up, chest heaving.
His hand had been reaching for her, and stilled in mid-air.
He had seen the look of terror on her face. Something flickered in his expression, something resembling pain, but it was gone in an instant. Hermione wasn't sure it had even existed.
He dropped his hand and turned instantly, leaving the room.
Hermione could hear blood rushing in her ears. It was roaring, drowning out the words of the older woman.
She couldn't hear what she was saying.
Her heart was thumping so hard that it hurt.
"Miss Granger," the woman called again.
Hermione turned to stare.
She looked familiar too, like someone she had seen once, a long time ago.
She thought hard. It had something to do with … with tents?
Had she seen this woman while she had been camping with her family?
No, that didn't sound right. Her parents were Muggles. She was Muggleborn.
"Miss Granger."
Hermione blinked and shook herself a little before staring up at the woman.
Her face looked tired and sad.
The emotion didn't seem to sit right on her. Narcissa never—
Narcissa.
Hermione's eyes widened.
This was Narcissa Malfoy.
Narcissa was staring back at her. When she caught the glint of recognition in Hermione's eyes, she schooled her expression.
"Miss Granger," she murmured.
She swallowed thickly.
"It's time."
Hermione felt a sinking in her chest.
She didn't know what would happen, what was to take place, but instinctively she knew: it was the end.
Narcissa led her through her home. The manor was handsome and grand; Hermione was sure it had been beautiful, once.
But something great and terrible had happened.
She couldn't remember what.
The walls were flaking with decay. Every marble tile below their feet was cracked and damaged; something resembling tar was seeping up through the cracks.
Hermione could feel her breath coming in shallow pants, that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with a primal instinct.
After all, every animal must be able to sense danger.
Millions of years of evolution had instilled the same fear within them.
The fear of sharp teeth, of claws, of darkness.
Hermione could feel the skin on her arms burst in goosebumps. There was a chill in the air that did nothing to dampen the stench of Dark Magic in the air.
It was pungent. It curled into her lungs, twisted themselves around her windpipe. It crawled into her alveoli.
Hermione could hardly breathe.
The Dark Magic thickened the air itself.
She could feel herself growing light-headed and woozy. It was only the fear and dread that kept her on her feet — if she slowed, if she stopped, she was certain the house would drag her off. Its claws would twist around her and never let go.
Could a house think? Was a house alive?
Narcissa led her to a bedroom, a much smaller one.
It seemed intimately familiar. She could not recall having been here before.
The furniture was arranged in a comfortable way. Everything was exactly where it should be.
Laying upon the bed, her bed, she corrected herself, was a neatly folded set of clothing.
She drew closer to it.
Her knees nearly buckled.
It was as if she had been transported back in time.
Her hand trembled as she stroked the fabric of the pink hoodie. It was dirty and crusted in filth, but it was hers.
She hadn't seen it in so long.
Not since—
Hermione's hand stilled.
Bile was rising in her throat.
There was blood sprayed across the front of the hoodie.
She knew whose blood it was.
She had watched as Ron's flesh flayed from his bones by Lucius Malfoy. It was as if an invisible knife: in streams, in ribbons, carving through muscle. Down until she could see the pearly white of bone.
Ron had been screaming and sobbing. He had screamed for Molly.
Hermione had leapt forward.
She had been powerless to do anything but hold onto him as he thrashed and then stilled. The flesh dangled uselessly off him.
The blood stained the hoodie.
She had fallen. She knew the back of the hoodie, the folded part that she couldn't see, must've been soaked in his blood.
The fabric would be thick and stiff with it.
Hermione closed her eyes as tears rolled down her face.
"Get changed," Narcissa said quietly.
She closed the door behind her, and Hermione fell to her knees. She clutched the pile of filthy clothing to her chest and wept.
For all that she had lost.
For what the clothes surely meant.
They were a set of burial clothes, for her.
Hermione's hands trembled so much that she could hardly do the button closure on her jeans.
She tried, again and again, but couldn't. It slipped between her numb fingers. She nearly sobbed with frustration — something about the idea of her pants falling down, seconds before her death, was humiliating.
When Narcissa entered, she found Hermione in tears.
Her expression had tightened for a moment. Wordlessly, she withdrew her wand and flicked it at the closure. It buttoned itself neatly up.
Hermione closed her eyes. She could feel her lip trembling.
The crushing weight that this was her final day was nearly unbearable.
She could barely keep herself standing up.
Narcissa's voice broke through the panic.
"We're going now," she told Hermione calmly.
Her eyes flew open. Narcissa had strode to the door; all elegance and cold detachment.
It grounded her.
Narcissa didn't care. She saw this only as another ordeal to get through. Another task to check off her to-do list: deliver Mudblood to her demise.
Hermione's lip twitched.
She followed Narcissa out of the room. Her gaze lingered upon the window, for a moment.
The sky outside was dark and perfectly clear. Beautiful twinkling stars waved their goodbye at her.
She shut the door.
They journeyed in silence. Hermione followed Narcissa, conscious that every step was numbered.
The darkness seemed to lift as they walked. Their path twisted and turned, until eventually, they reached another wing of the estate. Narcissa pushed open a set of double doors. From the crack beneath the doors, Hermione could already see dim light.
They entered a sprawling hall. Instantly, the chatter died. Three banquet tables were arranged along each wall opposite the doors.
Dozens were seated in the room already.
Directly facing the door, in a throne set some distance away from the table, sat Voldemort.
His red eyes glinted hungrily as Narcissa strode forward, Hermione trailing behind her in terror. Narcissa bowed low, until her silver-blonde hair nearly touched the floor.
"My Lord," she whispered, reverence in her voice.
Voldemort waved his hand dismissively, and Narcissa shrank back. She took a seat at the table behind Voldemort, next to Lucius, to watch Hermione with the rest of the room.
They seemed to be holding their breaths.
But the silence was one of perverse excitement.
Hermione could only watch as a Death Eater seated at a table to the side licked his lips lewdly at her. He stroked the front of his robes and she jerked her eyes away.
The nausea had returned with a vengeance.
"The Mudblood does not enjoy your antics, McNair," Voldemort called. His voice was cold and high, but relaxed. He found the exchange amusing.
"Little slut will enjoy whatever I give her," McNair boasted back. The Death Eaters around her whooped their approval.
Voldemort smiled coldly, and rose.
For a second, Hermione thought her vision had gone. His seat seamed to be pulsating.
A second later, she realized it was made of live snakes. They had twisted themselves up to form a throne. But once Voldemort had stepped away, they were free to writhe and twist along after him.
They trailed behind him.
Hermione stood rooted to the spot. Her gaze was wild as she looked around and took in every detail of the room.
She knew there was no escape.
She could not run. She could not hide.
Her eyes avoided the snakes and Voldemort, despite the obvious movement in her periphery as he drew closer.
"The Mudblood … Potter's Mudblood, the last of the Golden Trio," Voldemort called out as he walked. His voice was silky smooth, dripping with delight. There was no rush, for him. He wanted to savour her fear.
Hermione trembled.
She recognized, faintly, the blond man from earlier.
Draco.
He was seated directly behind Voldemort, off to one side.
He stared hard at her.
It felt like everything had come to a standstill. An electric shock of recognition seemed to streak across her. Something so familiar it was painful flit across her consciousness but even as she tried to grasp at it, it was gone.
The moment had passed.
She turned her gaze away, breathless.
Another form was seated near him; dark and curly haired, her face alight with malicious intent. There was hunger in Bellatrix's eyes as she stared at Hermione.
Something dark was creeping along the floor, pulling itself along roughly.
Hermione screamed as it wrapped itself around her ankle.
Voldemort was chuckling darkly as he circled Hermione. His eyes glittered with excitement and hunger as he watched his snakes twisted around her.
Hermione sobbed.
She wanted to beg her heart to stop; please, please. Let me die right now.
It thumped quickly in her chest, like a rabbit's.
The snakes tensed around her and she could feel their thick, sinewy muscle.
She let out a whimper and the Death Eaters seated around the room cackled.
McNair let out a loud, mocking moan; lascivious and crude, obviously meant to echo Hermione.
The crowd quieted as Voldemort strode closer.
His thin, long-fingered hand rested on her cheek.
Hermione screamed.
"Look at me, Mudblood. Look at me, before I cut your eyelids off," Voldemort called out cruelly. She could hear the smile in his voice.
She forced her eyes open.
Voldemort darted into her mind, smashed into it with the force of a battering ram.
Instantly, Hermione began to shriek.
He examined her memories with glee.
He repeated them, over and over, as Hermione wept and screamed.
Ron, being flayed alive.
Harry, dying by Voldemort's hand.
All the people she couldn't save in the infirmary. All the deaths she had ever witnessed, on repeat, flashed across her mind. Each corpse, each lifeless face, flashed across her mind for a millisecond.
The nausea was building, rising in the back of her throat.
Her life was an art gallery of dead bodies; of loss and pain and suffering. Voldemort strolled leisurely through and viewed each piece with abject pleasure. She could feel him laughing in her mind; mirth that was not her own was rolling through her brain, as her nerves were seared.
She could hear the laughter of the hall around her, over her own piercing shrieks. They were screaming their delight.
They were banging their fists upon the table.
"Punish her! Punish the little slut, flay her mind!" Bellatrix screeched.
"Throw her to Greyback, let's see some Mudblood were-pups," someone jeered.
The laughter took on a near hysterical pitch as Hermione sobbed harder. She could feel herself pitching forward, sagging bonelessly into Voldemort. His snakes twisted around her body, and his hand on her chin, were the only thing holding her up.
Voldemort dove through more and more memories and Hermione could only watch as he dredged up images, faster and faster, a whirlwind of torment so visceral that she was begging for release.
Kill me.
Kill me.
Kill me, please.
Just do it.
She could feel him smiling at her. He withdrew from her mind; he had been sated.
Her pain was the most delicious pleasure to him.
"You are a delight, Mudblood," Voldemort whispered in her ear. His forked tongue flicked out to taste her.
Hermione flinched away from it, sobbing breathlessly with relief.
He would kill her now.
She was barely conscious.
Her pain-addled brain felt only pleasure and joy at the thought. Darkness had eclipsed her life for so long. It would be blessed relief. It would be like climbing into her soft bed, after a long day.
A single regret skirted across her mind. She had never told him that she loved him.
She brushed it off impatiently. It didn't matter.
Death would be her reward.
It would be like being held in Draco's arms, forever.
She stilled instantly.
Her breath had hitched.
Nobody had noticed, Voldemort was already trailing away from her.
Hermione began to breathe, faster and faster. There was something wrong.
Something was wrong.
She raised her head and gazed around the room. She took in all the menacing, cruel faces.
His was not one of them.
Neither was hers.
Narcissa was gazing at her with a hooded expression. To anyone else, she would've looked completely impassive; bored, even.
But Hermione could see it in her eyes.
There was something glinting there, of the boldest, of the youngest Black sister.
Even as she watched, Narcissa stood abruptly.
Voldemort paused.
"Allow me, My Lord. Please. It has been so long since I've had the pleasure," Narcissa breathed, bowing demurely. She gazed up at Voldemort through fluttering lashes.
Bellatrix looked livid. Her face was scarlet with barely suppressed rage.
"My prodigal child has returned to the fold, I see," Voldemort murmured.
The room was silent.
Hermione could sense that something had shifted.
Narcissa had dared to impose upon the Dark Lord.
There was a long moment, and then he smiled indulgently at her.
"Go on, Narcissa. Go on. Show your master how much you hate the filth that has lingered in your home."
The Death Eaters around were jeering.
"In fact, snuff the Mudblood's life out in a suitable way," Voldemort continued. He was baring his teeth in a grin; the thought of prim, proper, pureblood Narcissa rolling in the dirt brought him nothing but pleasure.
Narcissa flushed pink and nodded, but remained outwardly calm. She walked towards Hermione; her gait neutral and measured despite the jeers from the Death Eaters around her.
Hermione could only stare back, transfixed. The snakes that had wound around her were loosening their grip. As the last few untwisted themselves and slithered away, Hermione's support was gone.
She crashed to the marble floor and stared up at Narcissa in fear. Pain bloomed across her body, but it didn't matter. She hardly felt it.
Narcissa slowed to a stop in front of Hermione. Her head cocked to the side as she observed Hermione, took her in.
Her wand was out so fast that it was a blur.
It slashed across Hermione, scalding her with a Stinging Hex, and she fell back with a cry of pain.
Instantly, Narcissa was upon her.
Her hands were wrapped around Hermione's throat, squeezing. She could feel the pressure upon her windpipe, so suffocating. She struggled and kicked out feebly, but Narcissa was stronger and faster.
Her hold remained true.
Her face was utterly impassive as she stared down at Hermione.
Guttural sobs wracked her body as she spluttered and wheezed.
All around them, the Death Eaters were pounding the tables. They were screaming in delight, in frenzied joy — Narcissa Malfoy, choking out the Mudblood. It was hysterically funny to them, like watching a circus act.
Hermione fought as hard as she could. She sobbed desperately, but the edges of her vision were growing dark. Her eyes rolled in their sockets. She took in Narcissa's beautiful, cold face.
Everything sounded so distant.
The Death Eaters calls and jeers were softening.
Her desperate, scrabbling fingers that had tried to pry Narcissa's hands away dropped onto the floor.
She felt Narcissa pause.
Fabric was shuffling.
Something cold and metal clinked near her ear.
Narcissa rose.
The hall had grown deadly silent.
Hermione blinked blearily up; she cracked an eyelid open, hoping that it would soften the vision of her demise.
Narcissa stood with a wand held aloft, loosely in her hand. She was staring down at Hermione with a bored expression as she circled slowly.
Dimly, she could tell the entire hall was focused upon her.
They were watching and waiting, eager.
Narcissa stopped in her tracks.
Her wand was pointed at her.
Hermione felt her heart stutter and could do nothing but watch.
Narcissa flicked the wand, almost imperceptibly, and Hermione flinched.
She had expected searing pain, or a flash of green light. The Cruciatus and Legilimency were Narcissa's delights; somehow, she knew this.
Nothing happened for a moment and her brow furrowed in confusion. Narcissa had cast something.
Halfway across the hall, a thin red line appeared on Bellatrix's neck.
Her face had been locked in an expression of such eagerness, such concentration, that she had not noticed.
The jubilant expression stayed upon her face as her head toppled off her body, and fell to the marble floor with an echoing thump.
There was a single second of silence.
Then, chaos erupted.
Hermione gave a pained gasp as everything seemed to erupt around her.
Voldemort screamed a single, terrible scream. It was anguished and enraged, and even disbelieving. His general was gone and Narcissa was to blame.
But Narcissa was already casting.
Death Eaters all around the hall were rising to their feet. Spells hit the walls and rebounded. She could see people falling to their feet already.
In the wildness and confusion, her eyes sought out one person only.
But Draco was gone.
She blinked, certain that she was hallucinating.
He was gone and something was in his place.
Something massive and dark was unfolding itself quite suddenly. It grew, enormous and terrible before her eyes, and Hermione could feel her heart skip a beat.
She stared up at it.
She couldn't comprehend what she was seeing.
A dragon had unfurled itself, massive and huge. It took up the entire hall.
Something was shattering in her mind. A pressure was building, so painful that she could feel herself fading, but she clung onto the pain.
Something was rising up in her. The past couldn't be barred, couldn't be erased; not when he had entwined himself so firmly into her consciousness.
Hermione could never forget him.
Words seemed to echo through her mind, cutting across the haze.
"There … are some myths that we descended from dragons," he said slowly. He eyed her suspiciously, as if expecting Hermione to laugh and mock him. "
They wore a human skin but underneath, held onto the dragon instincts. They were possessive and ruthless and driven. They guarded their belongings most jealously, encircled their dragon's hoard and lashed out at anyone that dared to disturb them."
Hermione trembled.
Jumbled images flashed across her mind.
All too quick to grasp with firm fingers.
Each frame, each moment, seemed to last for a millisecond.
But she saw him, clearly.
Draco's face, twisted with adoration, with rage, with hatred, with yearning. Every facet of him glittered back at her like a diamond, hard and beautiful, perfectly clear.
Screams and shrieks of terror were resounding through the room. Voldemort had howled in rage; his wand was slashing and casting about, but among the pandemonium, he couldn't seem to gain a firm hold upon the situation. His Death Eaters were staggering around him, panicking.
Narcissa's high, clear voice trilled through the din.
"Lucius! Join me," she called.
Her face was jubilant. Her long, silver-blonde hair was shimmering in a halo around her face.
Hermione recognized the wild elation there. She hadn't seen it on Narcissa's face in a long, long time. She was the youngest of the Black daughters; bold, wild, crazed. There wasn't a care in the world anymore.
Narcissa gave a shriek of untamed laughter. She smiled and held her hand out.
Instantly, Lucius staggered towards her.
His expression was of yearning, of longing. He looked like a man starved, who had finally been offered food. He was the dog at her heels; loyal, until the very end. He would follow her anywhere.
Narcissa hand found Lucius's and she clung to him.
Hermione suddenly knew, before it had happened.
Her wand arced through the air.
Fire, cursed, tragically beautiful, bloomed from the tip. A few tiny sparks at first, that blossomed and bounded through the air until they were massive creatures. There was a roaring that drowned out all noise, that entwined with the deafening roars of the dragon overhead. Hermione saw gigantic phoenixes, eagles swooping through the air, while enormous snakes burst across the marble floor.
Her terrified gaze sought out the massive dragon.
As if it knew, it locked eyes with her in return.
Hermione stilled; another voice, from another life, drifted out of the darkness of her mind.
"None of you are to engage with him, at any cost. This is a blanket order: if you see him on a mission, you are to retreat immediately. No excuses. Do not stare him down, do not make eye contact. He is an exceptionally skilled Legilimens and capable of performing Imperius non-verbally during battle."
Her hand raised of its own accord, controlled by someone else.
It grappled for the object by her neck.
The same instant Hermione's fingers closed upon it, she felt a swooping in her navel. Something was yanking at her, dragging her away from the chaos.
Her last image of the Malfoy ancestral home was of searing, cursed fire enveloping the room, as the dragon threw its head back and screamed in a great and terrible rage. Its wings beat one final time, and it crashed through the roof.
Hermione felt the Portkey whisk her away, depositing her unceremoniously onto hard ground.
She stilled, panting and disorientated.
The only sound that greeted her was waves crashing upon a cliff.
Cold air stung her lungs as much as the salt.
Hermione laid shivering upon the ground in the dark, starlit night.
The waves were crashing onto the cliff.
A rushing, roaring like back in the hall of cursed fire.
Her eyes were squeezed shut; her breath came in tiny pants, as she tried to make sense of everything.
She was reeling in shock.
She had expected her own death to hurtle at her, unavoidable and messy and tragic.
She hadn't expected Narcissa. Nor Draco.
Her hand spasmed for a second — there was something in her palm. Hermione's eyes flew open.
She was clutching onto something. She had brought it from the Malfoy estate; or, rather, it had brought her out of it.
Hermione sat up. She opened her shaking hand with some difficulty.
An emerald ring sat in her palm, set in a yellow gold band. Soot was smeared across her hand, but the ring glittered perfectly unblemished up at her. In the pale light of the moon, Hermione could see tiny markings upon it.
She brought it up to her eye, feeling nothing and everything at once.
A dragon was etched upon the band.
Hermione closed her eyes as tears flooded her vision.
Eventually, she had to move.
She would catch a chill if she stayed outside all night.
Hermione turned her head and found a structure in the distance, that glowed with all the warmth of a home. It was like a siren's call beckoning towards her. She answered it.
Gravel crunched underfoot as Hermione stepped knowingly towards the cottage.
Seagrass grew around the perimeter, and a small white picket fence marked out the yard.
It looked picturesque and perfect. Completely untouched.
Nothing about it had changed since she was last here.
Everything about Hermione had changed. She had loved and lost, and found again. She was a stranger entering the cottage, but the wards recognized her.
The door knob turned easily under her palm and the door swung in smoothly.
Everything was perfectly untouched.
Hermione struggled for a moment as her breathing stuttered.
The cream sofa, plush and soft. A cheerful fire, its flames inviting in the dark night.
It was as if she had stepped back in term, perfectly so — before the beginning of the end.
Before the fall of the Insurgency.
Before the death of her friends.
When it was just her and Malfoy, tucked together in the seaside cottage, sharing stolen moments in the dark.
Hermione took a step forward and fell to her knees, crashing against a coffee table.
Sobs wracked her shoulders, shook her entire body, as she wept.
Everything was gone.
She tried to process it.
Her memories were disjointed. There was no apparent order; she didn't know what Narcissa had done, but she had been efficient. Hermione suspected that Narcissa had simply cut away every memory of Draco she could find, beginning in reverse chronological order.
"The art of Occlumency lies in the subtleties. Memory is a curious thing - when we recall an event, we are not merely remembering the event. We remember the last time we recalled the event. Memory is constantly changing and is rarely reliable, our mind tricks us at times. Memories can be falsified and a skilled Occlumens can layer emotion, flashes of time, sift different events and produce an almost indistinguishable memory from the original. Like viewing the world from a distorted lens, a skilled Occlumens can lie to themselves so well that they begin to believe this new memory as an unshakeable fact. The original memory may lurk beneath, but it is often lost in the new details and shredded apart."
Hermione clutched her head in her hands as she thought hard.
Narcissa had had to improvise. Her time was limited: she had an evening, but had years of memories to comb through.
Snape was right when he said that memory was unreliable. It wasn't discrete, neat, tidy. It didn't allow itself to be tucked into perfectly contained boxes, to be excised cleanly. It lingered, it persisted.
It was associative.
Draco was a part of her; she had entwined herself with him too tightly to ever let him go. He was the air she breathed, he was the blood in her veins. She felt him, all the way down to her marrow.
She could've recognized him by his heartbeat.
He had been buried so deeply in her mind that Narcissa couldn't cut him out completely.
She would never think to delve back into their school days.
Afterwards, when they could both breathe again, and their hearts had calmed, Hermione lay entwined with Draco. Forehead against forehead, noses nearly touching.
"Tell me about your childhood," she whispered. "Tell me everything. I want to know everything about you."
He gave a soft chuckle.
"I fell over in the Forbidden Forest and peed myself a little. I was Seeker for the Slytherin team. I got punched in the face. I came second to a Muggleborn girl in every exam," he replied easily. There was a lightness in his voice that brought relief to Hermione; that the Draco she knew was still there. That he hadn't been lost to her, hadn't become completely unfamiliar.
She would never think to search in her knowledge of Malfoy mythos and lore.
"Do you remember … when I told you about the myths? Of us being descended from dragons?" he asked slowly, eyeing her beadily.
"Of course," Hermione breathed. She waited with bated breath and watched as a shadow seemed to flit across his face.
"The myth was half-truth, it seems," Draco replied. Doubt and disbelief coloured his voice, but he forged on. "One of my ancestors, an Abraxas or Lucien or whichever old greedy geezer — fuck if I know — wove some sort of cursed magic into the ley lines and wards of the estate, a thousand years ago. A Malfoy can choose, upon their death, to lock down the estate forevermore, like a dragon guards its hoard and perishes with it. The wards enclose the estate and it becomes a prison, suspended in an unbreakable stasis of ancestral magic — the strongest form of magic that exists. Nobody goes in. Nobody goes out."
Draco lived inside her, the same way she lived inside him. He was the house that held every part of her; and she was his home in turn.
Hermione waited inside the seaside cottage.
He would return.
Days passed, and then a week.
Hermione waited. She drifted.
Her memories came and went. In the dim light before dawn, in the hazy border between wakefulness and dreaming, she could sense them clearly.
She saw his face, breathless and adoring. She saw his eyes, glittering like clear water.
But he disappeared like the sun chasing the moon; always fleeing, never to be grasped.
He would come for her. He always did.
He had promised her.
Hermione didn't know how long it had been, when it finally happened. Days or weeks — she lost track. The world outside had faded from her notice, had shrunk into non-existence; nothing mattered.
The light outside had turned golden. Evening was fast approaching when she sensed magic washing over the wards. Breathtaking in its familiarity.
Hermione stilled and rose from her seated position upon the cream sofa. She stumbled in her haste.
It had been so long since she felt his presence.
She hardly dared to breathe.
A lone figure stood outside the cottage.
She could've recognized him anywhere.
Hermione pushed the door open with trembling hands and he was there.
Draco was dressed in his High Reeve ensemble: kitted out in body armour, wand holstered to his upper arm. Blood was flecked across his face. A travelling cloak was wrapped around him.
His expression was guarded when he took her in but his eyes—
His eyes were the soft silver of clouds when he gazed at her.
Suddenly, her mouth was dry.
She had been waiting for days but words had abandoned her. What did she say? What could she say?
Her memories of him were messy and fractured. They shifted, ephemeral and indistinct. She only had flashes; moments in time, disordered.
As Hermione gazed at him, she could see the outline of his form, of his face, flickering.
A million moments rose up, their absence far more distinct than their presence, but the flashes that she sees in her mind's eye are enough.
They seemed to overlay, to ghost over the form of Draco that was staring at her. They spanned the entirety of their shared history; from stolen moments in the dark, to the world ending in flames.
Draco's beautiful, cold face. Twisted with foolish agony. He had killed dozens in his panic, when Hermione had nearly died in the Sussex Prison.
His face flushed, eyes bright. He looked fevered, a man possessed. He had swore that he had hated her as a child, and then pressed his lips to her own.
When Hermione had given him hope, for the first time in a long time. He looked uncertain, towering over her - there was something akin to hope on his face, but trepidation lay there too. Something fragile. Something tender. Something bruised.
The night he had expected her to kill him to destabilize the Dark Army, to be done with him. And he had gazed up at her with such acceptance. Had only smiled at her, and tried to memorize her.
His expression seemed to shutter as he watched Hermione. The same pain that flickered across his face when Hermione had flinched away from him.
He turned.
Hermione froze.
She grappled for words. Something, anything.
"You-"
It came out as a whisper, but it was enough. Draco stilled.
Hermione tried again.
It felt out of her reach. It felt like a risk. She had no way of knowing if her memories were reliable; they operated on feeling and emotion, and instinct.
Trusting him, reaching for him, was instinctual.
"You asked me— you asked me once. A long time ago," Hermione whispered. Her voice was barely audible over the crash of waves around them.
Draco turned to face her.
His expression is hesitant, as if hardly daring to believe. He doesn't let himself get his hopes up.
"You asked me to run away with you."
Draco nodded slowly. His gaze is hooded as he watches her, his brow creased.
Hermione licked her lips.
The corners of her mouth twitch.
"Ask me again," she says hoarsely.
This time, it's his turn to freeze.
Emotion flitted across his face. Disbelief and wonder and tenderness, so overwhelming and soft and pure that Hermione's heart positively aches.
He gives her a crooked smile, and in it she can see her future with him: anywhere, everywhere, for as long as they want one another.
"Will you run away with me, Granger?"
Hermione crashed forward into him without hesitation, the body armour bruising her skin but it doesn't matter. Draco's arms wrapped around her, and it's home, and they cling to one another like it's the end of the world.
He pressed his lips to her forehead, laughing softly. There's disbelief and joy in his face; he doesn't question how fate aligned and led to this moment, how they had clung to each other through the chaos and destruction.
Hermione rose onto her tip-toes, locking gazes with Draco. She kissed him and she could feel it was the beginning of forever.
"I love you," she whispered.
She finally got to tell him.
His lips twitched.
"I love you," he whispered back.