Hogwarts 1997
He had read about war, studying meticulously for months, fascinated by how battles were won and victims slain. He'd trained for war, too, honing his body's agility and revelling in his growing strength. He was more than adept with devising attack formations, the strategic planning becoming second nature, as natural to him as breathing. He'd obsessed about war to the point where he felt he could control every facet, easily counteracting any situation to become the victor. War was in his blood now, he was ready, he was willing, and he knew what to do.
Nothing, nothing could have prepared him for the reality of what words and actions succumbed to in a real life setting.
War was not beautiful in its strategy, for there was none when limbs were ripped from screaming bodies, scrambling to find some false sense of security away from the pain.
Strength was not synonymous with agility, for how could that grace of movement flow when encased in wall to wall of flame?
It was clear to him that war was not in his blood. He was not in control, and he was not willing.
The sheer violence of the Battle of Hogwarts made nausea ebb and flow as he descended further and further into the chaos. The junior Death Eater Battalion was the second to last before the precious elders of the cause deemed it prudent to join the fray.
The first few volleys had consisted of lesser creatures, Giants and the like, who had caused mayhem and distraction more than anything else. The group following, made largely of snatchers and the werewolf contingent, were more precise in their attack, weaving through the Giants to easily launch death blows to the overrun fighters of the light.
Strategy had mostly melted away and guerilla warfare was taken up by both sides as blood seemingly rained from the skies. Small pockets of fighters banded together finding random targets, cutting them down swiftly before moving on to the next most opportune victim.
Both sides were equally fighting dirty.
He'd barely managed to escape some Dementor's being herded by Patronuses on the lake front. The bright white creatures were roaming in tight circles, pushing the surrounded Death Eaters closer to the water's edge where their souls were quickly devoured. He'd seen the majority of the bodies drowning shortly after, not even trying to save themselves. He couldn't decide if it was a small mercy or not.
The battle hadn't even reached its crescendo and he was already bone weary, nearing an exhaustion that would be deadly to his self preservation. He wished it felt more surreal, anything to displace himself from the physical reminders that he was walking over splintered bone and chunks of severed flesh.
The adjacent sounds reverberating around him drilled into his skull with a permanence he knew he would never forget. Even the air tasted of metallic ash, the blood sickly mingling with the atmosphere with each breath.
Face to face, war was the most sensory experience in every macabre way.
It was hours before faces blurred and the overwhelming assault on his senses eased. The small immunity he'd quickly developed to his surroundings was enough for him to be able to fight back. And fight he did. He killed quickly and as cleanly as possible, discretion being of the utmost importance.
His Battalion had pledged to one another that their main targets would consist of the higher ranking Death Eaters. This was crucial for survival no matter who won the castle at the end. If the other side won they could use their traitorous actions to reduce time in Azkaban and show proof of their lack of loyalty. If the Dark Lord won, higher ranking positions within the Organisation would be quickly available, allowing the allied youths to have more control in the consolidation of power phase with the defeat of the resistance.
Being Slytherin to the core, the youths banded together in agreeance. The biggest hurdle now was not to be caught.
It all sounded so blissfully simple in its cunning before he'd actually witnessed death first hand. Now, between kills, he staved off the flood of panic, the adrenaline rising and crashing again as he moved too slowly through the crumbling halls of a broken Hogwarts.
The already fractured world ceased to exist for just a moment when he finally spotted her amongst it all. She was glorious, passionate, and so beautiful, regardless of her torn clothes and bruised body covered in grime. It was so wrong to see her there, but absolutely right all the same. He equally loved and hated her for her bravery, just like he always had. Faced with life and death did not alter that at all. That, he decided, was definitely a small mercy.
She was fighting off three Death Eater's as Weasley ran and dived into a girls bathroom in a seemingly insane move from his perspective. It jolted him into action, rage for her abandonment pushing him forward to come to her aid.
They deflected and attacked, weaving between each other like a dance, to finally fight side by side. The three Death Eaters became two, their volleys becoming increasingly dark in their desperation to overcome the surprising duo.
He could see the fight in her wavering, her chapped lips shaking as each curse left her mouth. Her eyes blinked too rapidly and her movement became forced to compensate for her many injuries; he couldn't even catalogue how many she had suffered, every visible part of her skin seemed wounded. He'd focussed on her for too long and didn't even register her scream of his name, the warning too late. The explosion encased him in slow motion and for a moment; all he knew was a ringing in his ears as his back made a solid impact with the rock strewn floor.
On his back he held his breath as the clouded debris settled. The environment had changed and he realised he was now in the remains of a classroom on the floor below, looking up into the gaping hole in the ceiling he had just fallen through.
It was peaceful for just a moment, having his other senses dulled as he focused his gaze on the dust motes so delicately raining around him. He would've been ok with staying this way for quite some time, the slowness and quietness freeing him from the chaos of reality.
"Draco," she whispered, "Draco you need to move."
"No, Hermione, I don't think I will," he answered in a similarly quiet tone.
Her head rested on his chest, their bodies aligned where they had fallen together. It took a moment for him to realise this and an even longer pause before he slowly moved his arms to encase her against him.
"Let's just stay like this, please?" He eyed the top of her head, willing her to agree, just this once.
"Ok," she murmured, her voice muffled by his clothes. "But then you need to keep going, we don't end like this."
"Maybe we should though, wouldn't it be better?" he tried to reason.
"No, this isn't what we do. You know that."
"I've decided after all these years I like us being on equal ground. It's better this way."
She raised her head and looked at him with pitying eyes, her hand cupping his cheek that she gently stroked with her thumb. "You win this time Draco," she leaned down and softly brushed her lips against his before she disappeared from his hold completely.
Time trickled on and it could have been infinite for all he knew. Somehow, he became aware that he was walking once again. The protective delirium slowly dissolving as everything came rushing back.
He would have given his life for it to return.
~0~
Present Day
Draco remembered the moment he went back to the empty classroom and found her lifeless body amongst the rubble. It wasn't until he saw her there, with his own clouded eyes that he knew their moment had never happened, even though he wished it with every fibre of his being.
He'd caught her in his arms as he watched her last spell leave her lips in their duel. He'd caught her before the flash of green had fully dissipated, just before the explosion had struck. In his state of shock he had created a last moment, a lingering memory that he could latch onto. It was a gift and a punishment, that it had all happened in his mind, but the feeling of it being real had meant more than the stars above, and all the world.
After the battle was over, he had instinctively gone back to the classroom, just to confirm what his heart already knew. His vision had remained locked onto her face as he draped his cloak over her, so very gently, before lifting her in his arms and taking her to her final resting place where he now stood.
The first year he had come back to visit her grave he did nothing but cry, a single word or phrase not being enough to express his remorse.
The second year he still said nothing, spending hours transfiguring flowers trying to find the right combination. The scorch marks from his frustration still stained the edges of the tombstone. Another reminder of his many failures.
The third year he had strode through the graveyard with determination. He didn't even look where he was headed, already knowing the dreaded route too well. He sat, that day, reading aloud Hogwarts: A History, front to back, till dawn. A very quiet and uncharacteristically still Crookshanks nestled in his lap.
It was now the fourth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, four years since he had last seen her alive and he was finally ready to voice what he never had been willing to when he'd had the chance.
He'd approached her resting place more slowly this time, deliberately taking in every detail of his surroundings and appreciating the small beauty the world still held for him.
It helped too, that he knew he had finally found the right gift for her. The object in his pocket felt comforting in his palm as he lifted it out and began to speak.
"I know my words are empty, my promises even more so. But I'm going to show you, Hermione, I'm going to spend the rest of my life showing you what I can be."
He knelt down, and placed a blackened, twisted diadem next to the headstone.
"I love you, I think you knew it, too. We almost made it, didn't we?" He ended with a choked whisper, reverently brushing his fingers across the lettering of her name.
The shadows melted away around him and the surrounding trees quieted as the sun fully set with his confession.
The pain in his chest receded and he left it at that, no goodbye or see you soon being spoken.
The pain slowly shifted, a tingling crawl that steadily became a burn on his left forearm.
He glanced down to the mark he knew was etched on his hidden skin, hoping this was the last time he would have to heed it's call.
It was time for no more almosts.
~0~
The saddest word
in the whole wide world
is the word: almost
He was almost in love.
She was almost good enough.
He almost stopped her.
She almost waited.
He almost lived.
They almost made it.
Nikita Gill
~0~