After returning to this story, I realized it wasn't how I wanted it, so I'm rewriting and reworking the plot. I apologize. A lot of things will be the same, but for the most part, the whole vibe will be darker, more serious. It was just too cheesy for my taste. I hope you still enjoy.
—Brielle
….
The past few weeks since returning to school had been torture. She couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, and every time Hermione closed her eyes, the past clawed its way from the back of her subconscious and into her waking moments. As though her memories had talons, they tore through the wall she'd built within herself, ribboning her defenses. Every day she had to rebuild to keep from breaking entirely, but a weak foundation made for a shoddy fortification.
Hermione's throat bobbed as she attempted to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. She clenched her hands into fists to fight the trembling. The shaking was something new and horrible, and she found that only distractions could temper the panic.
So she'd buried herself in schoolwork. She stayed up all night in the library reading, researching, writing—anything to overload her brain so it couldn't begin to overthink.
That's when the past resurfaced the most. When she had time to think. And Hermione couldn't bear to think about it—the death and destruction she'd witnessed. The friends and family she'd lost only a few short months ago.
Harry's milky, unseeing eyes flashed before her, and Hermione jerked her gaze to the side as if she could turn from it. But there was no running from the horrors. They chased her like dementors on an icy wind; swift, vicious, and ruthless. She'd seen so much death and pain.
When she returned with Ron at the beginning of the term, she'd taken a fistful of his sleeve in her hand when she realized she could see the Thestrals.
Ron had been quiet, sullen. "I can see them too," he'd whispered. Of course he could. He'd seen Fred's body, had watched with her from a distance as Snape died, and killed who knows how many Death Eaters.
They'd all seen their share of death.
Hermione wouldn't be surprised if every single student at Hogwarts could now see what pulled their carriages. The invisible "horses" which brought them from the station weren't so invisible anymore. Not now that she'd been tainted. That's what it felt like—like Hermione had been smudged with ink; dirtied, used.
But the black, bony Thestrals, despite their appearance, were gentle creatures. How ironic that such misunderstood creatures could only be seen once the viewer has seen death. And she had seen plenty of it during the Battle.
Harry's pale face—Hermione inhaled sharply, slamming her book shut. Death followed her, but she'd only just started seeing his face while awake. That was also something new and horrible.
Sometimes she saw Harry in the shadows of the corridors, lurking like one of the ghosts of the Great Hall. He never spoke, never approached, and never showed any emotion. He just...watched. Watched her with those almost wholly white eyes—eyes of the dead.
Sometimes she wanted him to say something, anything, but what would she want him to say? He'd given up his life to save her, to save everyone. It's her who should say something to him. Thank him and scold him for what he did. He shouldn't have had to die. He'd died younger than both of his parents, and he'd also died by their killer's hand. Voldemort had singlehandedly ended the Potter bloodline.
Hermione focused on the autumn breeze which floated up from the lake, clenching and unclenching her hands when the shaking returned with a vengeance. Her book—The Hidden Monsters of Ilvermorny—lay forgotten in her lap where she sat curled up on the wooden bridge ledge overlooking the water.
Despite the chill which bit at her exposed hands, Hermione had forgone wearing gloves. The cold focused her, pricked at her like needling reminders to not fall into complacency. And although she loved autumn, especially at Hogwarts, the brilliance of the foliage seemed muted this year. The trees surrounding the Black Lake created an oil painting of faded reds, oranges, and yellows, and the dark water shimmered in the golden light of dusk. Yet Hermione felt as if everything had a shade of gray to it. She could see the beauty, could comprehend it, but couldn't feel the vibrancy of it all.
All she saw was death.
Leaves were the most beautiful right before they died. The beauty of the trees all around her was a last hurrah before the deadly kiss of winter came and the frost turned the plants brown. It felt right that even the earth should experience death. Felt only fair. If she had to be burdened with such nightmares, then at least she wouldn't be alone this winter. Like her, the trees would remain while everything died—their leaves, the grass, and chrysanthemums. They too would watch as death took over and cold set in.
She exhaled, her breath fogging in the crisp air, and once more looked out over the lake. She nearly cursed when a pale, dirty hand touched her shoulder. Hermione whipped her head over her shoulder to where Harry stood in the shadows, glasses broken and those heartless eyes staring out at her.
In her startlement, Hermione lost her balance as she turned, so her dead friend could only haunt her for a split second before she tipped over the edge. She didn't have time to prepare herself for the impact or even attempt to reach for her wand as she fell.
In that instant, a small part of her felt relieved. No more nightmares, no more pain, no more visions of the dead. Maybe after months of torture, there would at last be peace.
The other larger part of her panicked. She didn't want to die. Especially not like this. The other part of her tried to fight for her wand, but it was stuck under her coat. The water approached quickly, and Hermione knew that when she hit, it'd be like hitting concrete.
But she didn't hit the water. She halted a few feet from it and hovered for a moment before she fell face-first into the cold depths of the Black Lake.
Cold lanced through her muscles, and her clothes, which had kept her relatively warm, soaked in the water and weighed her down. Hermione shrugged off the coat and then fought to ascend. When her head broke through the surface, she gasped in a breath that burned her throat and sent chills skittering along her skin. She worked to stay afloat, moving her quickly numbing arms and legs as she treaded black water beneath the shadow of the bridge she'd just plummeted from.
Hermione worked her way to shore but halted when she saw her savior—Draco Malfoy. His pale skin and bleach hair were like a torch under the shadows of the bridge beams, and although the air was crisp, he was shirtless, his lean, sculpted frame cut as though he were chiseled from marble by the hands of Michelangelo. Not smooth and beautiful, but rough as though she could see where he'd been hewn from the stone.
She lowered her eyes to the water's surface as she swam closer. Didn't want to swim closer, but Malfoy was standing on the only bit of land under the bridge and her only way out.
She couldn't help but stare. Even with the muscle, he looked sickly. His body appeared strong and powerful, but Draco's movements said fragile. He moved slowly as though he were actually made of porcelain. Like he would break if too much pressure was applied. The paradox was strange, and Hermione couldn't think her way around it.
Another hand grabbed her shoulder, but this one wasn't Harry's. Hermione gasped when the long, pale fingers curled around her neck, yellow nails digging into her throat, and pulled her under.
Darkness swallowed her and the pressure in her ears increased the farther down she was pulled. She couldn't see her assailant—could only try and pry off the iron grip they had on her throat. Hermione scratched at their fingers, at her neck, at any exposed skin to escape, but as she flung one last look toward the quickly fading light of the surface, a silhouette pierced the ripples as they dove for her.
She turned to kick at the body dragging her down—air bubbles escaped in a gasp.
Voldemort's snake-like face was inches from hers, his beady eyes staring into her soul. He had a death grip around her throat, his black robes like ink around them. His thin lips touched the lobe of her ear as he whispered, "Thank you for bringing him to me."
Hermione thrashed, but even her powerful kicks didn't propel her up. She hadn't. She hadn't brought Harry to him. Would have died before ever doing so.
Then why did the words cause so much guilt to blossom within her?
She couldn't find a response, but she supposed Voldemort didn't need one. Not as he let out a cold laugh. "Thanks to you, I killed Harry Potter."
A second hand, just as pale, but strong and clean, shoved its way through Voldemort's arm, the limb dematerializing with the movement of the water, and latched on to Hermione. She made herself kick harder, her boots wiping away the image of the Dark Lord as she ascended toward the sunset above.
Draco, both his hands curled under Hermione's arms, dragged her onto the little bit of land under the bridge and set her down in the mud. His own shoes—a pair of black Chelsea boots—squelched as he stumbled back, his wet hair a mess over his eyes.
Hermione tried to watch him upside down, but she fought to catch her breath. Once she'd done that, then the freezing cold set in. Without the sun on her, chills racked her body.
Draco collapsed onto a boulder by one of the main foundations of the bridge and slicked his hair back.
Hermione glanced away when she saw his face bloodied, bruised, and smeared with dirt. She clenched her fingers in her palm; his hand clutching hers was a phantom feeling she'd managed to forget until now. A part of her wondered if he'd successfully forgotten about that day, too.
When she at last shook off the touch of him, Hermione stood, arms crossed tightly across her torso to trap in body heat.
Then, Draco spoke. "Did you forget how to swim, Granger?"
She certainly hadn't forgotten what he sounded like—she heard him in her nightmares—but the voice that came from him seemed different. Quiet. Tired.
Hermione stared at him.
Draco loosed a cold chuckle as he busied himself with pouring water from his boots. "Forget how to hear, too?" There was a bite to his words, but that sharpness was undermined by the way he said them. The words were deliberate like there was a physical weight to them. As if they were too heavy to be said with any fire or disdain.
Although Hermione wanted to give a snarky reply, she remembered that Draco had just saved her life—twice. She touched her fingers to her neck where Voldemort's hand had been. "Thank you," she said, shivering and pulling her arm tighter.
Draco stilled, one hand holding his right boot upside down while water dripped from it with his corresponding foot raised to keep his black sock clean. He looked up at her then, lips parted slightly like he was going to speak, but no words came. After a moment, instead of acknowledging Hermione's gratitude, he put on his boot and stood. He pointed a finger at her. "Your neck is bleeding."
Hermione cocked her head, but when she looked down at the fingers which had been touching her neck, they were indeed bloody. She shook her head and said, "It must have happened in the water," which was more to herself than him, but Draco answered anyway.
"What happened?"
His name was on her tongue, but she couldn't speak it. Because when she simply thought his name, she saw his face, heard his voice, felt his touch. Hermione shivered again, but the cold had faded to numbness.
She met Draco's gaze, and she knew she must look crazy completely soaked in her clothes, hair a tangled, sopping mess, and bloody nail marks around her throat. Her fingers traveled along the wild gashes in her skin as blood now soaked the collar of her shirt. How could he have done this? Voldemort was dead. He was gone.
At last, Hermione swallowed and said, "It was…Voldemort."
Another wave of stillness passed over Draco at the name, his arms halfway into the sleeves of his black polo neck. Then, he seemed to decide she wasn't worth listening to because he cast a glare in her direction. "I didn't take you for one to joke about the Dark Lord."
Hermione scoffed. "I'm not lying." She pushed a section of hair out of her face and stepped closer. "You can accuse me of that all you'd like, but I would never. Not after—"
Draco's gray eyes shot to hers, something similar to anger brimming in them. No, not anger. Fear. He hurriedly drew the polo neck over his head and gathered up his long wool coat beside him. "Don't say it." He jabbed another pale finger in her direction. "Don't you dare say it. He's gone. He's gone."
Anger spiked through Hermione at the accusation. She sloshed her way to Draco, closing the distance between them. He may have taken a step back.
"Do you think I want to see his face? Do you think I asked to be haunted?" She glanced at the blood smeared over her fingers but dropped her hand. Her fire dimmed, suddenly, and Hermione was left feeling exhausted. Tired and curious. She tilted her head, eyes roving up and down Draco's figure. "Do you see them too?" The words were barely more than a whisper.
The question hung in the air like one of the Great Hall's floating candles. All Draco had to do was pluck it from between them.
The muscles in his jaw writhed like serpents and he refused to look at her. After fiddling with his silver rings, he said quietly, "Some more than others." With his long coat folded over an arm, Draco slipped his left hand into the pocket of his black trousers. His throat bobbed several times before he spoke again, a hesitant sort of curiosity in his eyes. "Who do you see?"
"Until a few minutes ago," Hermione said, her voice fading, "just Harry."
Her mouth tripped up at his name. She hadn't spoken it aloud since that day. Since she cried herself hoarse calling for him. To leave. To get out. To save himself. And yet he'd stayed. She hated him for it sometimes—that her best friend had been so noble—or reckless—to lose his life fighting for hers.
Hermione realized Draco hadn't said anything in return and was staring at her. She straightened her shoulders. "Who haunts you?"
"The living, mostly." He turned to leave but said over his shoulder, "I've learned to live with the hate of the dead. They offer me the most company." A humorless chuckle created a fog of breath from his nostrils. "In death, I don't think I'll be so alone." Draco pushed the sleeve of his left arm down, blocking the Dark Mark from further view. Then he slipped his overcoat on and fixed the collar before giving Hermione one last glance.
He walked off without another word and Hermione was left alone. No, not alone. Harry stood in the shadow of the bridge, watching her.
Then he was prostrate on the ground, tan jacket muddied and torn, glasses cracked, and mouth open in a silence scream.
A hand found her mouth and pressed against it before she could cry out for him again. Harry was gone. He was dead. Just like most of her friends.
She had the urge to reach for him, but she drew her wand instead when Voldemort appeared over Harry. The boy didn't move so the Dark Lord stuck out a bare foot to push Harry's face to the side. To look for signs of life. And to contaminate anything good left of him.
Hermione clutched her wand tighter in her grip, letting the feel of the vines engraved in the wood ground her. "Don't you touch him!"
Voldemort glanced over his shoulder, took her in, and laughed.
The sound grated like steel on stone.
She couldn't fight for him before, but she could do so now. She thrust her wand forward and yelled, "Reducto!" and Voldemort's image shattered like glass of a mirror. A split second later, the dirt, moss, and brush where Voldemort had stood exploded in a rain of debris. Hermione glanced around, instinctively wanting to drop to her knees by Harry's body, but both Harry and Voldemort were gone.
She quickly tucked her wand away. They were dead, she reminded herself. Hermione shook her head. "They're not real," she muttered, poking herself in the temple with an index finger.
That wouldn't explain how Voldemort had been able to drag her under. How he'd almost drowned her. How his nails had left trails in her throat. She touched a tentative hand to the gashes again, but this time, the blood had dried. As she lowered her hands, dark red stains caught her eye. Hermione turned her hands over. Blood and flesh had gathered beneath her nails.
After a moment of debate, she mimicked how she'd clawed at the Dark Lord's hands to free herself from his grasp and realized it hadn't been his nails at all, but hers. She'd done this to herself. Another glance at the spot where she'd flung the reducto spell had Hermione questioning her sanity. If these ghosts were hallucinations, then they had become too real for her liking. She'd almost died. Twice. If Draco hadn't been there—Hermione shook her head. She wouldn't think about that. Wouldn't let the panic consume her.
When she'd gathered her wits and what remained of her dignity after looking like a fool in front of Malfoy, Hermione trudged her way back to the castle. On her way, though, a glint of silver caught her attention. A ring—a family crest from the looks of it, hidden beneath a fern. She stooped to pick it up but yanked her hand away as if it would burn her.
It was Malfoy's ring—the Malfoy family crest.
She closed her eyes, sighing. She'd have to return it to him. If Malfoy lost his family ring, his father—
The thought stopped her. No, he didn't have to worry about that. Indeed. Hermione supposed he wouldn't have to worry about his father.
She'd still return his ring, which meant she'd have to go down to the dungeons searching for him. Hermione brushed off the implications that came with the thought. She didn't want to think about that. Not where it concerned Draco Malfoy.
Besides, he'd saved her life. She owed him this once. Twice, possibly, if he felt like taking advantage of his heroism.
A chortle worked its way up her throat. She never thought Draco Malfoy and the word 'heroism' would ever be used in the same sentence. Especially not in relation to him. Though she supposed they both had changed since that day.
Hermione turned, ring in hand, and then in the next breath she was flat on her back, pain crushing her. The dark damp of the forest floor stuffed its way down her throat, up her nose, the scent of dirt and moss thick in the air.
She knew this place.
No.
NO.
She thrashed against invisible binds and the panic began to build, expanding until her chest hurt and she was gasping for breath. Black robes entered her field of vision and the memories of pain resurfaced. She relived every moment from that day.
Voldemort bent down, cracked Elder Wand balanced elegantly between his gray fingers, and forced his way into Hermione's mind. He hissed foul words, his voice burning like acid down her spine and fire through her veins.
He didn't bother standing to his full height before he whispered with cool disdain that dreaded word. The word that caused Hermione to jump. The word that could make her heart pound and her hands shake.
She'd woken from full-body nightmares where Bellatrix was once again on top of her uttering that word, prying each cry from Hermione's throat as though she yanked the screams from her lungs.
Crucio.
White-hot blades bored into her skin, her bones fractured, and her blood was match-lit gasoline. The pain consumed. Overwhelmed.
Harry. Every question was about Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived.
And Hermione didn't know. She didn't know where Harry was. He'd disappeared into the crowd after finding her and Ron outside the Room of Requirement moments following his destruction of the diadem.
She didn't know. She didn't know. Why didn't he understand that?
"I don't know," she sobbed, her breath cleaving from her like a scythe through the air.
The curse attacked with a venom that swallowed Hermione until she forgot where she was. Who she was. She didn't know how long she screamed while Voldemort tortured her, but at some point, right before she broke completely, another voice began to scream too.
Draco.
He was spellbound next to her. Had he been there the whole time? She couldn't remember.
Yet she stared into his gray eyes and saw her own terrified reflection. His expression mirrored hers, but there was a fury in his eyes she didn't feel. That strange sense of wrath captivated her, and only when another wave of world-ending pain shot through her did she turn from him.
Yes, it had been Draco who screamed. His fury-filled bellow had been the thing to knock her loose from the Unforgivable Curse's grasp.
"STOP," he yelled, red faced, tendons protruding as he struggled against the spell holding him hostage. "PLEASE."
After that, the world faded away.
Hermione screamed, waking on the damp ground under the bridge. The blue evening hour covered the grounds and the temperature had dropped drastically. She searched her body, but her hands found no injuries.
Bloody hell.
It wasn't real. No, it had happened, but months ago. Just now she'd relived it.
Another hallucination.
She forced herself to take a deep breath and ran a hand down her face. Perhaps she was going mad. Hermione weighed Malfoy's ring in her palm, tilting it back and forth. She'd give it back. A glance at the dark sky. Tomorrow morning perhaps.
With a sigh, Hermione stood, pocketing the ring in her trouser pocket. She thought about what Malfoy had said about those who haunted him, but she felt alone. So utterly alone.
Hermione knew Harry watched her as she trudged through the dark, but she didn't look at him. And that only made her feel even more alone.
