The Afterlife
Draco lay on his bed in his small black and white room, just as he'd done in numerous, previous days. Not a single thing outside the door interested him. He was plagued by nightmares that drew inspiration from the hideous things he had to do in the dungeons, and when they weren't tormenting him, he would torment himself with every memory he had of Hermione, even the ones from school where he was a complete twat to her and her friends.
And as if they weren't painful enough, he would remind himself that he would be separated from her for the rest of her life. She might move on and forget him during that time. Meet and marry some rich, handsome bastard, have the children Draco wanted to have with her. Grow old without him growing old beside her. All he could do was wait. And watch.
He didn't want to watch this time.
He wasn't aware of a particular problem all this languor would cause, but Lucy did, which was why she was so worried about him. If an Afterlifer lost the will to 'live,' they faded away into nothing. Worse than that, they still existed, in a form that still had consciousness. But the environment they faded into had… nothing.
If Draco thought the Afterlife sucked, he certainly didn't want a crack at the After-Afterlife.
It wasn't a life at all.
Lucy had tried to explain this through his stubbornly-closed door, but Draco wasn't really listening.
So Lucy (and Dumbledore) brought in the big guns.
Draco ignored the rapping on the door.
"Draco?" it was Lucy again. "Please open the door. I have someone here who wants to see you."
Nothing sounded from within.
Next time, there was a different rapping pattern on the door.
"Draco, darling? It's your mother. Will you open the door, please?"
Draco cracked an eyelid open. His mother? He recalled his last view of her was through the scrying screen, when she was prancing around in her altogether with a magnificently-built centaur. He shuddered.
Still, that vision was a much-preferred sight to the one he had to endure when all those bastard Death Eaters killed her. He hoped every single one of them was dead and rotting.
What does Mother want?
He heaved himself off his bed and shuffled to the door.
Narcissa Malfoy, clothed for the occasion, was shocked to see the condition her only child had sunk to, but she hid it behind a joyful smile and hug. Draco returned the hug weakly, noting out of the corner of his eye that Mother's centaur was standing watchfully by. He, too, was also clothed in black and white garb, but since centaurs didn't dress their bottom halves, he might as well not have bothered. Draco closed his eyes and pretended that his probable stepfather wasn't spectacularly well-endowed.
"Oh, Draco!" she warbled, trying to keep her tears at bay. "I should have visited sooner, I'm so sorry I haven't."
Yeah, well, most witches would probably have a hard time tearing themselves from the entertainments that a centaur could provide, Draco thought. The one that taught Divination at Hogwarts sent every girl in Slytherin mad with lust. Even Bulstrode, although she seemed more interested in the horse part than the man part.
"Shall we take a stroll?" Narcissa asked brightly. "It looks so different from when I was last here."
They all (with the centaur a few steps behind mother and son) slowly promenaded across the massive black and white-squared grounds, bordered by topiary hedges and flowers poking out of enormous urns shaped like chess figures. "Darling," Narcissa began, "there are many people here, myself included, who are worried about you."
"It's kind of you to care," Draco murmured. "But you don't have to."
"Draco, do you know what will happen to you if you don't get better?"
He'd heard about it. He also didn't much care, either.
"I was so concerned when I heard Albus had sent you back," Narcissa fretted. "What an extraordinary thing to do, to make a dead person come back to life! No wonder you're discombobulated."
"I wanted to do it, Mother," Draco replied. "And I want to go back again."
"Surely you can't mean it?" Narcissa gasped. "Surely it isn't even possible!"
"It has been done, for your own son." The centaur suddenly spoke. "I'm afraid the management have taken on a massive risk by setting a precedent."
"What do you mean?" Draco asked, displaying the first sign of curiosity he'd had in a long time.
"You tasted life after death," the centaur responded gently. "You yearn to taste it again."
"Yeah."
"What if other Afterlifers want to return to life, having heard of your experience? What if everyone wants to stop being dead and simply go back to living like they did before? The Afterlife could empty out."
"Not sure I follow."
"If there is no death, the living world will become overpopulated. The delicate ecosphere of the world will collapse under the strain of trying to provide for far more of wizardingkind than it can."
"Well, I don't want to go back," Narcissa said stoutly. "I'm very happy here, thank you."
The centaur briefly smiled. "I, too," he replied. "Your son needs to know that the circumstances in which he returned to life were special, and management are very unlikely to do it again."
Draco heard the words, but he didn't much care. If he couldn't go back, fine. He didn't want to exist without Hermione, so he wouldn't.
Out of concern for his mother's feelings, he didn't say anything. Instead, he eyeballed the centaur and said "What exactly are your intentions towards my mother?"
Over Narcissa's hushed "Draco!", the centaur acknowledged the question. "My intentions are to love and care for her and to make sure no harm ever comes to her."
Well, that was better than what his own father could stump up. At least his mother won't be left alone when Draco faded away. He nodded. "Draco Malfoy," he said by way of introduction.
The centaur bowed. "I am Tymedon," he replied.
"I hope you two will be happy together," Draco said. "I mean it."
Narcissa expressed her joy at Draco's well wishes, but sadly, Tymedon knew what he really meant.
The Burrow
Hermione stayed at the Burrow that evening after the party. Molly was mortified that Hermione may have been sick from something she cooked, and was determined to nurse her back to health. Since Hermione couldn't say it was probably shock that made her sick, given that she'd been with Draco in the Muggle world, under the impression that he was alive when it appeared he wasn't, she gave herself in for some Molly-mothering. Crookshanks, who seemed to have forgiven her long absence, plied himself to curling up next to her tummy on Hermione's bed and purring up a storm.
It was nice.
But she still missed Draco. Dead Draco.
Much later that night, Hermione, having had enough of sleepless tossing and turning, tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen, hoping something warm to drink would procure itself from Molly's massive clutch of recipe-spells.
Lighting her way with a Lumos from a brand-new wand, courtesy of Mr Ollivander, she didn't expect to be the other person with sleeping trouble that night. George sat at the kitchen table, illuminated by Hermione's wand, with a bottle of Firewhisky and a tumbler in front of him, staring at nothing.
"Another somnambulist, eh?" George asked, causing Hermione to jump in fright. "Or have you failed to fall asleep in the first place?"
"The second," Hermione replied, heading to the stove to make a warm cup of cocoa.
"That stuff work?" George asked, nodding at her cup.
She shrugged. "That stuff work?" she replied, nodding at his bottle.
His smile was fleeting. "Smartest witch of her age," he murmured and sloshed some more drink into his glass.
"I'm not here to judge," Hermione replied. "I don't know how people who have lost someone close to them are supposed to act."
George looked at her. "You sure you're the real Hermione Granger?"
She smiled fleetingly.
"Days are okay," George said, "they're filled with things to do to keep you busy. Even the shop is tolerable because Ron's there, and he's not Fred, so it's the same but different. Nights, though…" George shrugged and swirled the whisky inside his glass.
It was as Hermione feared. She grieved for her friends who were killed in the war that she'd just found out about; but principally, probably selfishly, she grieved for Draco. Not the Draco from school; he was a prize prick then. The Afterlife Draco. The one who seemed so real.
As George said. Same but different.
"Can you tell me that the pain stops? Eventually?" she whispered.
"Mostly," George replied. "Some of it stays inside you, wrapped loosely around your heart. Most of the time you don't notice it. But occasionally, it tightens and squeezes your heart so hard that you gasp out loud in pain and everyone thinks you're a weirdo."
He sighed. "Fred hasn't been gone that long," he said, pausing to sip his drink. "I've got a lot of living left to do. The pain could go away completely by the time I'm a ninety-nine year old fuddy-duddy driving my kids mad by playing practical jokes on my grandchildren."
A fuddy-duddy who would dearly love to play practical jokes alongside his brother. Hermione saw it in his pained swallow and the hard edge of his jaw.
She got up from the table and headed around to his side. Hesitatingly, she reached around his shoulders and drew him near for a hug.
He sat immobile; but soon she felt his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.
If he felt her tears fall onto his head; he never said.
Some days later
Weasleys and friends were back at The Burrow, getting stuck into a game of Sunday Quidditch. Ginny, much to her ire, was sidelined due to her pregnancy, and no amount of reasoning, arguing, tantrum-throwing or tears had any effect whatsoever on her mum, dad, husband, brothers, and other friends who came along to spectate (and have a scrumptious lunch afterwards).
"It's not fair!" she sulked to Hermione, Luna, Hannah and Neville, all lounging on deck chairs, watching the battle in the sky.
"Sorry, I can't sympathise," Hannah replied, looking for her sunglasses. "If all that stood before me being forced to fly brooms was to get pregnant, I'd make it my business to get knocked up as soon as possible."
Neville looked alarmed and hid behind the newspaper.
"Me too," said Luna.
"Me three," added Hermione.
"You wouldn't if you knew how hard it was," Ginny complained, crossing her arms before leaping up to chastise Bill for an offside move that referee Dad (wishing he could be reading the newspaper Neville was holding) had missed. Her face turned green; and she rushed off to the loo.
During lunch, most of the talk was taken up with the organising of a charity Quidditch match, to raise money for post-war orphans. "Well, that's just great!" Ginny snapped, spooning peas onto her plate with ill-needed violence, "another match I can't play in. This is your fault!" she snarled at Harry, pointing at him with the pea spoon.
"Yes, my love," Harry replied absently, eyeing the plate containing roast chicken doing the rounds around the table.
Hermione was noticeably quiet around the raucous table; even Ron noticed, eventually.
"Oy, Hermione, what's up with you?" he asked, remembering (just) to swallow his food before talking. "You've barely said a word all lunch."
"Well, firstly, the talk has been about Quidditch," Hermione snarked back, but then she sobered. She'd been dreading this, but it had to be said. Now was as good a time as any.
"Secondly, I do have an announcement; I was just waiting for the right time."
"Get on with it, then!"
Here goes. Hermione put her knife and fork down. "Being back here has been wonderful," she began. "Even so, we've had traumatic, yet different experiences that make me struggle to feel like I truly belong."
Cries of "Rubbish!" and "Whaddya on about?" shot around the table.
"You experienced the battle and its aftermath, and came together to heal and rebuild the world. I didn't, and although I know I couldn't be here with you, I nonetheless feel… a little bit… that I don't belong. Yet."
"Utter rot!" Molly exclaimed, looking horrified. "It doesn't matter what happened in the past; you're here now and we're thrilled to have you back again!"
Many heads around the table nodded emphatically.
Oh, shit. Here come the tears, Hermione grumped. "I hardly know what I'm trying to say," she said with a wobbling lip, "but when I think of my future and where I want to be, perhaps it's because most recently I've been studying in the Muggle system for a Muggle career, and… um… I was accepted into Medical – Healer – School and… I've decided to study there."
Over the clamour of voices, she raised hers. "I've always been part of two worlds, like Harry, except his experience of the Muggle world was rather horrid and mine was happy. Muggleborns, or wizards in Harry's case, have to decide which world they want to live in, and for the next few years, at least, I choose the Muggle world. I don't want to disappear from here forever, of course not! I love you all and I still want to have a role in this world. Maybe when I graduate with my Muggle degree I can become a Healer here! Maybe all this was meant to happen, somehow, I don't know." She trailed off.
The room was silent again, except for Ginny, who was crying. Then Arthur held his beer glass aloft and said to the room: "We all have different paths to tread in life. Some of those paths are cut short too soon for the likes of us. Some paths fork and take us to different places. But these paths should always take us to a place we call home. Hermione's path may take her to different places, but she will always, always, know that the path that leads her to this door will be one she can rely on forevermore."
"Thank you," Hermione whispered, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
"Er, was that a toast, Dad?" George asked.
"You're right," Arthur replied. He stood, as did the rest of the table, and their glasses magically refilled. "To pathways!" he announced.
"To pathways!" they cheered.
Hermione stood in 'her' (Ginny's old) bedroom at the window, watching the sun set and wondering, not for the first time, if she was doing the right thing.
Harry knocked on the open door. "You okay?" she asked.
Hermione turned away from the window. Her face was puffy from crying. "Not the best," she admitted.
Harry sat on the bed and motioned her over. She slumped next to him.
"It's more than medical school, though, isn't it?" he asked, taking off his glasses and polishing them.
Hermione gaped at him. Then she closed the door with her wand.
"Something happened when I had amnesia," she admitted. "You're not going to like it."
"Let me be the judge of what I will and won't like," he returned.
Hermione let out her breath. "I'm fairly certain no-one else will understand," she cautioned. "But it's eating me up inside."
Harry nodded, husband-like.
"It's about Draco Malfoy," she whispered, and tensed when she felt Harry tense alongside her.
"Is this about when he tortured you?" Harry asked gruffly.
"Sort of," she replied, worrying her lower lip. "Recently, more of my memories about my time in Malfoy Manor returned. I'd remembered what his father did to me, but not what he did. But now I have the full picture."
She took a deep breath and faced Harry. "He didn't torture me at all."
Harry's shock was mixed with scepticism.
"I know it sounds like a case of Stockholm Syndrome," Hermione admitted, "but he didn't. He even gave me pain relief, once. When he was in my cell, we just traded insults at each other."
Harry was silent.
Emboldened by the fact that Harry wasn't yelling or throwing things, Hermione continued. "I'd had this memory about being dragged in front of Voldemort and him telling me I was going to be killed," she said. "I was scared, so scared, but I was in so much agony that part of me welcomed the end. Now I remember the person holding me said "Prepare yourself." And I said to him "Fuck you, Malfoy."
Harry sat as still as a stone.
"He was the one who teleported me," Hermione whispered. "He saved my life. That must have been when he died."
Harry, still silent, fell back onto the bed. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
"You're certain?" he eventually said.
"Yes."
"Jesus." Harry stared up at the sloped ceiling.
"There's more…"
"Let's hear it, then."
Hermione cleared her throat.
"I was living in a Police safe house," she began. "Studying, mostly. Then one day, a new neighbour moved in next door." She swallowed hard. "It was Draco."
She heard Harry's scoff. "I know it sounds crazy," she admitted. "But it's true. This guy looked exactly like Draco. He even called himself Draco Malfoy. He taught me wandless magic from Hogwarts textbooks and took me to places that might help jog my memory. He was nice."
Harry slowly sat up. "I almost believed you," he said, "until you said Malfoy was nice."
Hermione smiled briefly. "What are the odds of two separate, magical Draco Malfoys coming into contact with me?"
"Pretty bloody high, probably," Harry sighed. "But assuming Malfoy somehow miraculously escaped Voldemort's wrath or came back from the Afterlife and ended up somehow living next door to you – why was he there? How did he even know where you lived?"
"I don't know," Hermione admitted. "But there's still more."
"Oh, fuck."
Hermione swallowed. "We, um… had a relationship."
This time, Harry hopped off the bed and sighed. "You slept with him."
Hermione looked down at her hands. "Yes."
"You're in love with him."
Surprised, Hermione stared at Harry. "I… yeah. I am. Or was. Hell, this is confusing." She buried her face in her hands and said "I'm in love with a dead wizard."
They stayed that way in silence for a while. Finally, Harry spoke.
"Is he the reason why you want to go back to the Muggle world?"
Is he? Hermione searched her soul. "No," she replied eventually. "He got arrested. If he was alive, he'd be in custody with no hope of release before his trial. If he's dead, then… maybe there's no point in him being here any longer. I'm not going to find out."
She angrily dashed away at some tears.
The bed creaked as Harry sat next to her again. "Come here," he murmured, and Hermione turned into his arms. He held her close and didn't complain as she made his shoulder rather wet.
"You know, there's something to be said for normal relationships when both people are alive," he muttered.
"Not all of us can be as lucky as you," Hermione gulped.
Harry smiled, before saying "I honestly don't know what to say. Of all the things you could have told me, this would be one of the last things I could ever think of. I guess one way or another, Malfoy is no longer here. And while it may be hard to do, you need to say goodbye to his memory and move on. Find someone new. Or just be you for a while."
Hermione blew her nose. "Thanks for listening, Harry. And for not losing your temper."
"I'll accept thanks for the first thing, but the jury's still out on the second."
"Fair enough."
As Harry left and Crookshanks ambled in, Hermione picked up the enormous cat and gave him a hug. Say goodbye to Draco's memory, Hermione thought.
Easier said than done.