Chapter 9

still I dream of him

"Which is the true nightmare, the horrific dream that you have in your sleep or the dissatisfied reality that awaits you when you awake?"

- Justin Alcala

Dumbledore is dead.

The words spiralled in Hermione's mind, over and over, like a twisted mantra she couldn't silence. She moved mechanically through the castle once the Death Eaters absconded, numb and unseeing, as the reality of it failed to sink in.

This must have been a misunderstanding, a prank, or anything but the truth.

Snape killed Dumbledore.

Killed him while Harry watched from beneath the Invisibility Cloak, helpless, immobilized, forced to witness the murder of the greatest wizard they'd known.

Snape had always been there, always lurking.

He'd been trusted, and he'd betrayed them all.

Snape took Malfoy and fled.

The realization settled like lead in her stomach. Malfoy was gone. He vanished into the night like smoke, slipping away unnoticed amidst the chaos.

Malfoy let the Death Eaters in.

She could still feel the shock, the disbelief coursing through her veins, followed by a nauseating sense of betrayal.

Last night, she had kissed him and held him, and he had known this was coming. He had known that tonight would end in blood.

He had known, and he had told her goodbye.

Draco told her goodbye.

His words echoed in her mind. He hadn't wanted this. He'd said it over and over, in his broken way. He understood that she needed to stay away from the situation, considering the danger she was in, which was almost as great as Harry's.

And yet, he'd chosen it, anyway.

Rage bubbled up, hot and uncontrollable, fuelling her as she tore through the battered halls of Hogwarts. The majority of the students gathered in the Great Hall for safety, seeking comfort in numbers.

She wasn't interested in safety. Being protected.

The Slytherin common room was empty, the greenish light from the lake casting long, eerie shadows across the stone walls. She didn't mind being seen, nor did she care about the lack of permission to be there. She was a storm ripping through the dark, winding corridors, her wand sparking at her side, a single-minded mission burning in her chest.

She burst into the sixth-year boys' dormitory, her breath ragged. Malfoy's sheets were tangled from her earlier escape. The torn ropes lay in ruins, and the curtains were in tatters. She crossed the room in a few quick steps, kneeling by his trunk. Her hands fumbled as she yanked it open, her vision blurring with the tears she refused to shed.

He wasn't coming back.

Godric, he wasn't coming back.

She was so mad at him, but didn't want him to be gone. Not where she couldn't find him. How could she scold him if she couldn't find him?

She tore through his things, pushing aside folded clothes, papers, and books, her movements frantic. Her fingers were trembling as she searched. She found old textbooks, spare robes, and a bottle of cologne she remembered him wearing once or twice—she hadn't been a fan of the smell.

She paused on a photograph—young Draco on a broomstick, soaring through the air, his expression carefree, happy.

She shoved the picture back in the trunk, her breath hitching.

Hermione searched without a clear goal. He couldn't leave; how could continue as though he hadn't existed? She craved any reminder that he existed somewhere in the world. She grabbed a few articles of clothing—an old sweater, his quidditch jersey, and a black button-up that still carried the faint scent of him—and shoved them into her bag. Her movements were erratic, her mind spinning.

She desired a piece of him, something to keep close. Something real.

She spotted a small collection of odd objects at the very bottom of Malfoy's trunk beneath the folded robes and stacks of textbooks. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she examined them—a chipped teacup, a tarnished hand mirror, and a peculiar, vintage-looking ring with an ornate design. Odd things for a teenage boy to have at the bottom of his school trunk.

She reached for the teacup, her fingers hovering over its delicate rim.

"I wouldn't touch that one if I were you," a voice broke the silence across the room, and Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin.

She whipped around, her heart pounding, to see Theo lounging on his bed, watching her with a bemused expression, one eyebrow cocked.

"It's got a curse on it," he explained, tilting his head toward the teacup. "Anyone who isn't a Malfoy can't touch it." His voice was like a soothing stream, devoid of any urgency. "I expect the other two are safe enough."

"I—I thought everyone was in the Great Hall," Hermione stammered, cursing herself for not checking the room more thoroughly in her single-minded focus.

Theo gave a slight shrug.

"So did I." He studied her with an unsettling calm. "I've never been one for all that Kumbaya bullshit."

Hermione stood there, her body tense, feeling like a child caught sneaking into the cookie jar. She hesitated, unsure whether to flee or attempt to reason her way out. Theo, meanwhile, seemed content to smirk at her in that infuriatingly calm way, his eyes alight with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

"Okay, let me do us both a favour," he said, breaking the silence. "I know you and Draco have been fucking."

Hermione's face flushed, a mix of embarrassment and anger flaring up. "I—what? Did he—?"

"Did you think no one figured it out?" Theo rolled his eyes, leaning back against his pillows. "Last year alone, you two shagged in almost every nook and cranny in this castle. You know, I know that he's obsessed with you. And your little act with me didn't fool anyone. Not everyone is as oblivious as the two boys you call your best friends."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off.

"No one else figured it out. Don't worry," Theo continued, waving a dismissive hand. "I only pieced it together because Draco came back to the dormitory regularly looking thoroughly shagged and wouldn't talk about it. We're not usually that secretive with our… adventures. So, naturally, I started paying attention."

Hermione's mind raced, her hands wringing in front of her.

"To anyone paying a lick of attention to you two," Theo went on, enjoying her discomfort, "it was glaringly obvious that you've been bumping uglies regularly. Nice move, by the way, trying to use our little friendship to rile Draco up."

Theo smirked, a slow, knowing smile that made her skin prickle.

Her heart pounded in her chest. She straightened her spine, defiance flaring in her eyes. "And?"

He chuckled, shaking his head.

"And nothing, Granger. "Believe it or not, I've got bigger problems than your clandestine rendezvous." A flicker of regret briefly crossed his eyes as his smile vanished. "Just… be careful. You might see this war as a conflict of morality, of good versus evil. But for some, it's simply a matter of staying alive."

"I'd argue that I'm the one at the most risk when it comes to survival."

"And you'd be wrong." Theo scoffed, launching back on the bed. "Believe it or not, Death Eaters don't always make the best parents. Some would rather sell their children for a single ounce of power."

Theo's careful tone felt too scripted, too distanced. He was edging away from the truth, as if he was too close for comfort. For the first time, Hermione really studied him. Theo was a pleasant and funny, but sometimes cruel, friend of Malfoy's who lingered in the background. She hadn't paid him much mind throughout their school years until she started sneaking around with Malfoy.

Alone in the dorm, Hermione began to notice flaws in Theo's facade.

Theo was handsome and charming. Beneath the surface, however, was a more sinister undercurrent. And not evil or prejudice. Perhaps he was a victim. He was fidgeting, and Hermione could spot the same underlying panic in him that often bubbled up in her.

Sitting up, Theo seemed to shake himself from the stupor of denouement. He wore a mischievous smirk that Hermione wasn't quite sure she believed any longer. "Why are you here, snooping through his belongings like a desperate girlfriend?"

Godric. Because she was a desperate girlfriend.

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat dry. She needed to get out of here. She hadn't planned on having to explain herself to anyone, especially not to Theo Nott, who seemed to be suffering a strange sort of melancholy.

"He—he's not coming back," she managed, her voice wavering. "Draco, I mean."

"No, he's not," Theo replied, his smirk fading into a more serious expression. A glimmer of genuine understanding briefly flickered in his eyes. "Not anytime soon, anyway."

"He won't miss them," she said, her eyes darting back to the items in the trunk. She felt cornered, like a trapped animal, and Theo's demeanour only made her more anxious.

Theo's eyes brightened with amusement, the smirk returning.

"No, I don't suppose those are what he'll miss." He paused, his gaze shifting to her face, studying her closely. "Why are you in our dorm room taking those things in the first place?"

Hermione felt her resolve crack. She breathed, knowing there was no point in pretending any longer.

"I just… I need something of his," she admitted. "To remember him by."

"He's not dead."

A flash of Malfoy lying in the bathroom, cold and pale, surrounded by a pool of his blood as wounds kept opening.

Hermione swallowed and shook her head. "No, he's not. But I also don't know when I'll see him again."

If. She couldn't bring herself to think about it; she pushed it away as hard as she could.

Theo nodded, as if weighing her words. Then, with a slight chin jerk, he gestured back to the trunk.

"Take the mirror and the ring," he suggested. "I have a feeling you might end up needing them."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "What do they do?"

Theo's lips curled into a mysterious smile.

"Ask Draco next time you see him," he said, his tone casual as if he knew something she didn't.

Hermione nodded and placed the mirror and the ring into her bag. As she stood and closed the trunk, Theo moved to the edge of his bed, all airs of nonchalance gone as he studied her. His moods seemed to shift with the wind.

"Granger." He hesitated before catching her eye. "Don't hurt him."

Hermione jostled, stunned that Theo would care and alarmed that he thought she might. She thought about breaking Draco's nose only a few hours ago… but he deserved that. Plus, she'd healed him right after.

"I don't know what's going on between you two. Like I said, Draco wouldn't say a word." Theo frowned down into his lap, his hands twisting together. "But Draco isn't evil. He's a bit of a prat, selfish and maybe a little cruel sometimes. But he isn't vile."

"I know."

Hope flickered in Theo's eyes as he looked up. "Draco's helped me through a lot of stuff, believe it or not. He… he can be a very calming presence."

Hermione frowned. Draco had recognized the signs of a panic attack in Hermione after her O.W.L. in Divination. How did he know what to do to help her through that? The thought of Theo, ineffable Theo Nott, succumbing to his fear like that made her chest ache.

"I won't hurt him, Theo."

"Good. Or else you'll have to deal with me," Theo resumed his playfulness, but Hermione heard the real threat beneath. "Or Pansy, if she gets to you first. That girl is nutter-butters. Now, off you go before someone else finds you here."

He gave a lazy wave, like he was dismissing a servant.

Hermione rolled her eyes but wasted no time. Her heart pounded in her chest as she turned and hurried out of the Slytherin dormitory, leaving Theo behind with his amused smirk and unsettlingly calm demeanour.

Memories clung to Hermione like shadows as she wandered the castle corridors, the echoes of the day's events chasing her through the empty halls. Earlier that day, they had held Dumbledore's funeral—a somber, heart-wrenching event that still felt like a surreal nightmare. She couldn't quite grasp it, couldn't believe that the infallible Albus Dumbledore, defeater of Grindelwald, protector of Hogwarts, was gone. Dead.

The courtyard had been packed with mourners, students old and new, professors, ministry officials, and countless others who had come to pay their respects. Hermione had stood among them, her heart a heavy, hollow thing in her chest, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. She was overwhelmed by the pressure of the crowd and the intensity of their emotions.

She was still in her dress robes, the fabric now wrinkled and stained with tear tracks and the dirt of the castle grounds. Her legs moved almost of their own accord as she wandered, unable to anchor herself to the present. The castle felt different now—cold and distant, like an ancient fortress, not the warm, safe haven she'd known for the past six years.

Flashes of memories floated through her mind like ghostly apparitions. She remembered her first year, nervous and wide-eyed, as she discovered the castle. She saw herself laughing with Harry and Ron by the fire in the Gryffindor common room and running down the halls with Ginny, their footsteps echoing against the stone. She saw herself sneaking into the library late at night, searching for answers.

She saw Malfoy—his eyes haunted, his voice low and urgent, warning her, kissing her, holding her like she was the only solid thing in a world collapsing around him.

The Battle of the Astronomy Tower, as it was now known, had altered everything. It had shattered the illusion of safety, ripped apart the thin veneer of normalcy they'd been clinging to.

Since that night, Malfoy had been silent, but a tiny, foolish part of her clung to the hope of a sign, a message, anything to confirm his existence.

But deep down, she knew better.

We won't be speaking for a while. His words echoed in her mind, a cold, unyielding truth.

She understood this could be her final chance to walk these sacred halls for a time, potentially forever.

Harry wasn't coming back for their final year. He had horcruxes to find and destroy; a war that needed ending. And where Harry went, she and Ron followed. She'd made her peace with that decision.

But leaving Hogwarts—the only home she'd ever felt she belonged—was more complex than she'd imagined.

She left the castle, her footsteps echoing on the stone steps as she went outside. The grounds were almost empty now, save for a few stragglers who wandered like lost souls, their faces drawn and pale. She spotted Harry and Ron near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, their faces grim and unreadable as they waited for her.

The three stood together silently, the weight of everything they'd lost pressing down like a heavy shroud. They each took one last sweeping look at Hogwarts, the castle towering against the darkening sky, its spires reaching up like skeletal fingers, the Great Lake glimmering in the distance.

It had been their refuge, sanctuary, and home for six years.

Now, it felt like a monument to everything they were about to lose.

Hermione swallowed hard, feeling the sting of tears she refused to shed. She reached out, taking Harry and Ron's hands in hers, squeezing them. They didn't need words—there was nothing left to say.

Inhaling deeply, they left the castle behind, the burden of the future pressing down on them. Step by step, they walked toward the train that would take them away from Hogwarts, away from the life they'd known. And as the castle faded into the distance behind them, Hermione felt the dread settle deeper into her bones, the sense of foreboding gnawing at her since that night in the Room of Requirement, since Draco had kissed her with a desperate finality.

The next chapter was a mystery, but she knew this: things would never be the same.

Hermione's hands were shaking, trembling so violently she could hardly keep her grip on her wand. She stared at it, the wooden length feeling foreign and heavy in her palm like it was suddenly too much to hold. Her breath came in shallow gasps as the reality of what she'd done began to sink in.

She had just Obliviated her parents. Her parents.

They were, in every sense that mattered, gone. She had made herself an orphan.

The false memories she'd planted in their minds—mundane memories of another life, a life without her—would guide them far from here to Australia under pseudonyms. They would be safe from the Death Eaters, Voldemort, and any potential pursuers. Safe from the war.

But she wouldn't see them again. They wouldn't know her, even if she showed up.

She took a shuddering breath, her chest constricting as she forced herself to move.

She felt like she was losing everything she cared about, everyone, and the war had just begun.

Everything she needed for the journey with Harry and Ron was already packed. Her belongings were transported to the Burrow days ago and shrunk down to fit inside a small chest that she'd hidden in the corner of the Weasleys' cramped dwelling. The essentials she needed were tucked inside the beaded bag hanging from her arm—a project she'd worked on tirelessly for a month until the Extender Charm was perfect. It held everything, including the odd trinkets she'd taken from Malfoy's trunk after the Battle of the Tower.

With one last lingering look at her parents' home—a house filled with echoes of a childhood that only she would remember now—Hermione took a deep, steadying breath and disapparated, the world vanishing around her.

The familiar hum of the city greeted her ears. She'd landed in an alleyway in Muggle, London. She couldn't bring herself to the Burrow, where she knew she'd be greeted with tearful hugs and assurances that everything would be all right.

Hermione didn't want to be told that everything would be okay.

She needed a moment. Just one moment to herself.

As an only child with no close family nearby, she was accustomed to finding solace in solitude, in moments of quiet where she could sort through the mess of her thoughts. She needed that now more than ever.

Hermione emerged from the alleyway and headed towards the small Muggle hotel she'd reserved for a single night. The bell at the front desk rang out when she checked in, the mundane sound jarring her already frayed nerves.

Once inside her room, she locked the door, casting a series of protective wards around the perimeter until she was sure no one could enter without her knowing.

Isolated from the world, engulfed in silence, she finally allowed herself to break.

She crumpled to the floor, her knees hitting the laminate with a dull thud, and the sobs tore through her. They came from somewhere deep within, each one ripping out of her chest with a force that left her gasping for air. She was shaking, her entire body trembling with the weight of all she had lost—her parents, her childhood, a small measure of hope after the death of Dumbledore, Malfoy.

The loss of Malfoy.

The small room reverberated with her cries, her chest aching with the intensity of her emotions. She hugged herself as if trying to hold herself together despite falling apart. Tears poured down her cheeks, and she didn't bother wiping them away. She let them fall, let them wash away the last remnants of the girl she'd been before.

When the tears subsided, Hermione felt hollowed out, like she had nothing left. Her eyes were red and raw; her throat was scratched and dry. She lay there on the cold, wooden floor, staring up at the ceiling, unable to summon the energy to move. Trapped between an inaccessible past and a daunting future, she felt adrift in a strange limbo.

Tomorrow will be better, she told herself, trying to believe it. It has to be better.

Harry needed her. Ron needed her. And in some impossible way, the whole wizarding world needed her. She couldn't afford to fall apart now. She had to pull herself together. She had to be strong.

But tonight… Tonight, she could allow herself to be broken.

After an eternity, she pushed herself up from the floor, her muscles aching from the strain of holding herself together. She moved to the bathroom, peeling off her dress robes, and stepped under the scalding hot water of the shower. She let the heat wash over her, the steam fogging up the mirror, wiping away the day's tear stains and grime. She stayed under the water until her skin was flushed, and her limbs felt like they might melt away.

She wasn't paying attention to her footing when she stepped out and slipped on the slick tile. Her arm shot out, trying to catch herself, but instead, her palm struck the edge of the sink, and she felt a sharp sting as something sliced into her skin.

She hissed in pain, crumpling to the floor once more. She brought her injured hand up to her face, staring at the thin line of red that formed there.

The gouge was superficial, just deep enough to draw blood.

She sat there, staring at it.

This. Wars were fought over this. Based on the idea that some blood is more valuable than others. Of her having dirty blood. The ludicrous belief that her blood—her blood—was somehow inferior, polluted, that it somehow made her less than.

Poison bloodinfecting and slowly compromising the whole body of the wizarding world.

How fucking preposterous.

The absurdity of it all made her want to scream, to unleash her fury, but she knew it wouldn't matter. She grabbed her wand, whispering a quick healing spell, watching as the cut closed, the pain easing. Then, with a drying spell, she stood up, her body moving mechanically.

She walked over to her bag and pulled out the one piece of clothing she'd brought with her that wasn't for practicality—Malfoy's old Slytherin Quidditch jersey. It was soft and worn, the green fabric familiar beneath her fingers with MALFOY printed in bold letters across the back. She slipped it over her head, the material draping over her and falling off her shoulders because of the size difference. It still smelled like him.

Hermione settled into bed, flipping to a random channel on the television and letting the sounds of Muggle voices wash over her. She lay there, wrapped in Malfoy's jersey, allowing the white noise of the TV to lull her into a restless sleep, her mind filled with ghosts of the past and shadows of what was still to come.

Hermione felt the soft, warm caress of fingers trailing down her arm, her skin prickling under the light touch. A shiver ran through her, but it wasn't from the cold. She was warmed, a cocoon of heat radiating from the body pressed up against hers.

She could feel his breath against her neck, hot and steady, the rhythm of his breathing matching her own. His scent filled her senses—something distinctly Malfoy: a mix of mint, fresh grass, and the faint musk of his cologne. It was intoxicating, wrapping around her like a thick, heavy fog that clouded her mind and set her nerves alight.

She turned, eyes fluttering open, and met his intense, grey gaze. It seemed to see through her. His face was inches from hers, his lips parted, his gaze dark and full of longing. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, his hands sliding up her sides, his fingers splaying across her ribs, inching closer to her chest.

"Draco," she whispered, her breath catching in her throat.

He didn't respond, but his lips curled into a small, knowing smile. He leaned in, his breath fanning across her lips, his nose brushing against hers. She felt her heart racing, her body aching with a need she couldn't resist.

She wanted him closer, needed him closer.

His lips touched hers, soft and slow, a tentative brush that sent a spark of electricity through her veins. She melted into him, her hands finding their way into his hair, tugging him deeper into the kiss. His mouth moved against hers, more insistent now, more demanding, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips, coaxing them apart. She opened for him, a soft moan escaping her as his tongue slid against hers, tasting, exploring, claiming.

The world around them seemed to blur, to fade away until there was nothing but him—his mouth on hers, his hands roaming her body, his scent filling her lungs with every breath. She felt herself slipping, losing herself in him, her mind fogging with desire.

But then, something shifted.

The warmth of his touch turned cold, the heat between them replaced by an icy chill seeped into her bones.

She pulled back, her brows furrowing in confusion, but Draco's grip tightened, his hands like iron bands around her arms. She looked up at him, but his eyes were different now—dark and hollow, filled with a cruel, mocking light. Unfocused in that manner he'd used throughout the sixth-year, dilated to blackness. His smile twisted into a sneer, his lips curling back to reveal his teeth.

"Did you really think I'd choose you, Mudblood?" he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "You're nothing to me. Nothing."

Her heart clenched, panic rising in her chest as she tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let go. His grip tightened further, his nails digging into her skin, and she felt a sharp, searing pain shooting through her arm.

"Stop," she whimpered, her voice trembling. "Draco, please. You're hurting me."

But he only laughed, a cold, hollow sound that sent a shiver of dread down her spine.

"I know you think you can save me," he taunted. "But look at you. You can't even save yourself."

The room shifted, the walls of the Slytherin dormitory snaking and warping into dark, twisted shapes, shadows stretching and clawing at her like grasping hands. She felt the cold stone of the floor beneath her feet, felt the weight of fear pressing down on her chest.

The walls closed in, suffocating, and she could hear whispers—low, malicious voices echoing in her ears.

"Mudblood," they hissed. "Worthless. Pathetic."

A high-pitched cackle reverberated around her.

"Stop!" she screamed, her voice breaking. "Stop it!"

Draco's face was inches from hers. His eyes now glowing a sickly, unnatural red, his grin widening into something monstrous.

"Oh, Granger," he whispered in a sing-song croon. "Why do you believe I would ever desire you?"

His hands moved toward her neck, fingers transfiguring into long, shadow-like claws.

She tried to wrench herself away, panic flooding her veins, her heart pounding in her chest, but his hands were like steel, unyielding. She could feel herself slipping, her mind spiralling into darkness, the world around her fading into a void.

She jolted awake, her body jerking upright in bed, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her skin clammy with cold sweat.

Her body shuddered, the dream's terrifying grip refusing to release. Confusion gripped her for a moment, her eyes darting around the room as she tried to reconcile the real with the nightmare she'd just endured.

A soft, flickering glow from the television illuminated the room. She turned to find it still on, a late-night program playing. Her cheeks flushed as she realized it was an inappropriate scene—a couple entangled in each other's arms, their moans filling the room's quiet. With shaking hands, she fumbled for the remote on the bedside table, switching it off and plunging the room into darkness.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart, her mind still spinning with the intensity of the dream. She could still feel Draco's phantom touch on her skin, his cruel words echoing in her ears. She looked down and realized she was wearing his Quidditch jersey, the fabric clinging to her body. She had needed something to hold on to, something familiar, something… comforting.

But now, in the wake of that dream, it felt like a cruel reminder. A reminder of what she was missing. She hugged her knees to her chest, burying her face in the soft fabric, inhaling his scent as tears pricked at her eyes.

It was all too much. She was caught between a longing she couldn't shake and a fear gripped her heart like a vice. And wearing his jersey in that lonely hotel room, she realized just how deep she'd fallen—how much she was willing to risk, even if it meant losing herself in the process.

Hermione closed her eyes, willing the lingering fear of the nightmare to fade. She needed to be strong. She needed to be ready. Because whatever was coming next, she had to face it.

And she had to survive it.