by Meriadoc
 
 
 

‘Goddess… Where are you?’ the young woman whispered, on the brink of tears. ‘Where are you, Draco?’

Hermione Granger’s shoulders shook uncontrollably as she swept her gaze over the castle grounds. Stone chunks of the castle
rested on the soil, and the Great Lake was red with freshly drawn blood. Every being around her, including the ones in the lake
and the creatures in the forest, was dead. She was desperate to find a silver-haired exception. The few bodies that had yet to
be disposed of were strewn about, the mangled cadavers covered mercifully in black cloth. Broken wands littered the grass, as
well as Muggle weapons, like daggers, even some guns (enchanted, usually) and other paraphernalia.

She was tired, so tired. She hadn’t slept in days, ever since this last attack, which served as a kind of aftershock to the real war
that had been fought in another location, began. And now it was over, and the Light side was left to resume their normal lives.
Except, could she?

Hermione’s steps grew heavier and slower as the weight that had settled in her chest since the start of it all grew more
oppressive. She was losing hope. She had been searching for hours. She had practically searched the whole of Hogwarts
grounds, and his body, dead or alive, was yet to be found.

Tears began to spill from her sorrowful eyes. She was at the front doors of Hogwarts, right where she started her hunt. But she
couldn’t just give up!

I shouldn’t have let him fight, she thought, the tears coming freely now. I shouldn’t have let him. Should have left this to
wizards with more experience. He’s only three-and-twenty. He can’t have died yet! He has so much left to do – he was
going to marry me, and we would have children, lots of them, little curly-haired tots with silver eyes, and he was going
to be a good father, most unlike his…

She tripped on a splintered wand and fell to the ground. She winced in pain but was much too occupied with her thoughts to
give it anymore notice.

He was going to write so many books, and be famous… but he’s already famous isn’t he? But this time it was going to
be for reasons he actually would be fond of.

She dusted her hands on her robes and sighed.

He was going to be good, he told me so. And… A sob escaped her throat and came out taut; he was to hear how much I
loved him, and still do.

Unable to walk any further due to fatigue, she sat herself down on the cold stone steps of Hogwarts. She wiped away her tears
and tried to compose her countenance, although no one was there to see her to ridicule or even sympathise anyway. Her hands
shook as she took from her bosom a short letter, which she had tucked in the front of her robes. Here she perused again
Draco’s last letter to her:

~ Dear Mione,

As you may have heard, the war is over! We’ve won. Be glad, my love. I am. I’m coming home! It’s over! Please wait
for me there.

Draco ~

Fate brought her to Hogwarts grounds once again, in the burial ceremony of ‘many brave wizards’. Hermione stood, sobbing
silently, along with hundreds of other witches and wizards clad in mourning black, who, instead of rejoicing over their immense
victory, were crying over their losses acquired in the process of winning. Each had a reason, a person, to mourn, as easily
apparent. In the middle of them all rested about a hundred, or more, gravestones in neat rows, on which were carved the names
of the innocent witches and wizards that died in the Scourge. Through her blurred vision she could make out a name or two, and
these very writings were enough to make her want to scream at the memories. Weather added what it could – gloom. Heavy
black clouds shielded the sun from view, and a harsh wind bit at their whipping cloaks.

From where she was standing, which was a bit away from everyone else, she caught sight of Virginia Weasley’s red hair, which
had quite lost its vibrancy and was now a dull brownish-crimson. The young woman cried with her mother and twin brothers,
doubtless over the death of her many brothers and father. Minerva McGonagall was situated a few feet from her, the old
woman’s usually composed and commanding countenance scrunched up in bitter tears. She was mourning some students, to be
sure, but Hermione was certain that Dumbledore’s death was mostly the cause for her misery. Harry Potter was there as well,
standing still as if too numb to speak or move, which he was. Hermione hadn’t spoken to him since after the last battle,
something she was sure he would never recover from, as she. The heretofore bright green eyes were now empty-looking, dull
ones. Mourning Ron, most likely. She sincerely wanted to stretch her arms out to him, to comfort her friend, stroke his hair
lovingly and tell him she shared his pain. But, after all, Hermione was in no condition to comfort anyone, even and especially
herself, so she didn’t think she’d be of much use. And, she didn’t share his pain, at least not as much as she ought to as their
best friend. She was too busy mourning Draco that she hadn’t really taken the time to grieve her other friends… And perhaps it
was for the better that she didn’t – grief as such would surely drive her insane.

Hermione let her gaze wander over the figures in black robes, not allowing herself to really think about whom she was grieving.
It was too painful, that sickening stab of anguish that came with every thought of what she was going to miss and wouldn’t have
if it weren’t for the Dark Lord. She didn’t want to feel it, and prayed in her heart that this were all a dream, a nightmare, and
that in a second she would wake up and the world would be as it should be. But indeed, she knew that was impossible. The
sorrow she felt was too hurtful to be from a dream.

Hermione had regrets, among other things. She’d loved him like she’d never, in her twenty-one years, loved someone else. The
thing she most wished right now, apart from Draco Malfoy not dying, was that she could have realised his better qualities
sooner, and not wasted years of time, which could have been spent in so much a better way loathing him.

After a few moments of trying in vain to distract her self with staring at the others, she realised that none of them, not one, was
likely to mourn the same person she primarily grieved. Yes, of course, she thought bitterly, who would cry over cold,
insensitive Draco Malfoy, who, even after his immensely obvious change of heart concerning loyalty, was still doubted
by everyone?

She was angry with that, and she recognised a want to make them feel how she felt. Hermione hated them for hating him, all
recollections of how Draco had treated most when he was still -- here -- lost in her sea of anguish.

The near-fact of his death hadn’t even sunk yet, and Hermione wasn’t eager for it to, not particularly. They had never found
Draco’s body, and, Hermione thought angrily, they probably never even made much of an effort to do so. Those wizards
remaining in the ever defective Ministry of Magic searched all of three hours before giving up. Even so, she was almost sure he
was dead. He knew she cared for him deeply, he just had to, and if he were alive, he wouldn’t be so cruel as to not let her see
him.

‘Screw it all!’ Hermione muttered under her breath, and she picked up another rock to throw in the water.

The pebble made ripples in the now clear lake, just like all the others she had tossed in there. She knew she would be
responsible if the lake overflowed, but she couldn’t have cared less, really.

Hermione scowled at no particular object. A new emotion had torn at her heart, quite apart from all the sorrow and regret she
had felt distinctively for the last few days – rage. Rage at Voldemort for having started all this about thirty years ago. Rage at
Salazar Slytherin for having started all this bull in the first place! – for he was responsible for Tom Riddle’s transformation,
however distantly. Rage at Lucius Malfoy for being the way he is – or was. On top of it all, rage at Draco Malfoy for dying,
and for making her fall in love with him to begin with! She was well aware that her logic was ill, but she let herself be angry, for
fear that the other emotions would resurface and torture her as ruthlessly as they had before.

Her engagement ring, a gold one with a diamond in the centre and two smaller sapphires to balance the delicate arrangement,
glinted majestically on her finger. Her anger fluctuated slightly at the sight of it, and she longed to throw it into the river, to be rid
of its burden forever. But she didn’t dare remove it. It was all she had left, after all. That, and the memory of his proposal.

They had stood at this very spot that day, and Draco and the other wizards (who refused to call themselves soldiers) were
about to prepare for battle. Hermione and the other professors were to leave right away, and she and Mr Malfoy were relishing
their last moments together.

They reluctantly stepped away from each other, and with one last kiss, bid the other good-bye. Hermione stepped into
the carriage that was waiting for her, a weight on her heart, wondering if she would ever see him again (something she
should have taken more seriously). Just as the carriage started to roll away to a slow start, he heard his voice:

‘Hermione!’

She stuck her head out the window and yelled, ‘what?’

Draco was smiling and looked rather nervous. ‘Hey Granger! Want to marry me?’

Hermione, as expected, couldn’t believe her ears. ‘What?!’

‘You heard me!’ Draco started walking to keep up with the slowly moving carriage. ‘I said, d’you want to marry me!’

She was stunned. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Does it look like I’m serious?’

‘No, actually!’

Draco stopped walking and looked startled. ‘Do not you want to marry me?’ he cried.

Hermione laughed. ‘No! No, I mean, I don’t think you look serious!’ She tried to act normal when she was so surprised
and overjoyed she wanted to scream. It wasn’t easy, and she felt her cheeks overspread with the deepest blush.

He smiled, but he still looked a tad tense. ‘Will you marry me, then?’

The expression in his eyes, the grey of which so clear even in a distance, overpowered her. Hermione began to feel a
tad light-headed, ready to faint under the pressure and confusion of what he was asking of her.

She took a deep breath. Do I marry him or not? Hermione looked at Draco, who was now running beside her window to
keep up. As the familiar feeling brought about by love and affection came forth, the odds of her saying yes tilted ever
so slightly to his favour.

After asking herself the usual questions such as ‘Do I love him?’ and ‘Will I be happy?’, her smile broke into a huge
grin that threatened to split her face.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, more to herself than to him. Draco panted and raised a questioning brow. She cleared her throat
and said more loudly, ‘Yes!’

Draco’s smile lost all its nervousness and he now looked truly happy. He stopped running and danced a small victory
dance (he was yelling something like ‘Yes, yes!’, but she couldn’t be sure because the wind was whistling in her ears)
before blowing her a kiss. Spirits higher than she could have expected them to be in the face of battle, she returned it,
feeling as if her chest were going to burst – she had no doubt now her choice was the right one, and all she wanted at
this moment was to go to him and kiss him. She watched curiously as Draco took his wand out from his pocket,
grinning in a rather goofy fashion, and muttered a banishing spell. Hermione’s eyes widened as she realised
engagements weren’t official without a ring, and, sure enough, a blue velvet box came flying in the air towards her.
Hermione stretched a hand out for it, and she caught it like Harry would a Snitch. She opened it quickly, so she could
compliment Draco on it as soon as possible (for the carriage was running ever faster), and it really was very beautiful –
the three stones glittered in the centre exquisitely and it fit her finger perfectly. She stuck her head out the window
again and yelled, ‘It’s lovely!’

His proposal and having to run along with the carriage had brought him well over the huge bridge. He was wiping at
his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. He looked up at her voice and screamed, now sounding very sad, ‘Don’t forget to
write, OK?’

A pang of melancholy. Perhaps, she reflected, he had been too preoccupied with his proposal, uncertain whether she
would grant her hand or decline, that he hadn’t really registered the fact that they would not be seeing each other for
what would feel like an eternity. ‘I won’t!’ she cried, trying to hide her despondency. With a last wave, she slid back
into her seat. At the moment she rather knew she was happy than felt it. As she toyed with the ring on her finger,
Hermione only wished she could have had time to relish the proposal with Draco, like every other couple did, and that
he would indeed live to marry her.

Well he didn’t. So get over it! she scolded herself angrily.

As she was about to throw another rock into the lake, longing to destroy the tranquillity so keenly expressed by the still surface
as all this madness had her life, she stopped and let the pebble slip out of her fingers. Her shoulders shook and more sobs
racked her frail body. She froze herself in position, not wanting to move, wanting to numb herself to keep from feeling the
anguish that bit at her insides, as if she ever could.

She looked around her. The sight was so cruelly, unfeelingly beautiful, and it was torture to sit there and be sad while everything
seemed to disagree with her emotions. The weather had cleared upon the parting of the wizards and witches who had come to
gather and pay respects. She found herself wishing the black clouds would come back; the place looked identical to the day
when he’d asked for her hand in marriage, and didn’t do anything to dispel her dark humour. Oh, how often had her gaze
landed on the water’s surface, how often had she gone here to admire the setting sun… But, poor girl, it was never in such a
state of spirits, not even close to it. Then she sat in pleasure; now she cried in woe.

Eventually, exhaustion caused by lack of sleep and sheer sadness overcame her, and she staggered and fell on her knees, still
facing the tarn. Tears streamed down her face, mindless of how she tried to stop them from coming. She never knew it was
possible to feel this low, to feel this sad, and she hated it. It was as if her feelings threatened to devour her very essence, her
very soul, which was right about what she was feeling right now.

In a mixture of anger and misery, she couldn’t help herself. ‘You bastard!’ she screamed, her face tilted to the sky, as if
expecting the heavens, the sun, to answer to her woes. Her voice rang through the grounds and the trees. ‘Where are you,
Malfoy? Where in the bloody hell are you!’ Here she broke down completely, her face in her clammy hands, a curtain of now
lifeless brown hair shielding her from the world.

‘Right here.’

What was that? A voice, but – Hermione didn’t dare hope – it couldn’t be -- was it who she thought it was?

But it can’t be, she thought wildly. She didn’t want to hurt herself any further by bringing these expectations upon herself, she
didn’t know if she could bare any more frustration. What if it wasn’t him? Her torture would greaten, surely. Slowly, as if
dreading what she would see, Hermione lifted her head.

Its effect was most extraordinary. Her mind refused to believe what she was seeing, but her heart seemed to recognise him, for
it skipped a beat at the sight of the man in front of her. Shock overcame her, and she was unable to move or utter a single
syllable.

Draco Malfoy stood before her, at the other side of the lake. He looked exhausted, bone-weary, and he like he hadn’t had a
decent night’s sleep in months, as she, but to her he was as handsome as ever. His silvery hair was tousled, and his countenance
bore an expression half-amused, half-pained, and he wore his favourite black, as always. Draco’s posture, as usual, seemed
relaxed but really was a little tense. He stood with hands raised in front of him, as if unsure what to do with them. Light from the
sun poured down on him, making him look ethereal.

Hermione still couldn’t do anything except goggle at him, nor was she able to comprehend that the person whose very presence
she’d longed for for days, no, months to experience was here, looking at her sympathetically. Her breath was caught in her
chest -- how happy, and yet how heartbroken she was now! She kept herself frozen like that for fear that if she said something,
or simply breathed, he would disappear and confirm her dreads that it was all an illusion. A thousand thoughts and emotions
filled her as she began, at length, to recover.

Draco shifted his weight on his legs upon receiving no response from her. ‘Hullo, Granger,’ he said uncertainly in a low voice.
He smiled.

The sight of that smile, the imprint of which had haunted her dreams and thoughts for the previous months since the battles
started, broke both her paralysis and the dam she’d erected for her emotions. A sob escaped Hermione’s throat, the joy
brought about by his very presence very slowly seeping in her as she stood up shakily, rather like a baby trying to walk. Her
legs felt like they would give way underneath her.

Draco motioned for her to come to him, and her heart fluttered in delight and hope. She stretched her hands out for him,
wanting more than anything to feel his arms around her. But then she remembered the lake, and looked in distress at him, her
usual resourcefulness seemingly gone in the light of her tumult of emotions. Draco laughed (unknowingly sending her to heaven –
how could he be so carefree?) and gestured to the bridge that was situated yards away from them. Hermione wasted no time
running to it, and he did the same, both never taking their eyes off the other. Adrenaline coursed slightly through Hermione’s legs
and her wobbly knees struggled to get there as quick as possible.

It’s too good to be true…

The sight of him running, and laughing, and smiling at her, when just minutes ago she had thought him gone forever, brought
more joy than her heart could possibly stand.

After what seemed like hours but what was really only a few seconds they reached the bridge. Hermione skidded to a stop at
its opening, and so did he. They stared at each other across the structure.

A cry escaped Hermione’s lips, and both ran, as if in slow motion, to each other. She said nothing, for she simply could not
gather her wits enough to do so at that moment.

It was as if she had been walking for ever – and he didn’t get any nearer. How anxious she was to get to him, how dearly she
wanted to wrap her arms around the man she had thought was gone forever, never to come back. ~

At last they were right in front of each other. Tears falling quite freely down her face, she threw herself upon him –

-- and landed on the cold stone.

Her eyes widened in incomprehensible surprise. She lifted her head frenetically, to see if she had, in all anxiety and the blur of
her vision, just missed his embrace.

But no. He wasn’t there. He never was.

‘What…’

She buried her head in her hands as she had before, in a feeble attempt to secure some sense of solace, or comfort, in the midst
of all the madness and misery she felt.

How many times must I suffer?

What a fool Hermione Granger turned out to be! Her head was just playing tricks on her, after all. How foolish of her to actually
believe he might be back. How gullible of her to assume he would rise from the dead, perhaps thinking him to be Jesus Christ.

She made a frantic, weak attempt to direct her thoughts somewhere else, to keep her from losing her head completely,
something she was on the very verge of doing. It landed on marriage: now it was certain she would grow to be an old maid,
something she, Harry, and Ron had joked about some time ago, for she simply could not have the heart to find someone else.
Never.

‘Hermione, if you keep this up, you’ll end up exactly like McGonagall.’

‘What’s so horrible about that?’

‘She’s seventy and she’s still so…’

‘So unwed?’

The snap of a finger. ‘Exactly!’

‘Honestly!’

Wish they could see me right now, she thought dryly. She imagined how it would be – Harry would marry Lavender, or some
other perfect little witch, and they would have children, perfect little children, and they’d call her ‘Aunt Hermione’ or, more
likely, ‘Poor Aunt Granger’.

It was too dreadful to think of. Before, when she had thought of her future, the only part that was always there was that Draco
was always with her. It felt immensely odd to think about what lay ahead of her. Horrible rainy days spent with perhaps a book
at home. Christmas and New Year’s Eve with her mother and father, assuming they would still be alive. Valentines’ Days
consumed in tears, alone.

Hermione shuddered and stood, tears blurring her vision, knees weak under the strain of insomnia, shock and heartbreak. She
wouldn’t let that happen, she couldn’t bear it if it would, simply couldn’t. She would just die.

A mirthless smile crossed her face.

‘Best if I helped myself along, isn’t it?’ She whispered softly. The crooked smile remained on her tear-streaked face as she took
a knife from the inside of her black mourning robes. It was Harry’s, the one Sirius had given to him for a Christmas present
years ago, and he had asked her to take care of it for a bit. Come to think of it, she was supposed to give it back to him today.
He presumably forgot all about the trivial little article in the light of Ron’s and everyone else’s deaths. No matter – she would
have a proper, believable excuse if he ever wanted it, wouldn’t she?

Hermione took a deep breath, and directed the little blade to her jugular vein. She had learned a long time ago that this was one
of the easiest, quickest ways to end a person’s life.

All the while she thought of the joys of being with him again, be it in Heaven or Hell. All that mattered was that he was to be
with her…

Hang on, Draco, she thought, a genuine, sincere smile coming to her countenance. Wait for me there.