QR / Chapter 18 - Lifeline
Title: Quiet Revolution / Chapter 18 - Lifeline
Author: street scribbles
Rating: R
Summary: There is Draco Malfoy. And Albus Dumbledore. Hermione Granger. Cedric Diggory. Ron Weasley. Harry Potter, too. Sirius Black. If only we all had an extra lifeline.
A/N: Told you guys I didn't forget ♥. Anyway, I hope it's decent. :) Let me know! And the usual thanks to Allie, cause dude, you caught the most idiotic mistakes. Idiotic on my part, that is. ;P
PS. Random chunks of this chapter were shamefully inspired by Nickelback's "Far Away." . . . yeah, I know.
Link:
Chapter 18 - Lifeline
Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I could have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life . . .
The Fray - How to Save a Life
Winter is almost over.
You can feel it the air around you changing. The wind swirls in a different motion, the air smells slightly sweeter, and everything feels lighter and more airy. Branches are still barren and cold-looking, but the faint hint of fresh baby green bulbs continue fighting harder to break through and blossom. And there’s always hope. Winter brings long nights and cold days, but Spring guarantees the hope of warmer weather, longer days, and fresh rain that is bearable to walk through.
To dance through, even.
Spring is almost here.
All Hermione could feel was winter. She sat on her bottom, the soft mattress of mud below her and dug her cold hands into the grainy, brown Earth. It was still cold, and while hope did still seem to linger, it seemed that this battle of the seasons would continue to be fought for at least a few days longer.
Ron and Draco had fought for only a short amount of time before Draco knocked such a fierce swig into Ron’s face that Ron blacked out. Hermione’s cries had washed away in the sea of howling winds.
Draco didn’t think to tend to Hermione, or even look at her, then. He let out a low, forceful growl as he knelt down and scooped up Ron’s gangly body, Ron's arms falling limply by their sides and hoisted the two of them off the ground.
The sight that spread out in front of her was rather heroic, and very picturesque - as if Draco had stepped out of the spot of a movie. Here was the hero, a wounded victim laid in his arms - the appropriate wind blowing and creasing all the right spots of the picture. Draco’s hair blew freely amongst it all, and that sight blinked for not half a second before he turned around and, without a word, began to make his way toward the Infirmary.
“Are you coming?” His voice was low, barely audible, but not even the wind could hide what he really wanted to know.
Do you know what’s going on? Because, I don’t.
“In a bit,” she said very clearly. He acknowledged her response by picking up his steps, and she looked down at the bare grounds, the soft shuffling of icy water behind her.
Here they were, again. The spell had taken months to unwind. The confusion had taken longer to understand. They had touched so many bases needed for trust - communication, understanding.
Hope.
And all it took from the passage of so many steps and so many climbs was one slippery slope to have them tumbling all the way back down, crashing down hard onto ground zero. Square one, letter A.
At the very beginning.
And it scared her how familiar this was, it was just Ron. Her best friend of six years, Ron Weasley. Red-haired, gangly, sweet, sometimes temperamental, heart of gold, Ron.
She had learned one thing, and it was that despite feeling behind on the spell and confused now more than ever, she still was a different person. So was Draco, she was so sure of that. The feelings between them were new, and not even an old familiar visit from Ron could change that. Draco must have known that.
Hermione got up abruptly this time. And, with her flower clutched in one hand and in one bated breath, she jogged brusquely and as quickly as she could back to her room.
Draco and Ron had reached the infirmary then, and Ron was now laid safely on a hospital bed for revival.
Madam Pomfrey didn’t see who brought Ron in.
* * *
By the time Hermione arrived at her room, the weather had cleared up. The faint hint of yellow sun and blue sky shone lightly through the frosted glass windows that held up against the dormitory, and it felt nice. She was relieved to arrive upon the scene of an empty room, because she really needed the emptiness, she really needed the space to think.
Hermione bent down to gently pull open the last drawer of her desk and muttered an unlocking charm, then reached into the secret compartment of that drawer and pulled out her notebook. It was her notebook with each and every recorded detail of the spell she and Draco were working on, her Project-Harry notebook, M.E.S.S. T.H.I.N.G. - Mission: Egyptian Spell So That Harry Is New (A)gain.
She sat upright at the foot of her bed, letting her body sink slightly amongst the soft feathered blankets, and flipped open the notebook. The first ten pages were neatly scribbled notes, information about Wanderers that she found important from the research she did, and various detailed notes on the history of the Egyptian spell they were working on. She continued flipping until she got to a chunk more toward the middle and read.
It was a lot. Seven whole pages about how she and Draco had tried out the Spell of Ipse - the spell of self, on him. The interactions during the spell with Draco toward his brother, Will, were noted. Then there were pages and pages of more writing and notes. How the spell had affected him, how he had learned to see himself from another perspective. How she had learned to see him from another perspective.
She fingered through several more pages. This new section spoke of Christmas day, and how it was spent with Draco.
We didn’t really make much progress today, but spending the day with a friend was nice. Did I just write that? I guess it’s one of the few new things I’ve found, and one of the few things that I still need. A friend.
She smiled wistfully and kept reading. There were some notes about how her giving in to kiss Draco might have impacted the spell. How taking the potion could have possibly triggered a newfound gutsy behavior, no inhibitions, that most likely lead to a progression in the spell. There were more notes on the spell, on how the changes and progressions toward the next step were very subtle and far from academic and formulaic. How they seemed to come full circle and weave through the playing of their actual lives, noting the emotions and feelings rather than just the physical steps.
There were more notes on the spell, on new discoveries made when she checked out a newly written book on Dark Magic.
And then there were more notes on Draco. And then some more on . . . Draco.
She sucked in her breath at having just realized that she wrote about Draco. A lot.
She shook her head and flipped the pages back to her notes on the Spell of Ipse. After having read through them carefully, she didn’t even bother to wonder. Acting purely on instinct and an impromptu thanks to all the new happenings in her life, she grabbed her copy of Hogwarts, A History and with one finger on the tab, opened up the book to the page where the spell was located.
If she didn’t know she thought about Draco so much, Hermione began to wonder how much she knew her own ipse. Her own self.
“Ready,” she whispered, as she etched the tip of her wand against the spell, recited it to herself and then closed her eyes.
A strong, forceful surge of gravity suddenly jerked her whole body off the bed and as the moment barely gave her an insert of time to even gasp, she looked down at her feet and saw that they were bare and immersed in clear water up to her ankles. Curiously, Hermione craned her neck to taste the meal of a sight in front of her. Unlike Draco’s Spell of Ipse, Hermione had landed in a very familiar place. She was on the banks of the lake by Hogwarts. But despite it being a familiar landmark, the atmosphere felt foreign and brought warmth to her.
It felt like summer. The sky painted above her in a glazy orange hue, streaks of pink and red and yellow shooting across at random parts, like a lazy watercolor painting. The air that brushed the hair out of her face and carried specks of dust that made her squint was warm and airy, just enough for it to be comfortable and welcoming the luxury of breathing without any struggle.
The afternoon haze spread about amiably, the comfortable heat absorbing through her skin and leaving a faint tingle through her body. The air had gone from smelling faintly of a fresh spring to the sweet and sensuous smell of a long-winding summer
She felt tears well up in her eyes suddenly, and to her surprise. That slightly sore, wet feeling lingered in her eyes, as she didn’t bother to wipe them away. Hermione knew one thing, and it was that she had grown very emotional this past year, she supposed this was part of getting in touch with her weaker side, or just exposing a more human side, but she didn’t know or realize the other thing - and it was that she had missed the warmth, the summers, so much.
It had been a long winter.
But now, she wasn’t cold, or lost or sad. She felt at peace with herself. Hermione remembered feeling this physically comfortable during Draco’s spell as well. But that was before Will appeared. That was before the actual spell.
She cautiously moved one foot around in the water, which was so clear that the smooth, rounded rocks, the sight of them distorted by the waves, could be visibly seen without any blur or speck.
“Gorgeous,” she said quietly as she carefully raised the hem of her skirt with her two hands and cautiously stepped forward.
She didn’t want to go too far, though.
“The sky’s so damn orange.”
She whirled around, the sound of sudden splashy movement in the water following her.
It was Draco. He was wearing a light colored button up shirt; his pants were rolled up at the ankles, making him look prepared to dip in the lake, as well. Similar was the sight of his sleeves, of which were rolled up to his elbows. His hands dug deep into his pockets as he made his way slowly toward her.
She felt her chest rising, and wondered if this Draco part of her spell meant anything.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Hermione asked.
“Is that all that’s on your mind right now?” Draco asked lightly. “Aren’t you wondering why I’m here?”
“Are you here to be with me?” she asked softly, surprised at the lack of hesitation brought forth with her words.
He laughed, in a way that made her slightly nervous. Then he moved closer to her, which made her even more nervous.
“What are you doing?” she asked, guardedly moving a bit.
“The rocks are eroding . . .” Draco said, as he leaned in close to her, almost whispering his words so that his breathy voice tickled her ear. She felt a tingly sensation roll down her spine at the contact he made with her, his breath was cool as it rolled onto her neck. “Fast,” he finished.
Sure enough, below her feet, she could feel the rocks sinking down slowly.
“We should get out, then,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. Hermione looked beyond Draco and noticed people - a lot of them, a lot of familiar faces, suddenly appearing and making their way toward them. “Draco, look at all these people . . . they might see you, maybe. Maybe we should go!” Hermione said in a rushed voice, her heartbeats increasing all of a sudden as a spontaneous fear erupted through her senses.
“We?” Draco questioned, cocking his head to the side. In the corner of her eye, Hermione, in a rushed panic, still tracked the increasing speed in the movements the people were making. McGonagall, Lupin, and Dean Thomas were a few people she could make out.
“Yes, we,” Hermione said breathlessly.
“You want me to come with you? Are you sure that’s safe?”
“Why are you asking me this!” Hermione cried, all of a sudden. “Is this part of a test? Don’t you want to come with me?”
“Jump in.”
She felt the summer heat pulled out so quickly that she shuddered involuntarily as a chill ran down across her chest.
“I can’t,” she uttered.
“Jump in, there’s no other way. What are you afraid of?”
Hermione fretted to herself and then, in a stricken gaze, looked out at the mass of people running toward her. They were all judging her, some with curious eyes, others with snide faces, a few with menacing glares. They were all here to watch her fail. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t.
“You have to come with me! If I go, you go!” Hermione said.
“I will. Let’s jump.” Draco nodded and stretched out a hand to her. She looked at it curiously and to her surprise, felt the rocks below her feet grind into fine sand, sand so fine that her feet sunk into the soft mix of smooth, ground down rocks. She cried out as her body plummeted down into the warm water of the lake and as she opened her mouth to cry out, a mouthful of lake water shot through instead, tangling itself in the back of her throat and leaving her underwater, choking.
She followed her instincts and kicked as hard as she could off the ground in an attempt to swim up shore. A few seconds later, her blurred view underwater turned into a cool blast of fresh air as her head bobbed up momentarily.
Everyone was so far away; she had gone miles offshore. Draco was close by and he was shouting something at her. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, though.
“Help,” he had been shouting.
But she didn’t hear, and the strong current, or some other force, pushed her down underwater again. The water was cooler where the lake was deeper, and it flubbed around her ears, chilled her blood-flow and made her toes feel numb as she went down deeper, nothing but frosty blue clearness in her eyesight. She panicked and kicked her legs up again, this time only long enough to see that the crowd was far, but she did sight Hagrid.
He looked disappointed and she felt like crying.
The next time she went down, her lungs felt heavier, but Hermione kicked harder and this time when she looked up, Hagrid was gone from the blurred crowd, but she could make out McGonagall, who was shaking her head, hard and fast. Everyone around Professor McGonagall looked irritated beyond belief.
Hermione let her body paralyze from tiredness as she went down for what felt like the millionth time. The icy waters clawed at her body and she closed her eyes, feeling an insane moment of temporary peace deep underwater and thought that drowning as a way of dying wasn’t so bad.
Until her chest tightened up and her heart clamped so hard that she felt an inexplicable jolt of pain travel through her lungs.
I don’t want to die like this, she suddenly realized. All she could think about was that this wasn’t the Spell of Ipse, because she still didn’t learn anything about herself. And she didn’t want to die not knowing who she was, or what she was capable of.
Or maybe this was all she was capable of, and that’s what made dying the hardest. Knowing that she wasn’t meant to be able to do anything. To save herself. To save Draco.
To save Harry.
She gave herself one last breath of thought.
Nobody deserves to die like this.
And then everything went black.
* * *
Draco sat by Ron’s bedside and feigned several yawns over the time to keep himself amused and occupied. Madam Pomfrey, even if Draco had been visible to her, merely fussed and revived Ron, patching him up and feeding him spoonfuls of foul tasting liquids, in her usual fashion. She never stopped complaining and neither did Ron.
Despite Draco’s seeming boredom throughout it all, he kept a close watch, and listened carefully to what Ron was saying. Fear of Ron outing Draco out kept Draco alert for the most part.
Ron didn’t utter a word of who brought him to the Infirmary or who was responsible.
It was when Madam Pomfrey left for the day and when Ron promptly dozed off that Draco began yawning more and more for the sake of entertainment.
Funny thing being, when Harry Potter was alive, and a Quidditch player he was, Ron Weasley had been in Draco Malfoy’s exact position. Bored and waiting for the hospitalized victim to wake up. Ron had other thoughts in his head whenever Harry was injured, and a lot of them were wishing he knew what it was like to experience an injury so bad that you not only ended up hospitalized, but even more famous.
The very first bullet point on that list of ironies was that Draco Malfoy, while alive, had similar thoughts. Both he and Ron Weasley would have loved to be Harry Potter.
They had a lot in common. And they would never know this.
What Harry Potter would have liked Ron and Draco to both know was that he would never wish his own life upon anyone else. And they would never know this either. Because Harry was no longer alive to tell anyone anything.
“I see you there,” Ron’s voice said dryly.
Draco blinked and stopped counting the tiles on the floor to ease his head up. Draco stood up.
“Your intelligence never ceases to amaze me, Weasley,” Draco retorted, looking down. “Have a good nap?”
No answer.
“Good, good. Now if you could answer a few more questions, I may throw sweets in the deal.”
“Fuck off,” Ron hissed. “I thought it was a blessing when you died, apparently you had to come back and curse all the people I care about.”
“So you knew that I’ve been with Hermione,” Draco muttered.
“You’re on a first name basis with her, now?” Ron turned his head to look at Draco. “What the hell have you done?”
“You don’t need to know,” Draco drawled coldly. “Just answer my question, take my word for it and trust me on this one, it’s for your benefit. How long have you been able to see me?”
“I try to avoid that altogether, take right now for an example.”
“Weasley,” Draco growled.
“Don’t talk down to me, Malfoy. I was guaranteed that right when you died.”
Draco sighed in exasperation. The war obviously didn’t change Ron as much as Hermione had insisted.
“Fair enough,” Draco said. “Just answer a few questions for Hermione’s sake, then.”
Ron flinched. “You keep calling her that. Don’t call her that. I care about her, you know.” His words came out slow and forceful, the edge of every letter was harsh and insistent, as if he were condescendingly talking to Draco, purposefully talking slow and loud to get the point across. Draco took a minute to let the words seep in, despite how slow they had already come out, it was still hard to swallow for some reason.
“That makes two of us,” Draco finally said quietly.
Ron fidgeted uncomfortably in the bunched up sheets wrapped around his body. He looked down and moved to the side to adjust them but spoke.
“Ask.”
Draco removed his gloves and placed them in his back pocket and combed through his hair quickly with his fingers. “How long have you been able to see me?”
“Unfortunately, since I was a First Year.”
“Fuck, Weasley,” Draco swore. “Answer the shitting question like it’s meant to be answered - correctly!”
“I don’t know,” Ron said lamely. “I’m guessing you’ve been with Hermione the whole time, and what with how our friendship is going, I haven’t been with her that often.”
“Well, what prompted you to come looking for her just a few hours ago?” Draco snapped.
“Seamus and Lavender. They ran back and were yelling about how there was trouble. They said Hermione was there.”
Draco calmed down a notch. “Ahh, so you decided to put your underwear on outside your pants and play superhero?”
“Okay, if I’m going to be answering these questions then you’re going to be asking them. That should be it, Malfoy. I don’t need this crap.”
“Fair enough,” Draco said again. “So that fight we had just then, that was the first time you’ve seen me since I died?”
“You did die, right?” Ron asked.
“Don’t sound so relieved,” Draco said crisply.
Ron almost apologized then, but restrained himself.
“Yeah. That was the first time I’ve seen you. But I’ve known . . . or I guess suspected for longer. Hermione mentioned she saw you at . . .” he trailed off.
“Well? At?” Draco prompted impatiently.
“Harry’s funeral.”
“Need a tissue?”
“Fuck you.”
“No, thanks.”
“Get out of here, Malfoy. Go back to Hell.”
Draco looked at Ron and for a second, Ron panicked. He normally would have had the equipment for a fight with scrawny, wimpy Draco Malfoy, but not when he was hospitalized and half dressed in a hospital bed.
But Draco didn’t hit Ron, and instead, he recoiled as if that was his very intention, but decided otherwise.
“If you care about Hermione still, you won’t tell anyone that you can see me. I’m guessing only you can see me because she actually told you she saw me.”
“She told a lot of people she saw you.”
“What?” Draco cried.
“She told her roommates.”
Draco tongued his cheek and then flicked a speck off his palm. “Only the people she actually cares about whom she told are affected, then.”
Ron didn’t blink. He did shift a little again from his spot in the bed. The slight sounds of crinkling sheets and movement following his actions. He hoisted one elbow up and looked at Draco carefully.
“Listen to me good and make sure you understand. Leave her alone, Malfoy. I don’t know what you’re doing, and I don’t know what’s going to happen, but if you’re involved, it’s bad news. And if you ever want to be decent in this lifetime, or . . . whatever this is, if you ever want to be decent, period, you’ll leave her alone.”
“You have no idea what I’m doing,” Draco growled.
“What are you doing?” Ron snapped.
Draco suddenly moved abruptly toward the door, and he didn’t turn around until it opened. “You’re going to regret talking to me like this. I’m going to do you a huge favor, Weasley.”
And then he made his way out.
“Who are you kidding, Malfoy?” Ron shouted after him. “You’ve never done anything for anyone except yourself!”
The door slammed.
* * *
The cold water continued to flub around Hermione’s ears, and she felt her neck muscles clench painfully as she jolted to consciousness under the water. The quietness was overwhelming, it was the kind of tranquility found in funeral homes; in stale hospital rooms long after the patient had left, at the ground of a fresh cemetery plot. It brought a strong chill to her body and despite being underwater, she shivered, her skin cold and speckled with goose bumps.
She had never felt so scared before. It was a thousand senses morphing into one, colliding directly into her chest, not giving her any time to think, to react. One part of her was willing to accept defeat, the bigger part of her was heartbroken for succeeding in failing at everything. The biggest part of her felt alone and so incredibly desperate.
She treaded pathetically, barely moving anywhere except falling further down into the abyss of dark, dark blue.
“Help!” she tried to yell out and then felt her throat clamping together as the icy daggers of water stabbed the insides of her mouth, the coldness jetting down her throat, plunging deep into her stomach.
She wanted to cry, but she didn’t know how.
The arms that had grabbed her wound themselves around her so tightly that she really did think she was dying then, and it was only a moment later when the water around her transcend into a much lighter, airier shade of blue. She tried to turn to see who her rescuer was, but found that she was too tired.
“Hold your breath a little longer,” her rescuer said. Strange, they sounded like they could talk underwater. “You’ll be okay,”
She nodded, her lips numb and hard from clamping together so tightly.
It was only seconds later when she submerged onto land and felt a hard shove against the right side of her ribs.
“Get out of the way! Stop staring! Stop staring!” her rescuer was yelling at the top of their lungs. The voice was persistent, impatient.
The voice was on her side.
She coughed violently, and with her palms clamped against the ground of the beach, against the grainy sand, continued coughing, spitting water and saliva out. Her hair clung all to her head and in wet, sloppy strands stuck to the side of her face. Her clothes felt heavy and weighed her down as she collapsed against her rescuer.
Harry wrapped an arm protectively around her, a dry towel hung on her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I knew you’d come.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Harry whispered back.
“I want to get out of here, Harry.”
Everyone was away at several feet a radius, like they were trapped a dome, placed there for show. All Hermione could see through the watery blur were terrible, ugly eyes. Nothing looked familiar.
“They won’t stare forever, Hermione. The longer you stay, the less they’ll stare.”
“No,” she said, warm tears swollen against her eyelids. “No, Harry---”
With one arm still protectively around her shoulders, Harry continued patting her back, encouraging her to cough out more water and with the other, waved over Ron, who was tearing through the crowd around them.
“Oy, Ron,” Harry called. “She’s over here.”
Hermione looked up expectantly and smiled at Ron. And the feeling, it shook her to the core - that feeling of relief, of overwhelming happiness to see Ron smiling at her. This pure, genuinely endearing smile on his face. Ron was happy to see her. This was her best friend, and he was back.
“You’re okay,” Ron said, relieved, his knees crashing against the sand as he crouched down next to her.
Hermione burst into tears, surprised that she did, and leapt out of Harry’s arms and into Ron’s. Ron looked over her shoulder at Harry. Harry smiled a little and shrugged, and then shook the water out of one ear by tilting his head, jerking it to the side a bit.
Hermione sighed in Ron’s arms. He was back. He was her friend. All she needed was for him to be there, she realized. Ron wrapped his arms around her tightly.
“I wanted to save you,” said Ron, “but I can’t swim.”
And then she felt the warm, strong grasp of Ron’s arms around her slowly dissolve into cold, empty air. It was only a split second later that Hermione jerked her head up hard and opened her eyes after a jolt you get when you dose off for a second in class.
She looked around at her empty room. Her heart was pounding, the Spell of Ipse laid before her on the pages and her wand was at her side.
“Draco,” she whispered, patting her hair, half expecting it to still be damp. “Who saved you?”
The notebook dropped to the floor as she stood up.
Draco had still been in the water. Nobody saved him.
She kicked the notebook under her bed as she bolted out of her room
Hermione didn’t feel like crying, then, she knew what to do now.
* * *
It was only minutes after Draco left that Hermione showed up at the Infirmary, breathless and red faced from running. She saw Ron right away and made her way toward him.
He didn’t avoid eye contact this time.
“Ron, I love you,” she blurted out and placed a trembling hand on top of his. Ron’s hand felt sticky and warm. He let out a slow, sighing exhale and she felt his warm breath trail across her hand.
Ron didn’t respond. He looked at Hermione blankly. Explain to me, those eyes had said so many times before in the years gone by. And Hermione Granger had always known so well that Ron Weasley needed - she was his bright best friend who was always at his side, explaining to him what was to be understood.
Hermione couldn’t explain this. It was Ron’s turn to understand.
The aftermath of the war may have one glaring detail - that being that the war was over. The big difference between the after and during is that the War occurs at the during part, and when you hit after, it’s a sign that the War is over. There are lives to be saved during the war. There is fighting. There is change.
The aftermath allows itself to be less drastic, not as harsh. But the aftermath proves to include the biggest fight of all - the fight to understand, the struggle to adjust to the different lighting.
There occurs the biggest change of all. The realization that the aftermath is merely a word attached to the War. There is still a war going on. There are still lives to be saved.
“I need time,” Ron finally said.
Hermione nodded. It was hardly a drastic moment; it was hardly a boldly defined black and white move that highlighted the roles of their relationship, but a subtle, quietly intense change. Acceptance. Assurance.
Hope.
“I get it now, Ron. I have to go, I’m sorry. But, I do get it now.”
“Wait, Hermione,” Ron croaked. He swore he had more to say now that her backside was upon view.
That same backside froze and eased around slowly. She was crying again, the silent tears etched down her face, staining her sorrowed expression.
“Please,” Hermione said. And it was funny, how desperation to that much depth could be attached to one word alone. “Listen to me. I have to go right now, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I need more time, too. I can’t keep doing this. My heart is telling me something else. .”
“What’s your heart telling you?” he asked roughly.
She turned away, but he could clearly hear her crying. It hurt both their chests. He placed a gentle hand up on her shoulder. Hermione looked down at it and bit her lower lip.
“I’ll be back, I just . . . I’m sorry, I know we never thought the end of the War would bring something like this, something this hard, this much more difficult into our lives. But everything’s just gotten harder for me. I’d never leave like this if I didn’t have a good reason. I can’t focus on so many people, on so many things. I’m not the multi-tasking girl I used to be.” She laughed, then, at the most inappropriate time to laugh. “Isn’t that sad? I’m weak. But I still know a lot of things. I know I can do this, I know we’ll be okay . . . we’ll be fixed, very, very soon.”
She grabbed the same hand he had placed on her shoulder, balled it up beneath her palm and gently handed it back to him, pressing it against his chest. She let her shoulder linger, rest for a moment, as it laid against his sweater. She sighed softly, inhaling the familiar scent of something woodsy, something musky.
Something Ron.
Then she exhaled and looked up at him.
“You have no idea how hard this is.” And her voice was barely audible, but Ron heard her. “Bye, Ron.”
And that same backside facing Ron’s line of vision again, Hermione fled from the Infirmary.
Ron felt like he was drowning.
* * *
Draco didn’t feel right. Since the moment he had made the transformation into a Wanderer, he had felt this constant chill lingering throughout his body. It was Hermione who had affirmed this - a Wanderer’s permanent state would be that of which matched up with exactly how they were right before they died.
And when Draco died, it had been mind numbingly cold.
He tried to stay still, sitting straight up on his bed. Nothing. He moved over to the windows and pried them all open, the chilly night air wafting through and brushing his face lightly.
Still nothing.
“Draco.”
Draco nearly jumped as he whirled around and placed his hands on the windowsill behind him, as if protecting himself.
Hermione looked tired.
“What’s wrong? Wait.” He paused. “How the hell did you even get in here?”
She didn’t answer but he found his own response as he looked down at what was clutched in her hands. He removed his hands from the windowsill, but left the window open to welcome the ventilation and ran his fingers over the cool, silky material.
“Oh, crap,” Draco whispered, his voice hush. “Do you have any idea how rare those are? Where did you get that? It was that fucking Potter’s huh? I’ll bet it was---”
Uncomfortably, Hermione moved her hands away and tucked the cloak away in her pocket.
“Weasley’s okay,” Draco said, looking at her. “I think he was able to see me because you told him about me. I don’t know how smart that was of you, Granger, but--”
“I performed the Spell of Ipse on myself,” Hermione said, interrupting him.
He stopped talking immediately, and a set of careful eyes fixed on her.
“Are you okay?” he asked seriously.
“It doesn’t matter right now,” she said, shaking her head.
He hesitated a bit. “Come here,” he ordered.
Hermione immediately crashed into Draco’s arms. He wrapped his arms around her, remembering what his own Spell of Ipse had made him feel like.
“Draco.”
“Yeah?”
“Can you swim?”
There was a long, deafening silence, then. The window panes rattled, hard and clunky against the wall. With one arm, Draco closed it.
The wind was doing nothing for him, anyway.
“Not well enough,” he finally said, his voice only a tinge above audible.
“I know why you died,” she whispered. “I know now.”
Again, he didn’t respond.
“You died because nobody saved you.”
She pulled away then, and let her hands clasp his sides at his arms for a moment as she looked up at him.
“That’s it!” she cried out, her voice growing. And she sounded hysterical at the moment. “That’s just it, Draco. When you came to me in the beginning, all I wanted was to know how you died. That’s all I wanted to know! I’m done; I should be out of here. I’m smart, you know. I’m brilliant, in fact. Smartest witch in my year. I can easily do that spell on my own. I’ll bring Harry back on my own. I have all the answers. I’m done! Shouldn’t I just leave now? Isn’t that what I would do? Isn’t that so something I would do?”
He hesitated in answering. Draco pursed his lips, instead.
“I cut off Ron, instead. I put Harry in my Spell of Ipse aside to wonder about you. Wonder why nobody saved you.”
“Oh, did you?” Draco sneered. “Did you wonder long and hard about that, Hermione? Did you come up with some ‘brilliant’ cliché as fuck theory about why nobody saved me? Maybe some crap about how nobody loved me. Or how I was a racist bastard who deserved to die anyway, and maybe I’m getting what’s coming to me if you leave me?”
“I have no theory, Draco Malfoy,” she snapped. “I have nothing. I just know one thing, and it’s really not much.”
“Try me,” he sneered uncouthly.
“I want to be the one to save you,” she said lowly, her voice raspy.
Immediately, Draco pulled Hermione close to him - so fast that her body collided with his in a hard pavement of contact as their two frames sloped against each other at a tilted angle. She looked up at him and leaned up to kiss him. With two gloved hands, he swept the hair away from her frame as he cupped her face gently for a second to kiss her back. Then, Draco removed his gloves completely altogether, letting them grace the hard wooden floors of his Slytherin bedroom.
His hands traveled back to run his fingertips along her hips, so that they tickled her sides gently before he slid them up her cloak. She gasped as she felt cool fingers make contact with the small of her back.
“This is so wrong,” she whispered, her breath hot against his lips. “This is so wrong,” she said again before she moaned softly, her mouth sinking onto his. His hands had now moved to the soft cover of her stomach, and he massaged the area between her pelvic bone and belly button, letting his fingers press against her and dance down slowly.
“We’re making a huge mistake here,” he murmured, in between kisses as she began to unbutton his collared shirt.
“I’m scared we can’t turn back after this. I’m scared we’re messing up the spell.”
“The thing one’s scared of the most,” he breathed, his breath warm against her collarbone as he kissed down her chest, laying her gently on the covers of his bed as she undid the last button and helped him remove his shirt, “is the thing they desire the most.”
She couldn’t stop, she found that hands were moving faster than she could think, and she was addicted to the rapid beats her heart was feeling her. She was hooked on this chemical reaction that Draco’s body on top of hers had created. She couldn’t get enough of him. She couldn’t get enough of this.
Hermione didn’t stop to think that Draco’s body was unusually warm for that of a Wanderer. Draco didn’t stop to wonder if being this close to a living human would wreak havoc upon his very status in the living world. Two normally technically skilled people were thinking with thoughts, feeling with feelings and it felt so good. So good.
“Draco,” Hermione moaned, “Draco, I can do it. I can teach you how to swim.”
“It’s too late.” he breathed, “I stopped holding my breath.”
<< PREVIOUS | NEXT >>
Author: street scribbles
Rating: R
Summary: There is Draco Malfoy. And Albus Dumbledore. Hermione Granger. Cedric Diggory. Ron Weasley. Harry Potter, too. Sirius Black. If only we all had an extra lifeline.
A/N: Told you guys I didn't forget ♥. Anyway, I hope it's decent. :) Let me know! And the usual thanks to Allie, cause dude, you caught the most idiotic mistakes. Idiotic on my part, that is. ;P
PS. Random chunks of this chapter were shamefully inspired by Nickelback's "Far Away." . . . yeah, I know.
Link:
Chapter 18 - Lifeline
Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I could have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life . . .
The Fray - How to Save a Life
Winter is almost over.
You can feel it the air around you changing. The wind swirls in a different motion, the air smells slightly sweeter, and everything feels lighter and more airy. Branches are still barren and cold-looking, but the faint hint of fresh baby green bulbs continue fighting harder to break through and blossom. And there’s always hope. Winter brings long nights and cold days, but Spring guarantees the hope of warmer weather, longer days, and fresh rain that is bearable to walk through.
To dance through, even.
Spring is almost here.
All Hermione could feel was winter. She sat on her bottom, the soft mattress of mud below her and dug her cold hands into the grainy, brown Earth. It was still cold, and while hope did still seem to linger, it seemed that this battle of the seasons would continue to be fought for at least a few days longer.
Ron and Draco had fought for only a short amount of time before Draco knocked such a fierce swig into Ron’s face that Ron blacked out. Hermione’s cries had washed away in the sea of howling winds.
Draco didn’t think to tend to Hermione, or even look at her, then. He let out a low, forceful growl as he knelt down and scooped up Ron’s gangly body, Ron's arms falling limply by their sides and hoisted the two of them off the ground.
The sight that spread out in front of her was rather heroic, and very picturesque - as if Draco had stepped out of the spot of a movie. Here was the hero, a wounded victim laid in his arms - the appropriate wind blowing and creasing all the right spots of the picture. Draco’s hair blew freely amongst it all, and that sight blinked for not half a second before he turned around and, without a word, began to make his way toward the Infirmary.
“Are you coming?” His voice was low, barely audible, but not even the wind could hide what he really wanted to know.
Do you know what’s going on? Because, I don’t.
“In a bit,” she said very clearly. He acknowledged her response by picking up his steps, and she looked down at the bare grounds, the soft shuffling of icy water behind her.
Here they were, again. The spell had taken months to unwind. The confusion had taken longer to understand. They had touched so many bases needed for trust - communication, understanding.
Hope.
And all it took from the passage of so many steps and so many climbs was one slippery slope to have them tumbling all the way back down, crashing down hard onto ground zero. Square one, letter A.
At the very beginning.
And it scared her how familiar this was, it was just Ron. Her best friend of six years, Ron Weasley. Red-haired, gangly, sweet, sometimes temperamental, heart of gold, Ron.
She had learned one thing, and it was that despite feeling behind on the spell and confused now more than ever, she still was a different person. So was Draco, she was so sure of that. The feelings between them were new, and not even an old familiar visit from Ron could change that. Draco must have known that.
Hermione got up abruptly this time. And, with her flower clutched in one hand and in one bated breath, she jogged brusquely and as quickly as she could back to her room.
Draco and Ron had reached the infirmary then, and Ron was now laid safely on a hospital bed for revival.
Madam Pomfrey didn’t see who brought Ron in.
* * *
By the time Hermione arrived at her room, the weather had cleared up. The faint hint of yellow sun and blue sky shone lightly through the frosted glass windows that held up against the dormitory, and it felt nice. She was relieved to arrive upon the scene of an empty room, because she really needed the emptiness, she really needed the space to think.
Hermione bent down to gently pull open the last drawer of her desk and muttered an unlocking charm, then reached into the secret compartment of that drawer and pulled out her notebook. It was her notebook with each and every recorded detail of the spell she and Draco were working on, her Project-Harry notebook, M.E.S.S. T.H.I.N.G. - Mission: Egyptian Spell So That Harry Is New (A)gain.
She sat upright at the foot of her bed, letting her body sink slightly amongst the soft feathered blankets, and flipped open the notebook. The first ten pages were neatly scribbled notes, information about Wanderers that she found important from the research she did, and various detailed notes on the history of the Egyptian spell they were working on. She continued flipping until she got to a chunk more toward the middle and read.
It was a lot. Seven whole pages about how she and Draco had tried out the Spell of Ipse - the spell of self, on him. The interactions during the spell with Draco toward his brother, Will, were noted. Then there were pages and pages of more writing and notes. How the spell had affected him, how he had learned to see himself from another perspective. How she had learned to see him from another perspective.
She fingered through several more pages. This new section spoke of Christmas day, and how it was spent with Draco.
We didn’t really make much progress today, but spending the day with a friend was nice. Did I just write that? I guess it’s one of the few new things I’ve found, and one of the few things that I still need. A friend.
She smiled wistfully and kept reading. There were some notes about how her giving in to kiss Draco might have impacted the spell. How taking the potion could have possibly triggered a newfound gutsy behavior, no inhibitions, that most likely lead to a progression in the spell. There were more notes on the spell, on how the changes and progressions toward the next step were very subtle and far from academic and formulaic. How they seemed to come full circle and weave through the playing of their actual lives, noting the emotions and feelings rather than just the physical steps.
There were more notes on the spell, on new discoveries made when she checked out a newly written book on Dark Magic.
And then there were more notes on Draco. And then some more on . . . Draco.
She sucked in her breath at having just realized that she wrote about Draco. A lot.
She shook her head and flipped the pages back to her notes on the Spell of Ipse. After having read through them carefully, she didn’t even bother to wonder. Acting purely on instinct and an impromptu thanks to all the new happenings in her life, she grabbed her copy of Hogwarts, A History and with one finger on the tab, opened up the book to the page where the spell was located.
If she didn’t know she thought about Draco so much, Hermione began to wonder how much she knew her own ipse. Her own self.
“Ready,” she whispered, as she etched the tip of her wand against the spell, recited it to herself and then closed her eyes.
A strong, forceful surge of gravity suddenly jerked her whole body off the bed and as the moment barely gave her an insert of time to even gasp, she looked down at her feet and saw that they were bare and immersed in clear water up to her ankles. Curiously, Hermione craned her neck to taste the meal of a sight in front of her. Unlike Draco’s Spell of Ipse, Hermione had landed in a very familiar place. She was on the banks of the lake by Hogwarts. But despite it being a familiar landmark, the atmosphere felt foreign and brought warmth to her.
It felt like summer. The sky painted above her in a glazy orange hue, streaks of pink and red and yellow shooting across at random parts, like a lazy watercolor painting. The air that brushed the hair out of her face and carried specks of dust that made her squint was warm and airy, just enough for it to be comfortable and welcoming the luxury of breathing without any struggle.
The afternoon haze spread about amiably, the comfortable heat absorbing through her skin and leaving a faint tingle through her body. The air had gone from smelling faintly of a fresh spring to the sweet and sensuous smell of a long-winding summer
She felt tears well up in her eyes suddenly, and to her surprise. That slightly sore, wet feeling lingered in her eyes, as she didn’t bother to wipe them away. Hermione knew one thing, and it was that she had grown very emotional this past year, she supposed this was part of getting in touch with her weaker side, or just exposing a more human side, but she didn’t know or realize the other thing - and it was that she had missed the warmth, the summers, so much.
It had been a long winter.
But now, she wasn’t cold, or lost or sad. She felt at peace with herself. Hermione remembered feeling this physically comfortable during Draco’s spell as well. But that was before Will appeared. That was before the actual spell.
She cautiously moved one foot around in the water, which was so clear that the smooth, rounded rocks, the sight of them distorted by the waves, could be visibly seen without any blur or speck.
“Gorgeous,” she said quietly as she carefully raised the hem of her skirt with her two hands and cautiously stepped forward.
She didn’t want to go too far, though.
“The sky’s so damn orange.”
She whirled around, the sound of sudden splashy movement in the water following her.
It was Draco. He was wearing a light colored button up shirt; his pants were rolled up at the ankles, making him look prepared to dip in the lake, as well. Similar was the sight of his sleeves, of which were rolled up to his elbows. His hands dug deep into his pockets as he made his way slowly toward her.
She felt her chest rising, and wondered if this Draco part of her spell meant anything.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Hermione asked.
“Is that all that’s on your mind right now?” Draco asked lightly. “Aren’t you wondering why I’m here?”
“Are you here to be with me?” she asked softly, surprised at the lack of hesitation brought forth with her words.
He laughed, in a way that made her slightly nervous. Then he moved closer to her, which made her even more nervous.
“What are you doing?” she asked, guardedly moving a bit.
“The rocks are eroding . . .” Draco said, as he leaned in close to her, almost whispering his words so that his breathy voice tickled her ear. She felt a tingly sensation roll down her spine at the contact he made with her, his breath was cool as it rolled onto her neck. “Fast,” he finished.
Sure enough, below her feet, she could feel the rocks sinking down slowly.
“We should get out, then,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. Hermione looked beyond Draco and noticed people - a lot of them, a lot of familiar faces, suddenly appearing and making their way toward them. “Draco, look at all these people . . . they might see you, maybe. Maybe we should go!” Hermione said in a rushed voice, her heartbeats increasing all of a sudden as a spontaneous fear erupted through her senses.
“We?” Draco questioned, cocking his head to the side. In the corner of her eye, Hermione, in a rushed panic, still tracked the increasing speed in the movements the people were making. McGonagall, Lupin, and Dean Thomas were a few people she could make out.
“Yes, we,” Hermione said breathlessly.
“You want me to come with you? Are you sure that’s safe?”
“Why are you asking me this!” Hermione cried, all of a sudden. “Is this part of a test? Don’t you want to come with me?”
“Jump in.”
She felt the summer heat pulled out so quickly that she shuddered involuntarily as a chill ran down across her chest.
“I can’t,” she uttered.
“Jump in, there’s no other way. What are you afraid of?”
Hermione fretted to herself and then, in a stricken gaze, looked out at the mass of people running toward her. They were all judging her, some with curious eyes, others with snide faces, a few with menacing glares. They were all here to watch her fail. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t.
“You have to come with me! If I go, you go!” Hermione said.
“I will. Let’s jump.” Draco nodded and stretched out a hand to her. She looked at it curiously and to her surprise, felt the rocks below her feet grind into fine sand, sand so fine that her feet sunk into the soft mix of smooth, ground down rocks. She cried out as her body plummeted down into the warm water of the lake and as she opened her mouth to cry out, a mouthful of lake water shot through instead, tangling itself in the back of her throat and leaving her underwater, choking.
She followed her instincts and kicked as hard as she could off the ground in an attempt to swim up shore. A few seconds later, her blurred view underwater turned into a cool blast of fresh air as her head bobbed up momentarily.
Everyone was so far away; she had gone miles offshore. Draco was close by and he was shouting something at her. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, though.
“Help,” he had been shouting.
But she didn’t hear, and the strong current, or some other force, pushed her down underwater again. The water was cooler where the lake was deeper, and it flubbed around her ears, chilled her blood-flow and made her toes feel numb as she went down deeper, nothing but frosty blue clearness in her eyesight. She panicked and kicked her legs up again, this time only long enough to see that the crowd was far, but she did sight Hagrid.
He looked disappointed and she felt like crying.
The next time she went down, her lungs felt heavier, but Hermione kicked harder and this time when she looked up, Hagrid was gone from the blurred crowd, but she could make out McGonagall, who was shaking her head, hard and fast. Everyone around Professor McGonagall looked irritated beyond belief.
Hermione let her body paralyze from tiredness as she went down for what felt like the millionth time. The icy waters clawed at her body and she closed her eyes, feeling an insane moment of temporary peace deep underwater and thought that drowning as a way of dying wasn’t so bad.
Until her chest tightened up and her heart clamped so hard that she felt an inexplicable jolt of pain travel through her lungs.
I don’t want to die like this, she suddenly realized. All she could think about was that this wasn’t the Spell of Ipse, because she still didn’t learn anything about herself. And she didn’t want to die not knowing who she was, or what she was capable of.
Or maybe this was all she was capable of, and that’s what made dying the hardest. Knowing that she wasn’t meant to be able to do anything. To save herself. To save Draco.
To save Harry.
She gave herself one last breath of thought.
Nobody deserves to die like this.
And then everything went black.
* * *
Draco sat by Ron’s bedside and feigned several yawns over the time to keep himself amused and occupied. Madam Pomfrey, even if Draco had been visible to her, merely fussed and revived Ron, patching him up and feeding him spoonfuls of foul tasting liquids, in her usual fashion. She never stopped complaining and neither did Ron.
Despite Draco’s seeming boredom throughout it all, he kept a close watch, and listened carefully to what Ron was saying. Fear of Ron outing Draco out kept Draco alert for the most part.
Ron didn’t utter a word of who brought him to the Infirmary or who was responsible.
It was when Madam Pomfrey left for the day and when Ron promptly dozed off that Draco began yawning more and more for the sake of entertainment.
Funny thing being, when Harry Potter was alive, and a Quidditch player he was, Ron Weasley had been in Draco Malfoy’s exact position. Bored and waiting for the hospitalized victim to wake up. Ron had other thoughts in his head whenever Harry was injured, and a lot of them were wishing he knew what it was like to experience an injury so bad that you not only ended up hospitalized, but even more famous.
The very first bullet point on that list of ironies was that Draco Malfoy, while alive, had similar thoughts. Both he and Ron Weasley would have loved to be Harry Potter.
They had a lot in common. And they would never know this.
What Harry Potter would have liked Ron and Draco to both know was that he would never wish his own life upon anyone else. And they would never know this either. Because Harry was no longer alive to tell anyone anything.
“I see you there,” Ron’s voice said dryly.
Draco blinked and stopped counting the tiles on the floor to ease his head up. Draco stood up.
“Your intelligence never ceases to amaze me, Weasley,” Draco retorted, looking down. “Have a good nap?”
No answer.
“Good, good. Now if you could answer a few more questions, I may throw sweets in the deal.”
“Fuck off,” Ron hissed. “I thought it was a blessing when you died, apparently you had to come back and curse all the people I care about.”
“So you knew that I’ve been with Hermione,” Draco muttered.
“You’re on a first name basis with her, now?” Ron turned his head to look at Draco. “What the hell have you done?”
“You don’t need to know,” Draco drawled coldly. “Just answer my question, take my word for it and trust me on this one, it’s for your benefit. How long have you been able to see me?”
“I try to avoid that altogether, take right now for an example.”
“Weasley,” Draco growled.
“Don’t talk down to me, Malfoy. I was guaranteed that right when you died.”
Draco sighed in exasperation. The war obviously didn’t change Ron as much as Hermione had insisted.
“Fair enough,” Draco said. “Just answer a few questions for Hermione’s sake, then.”
Ron flinched. “You keep calling her that. Don’t call her that. I care about her, you know.” His words came out slow and forceful, the edge of every letter was harsh and insistent, as if he were condescendingly talking to Draco, purposefully talking slow and loud to get the point across. Draco took a minute to let the words seep in, despite how slow they had already come out, it was still hard to swallow for some reason.
“That makes two of us,” Draco finally said quietly.
Ron fidgeted uncomfortably in the bunched up sheets wrapped around his body. He looked down and moved to the side to adjust them but spoke.
“Ask.”
Draco removed his gloves and placed them in his back pocket and combed through his hair quickly with his fingers. “How long have you been able to see me?”
“Unfortunately, since I was a First Year.”
“Fuck, Weasley,” Draco swore. “Answer the shitting question like it’s meant to be answered - correctly!”
“I don’t know,” Ron said lamely. “I’m guessing you’ve been with Hermione the whole time, and what with how our friendship is going, I haven’t been with her that often.”
“Well, what prompted you to come looking for her just a few hours ago?” Draco snapped.
“Seamus and Lavender. They ran back and were yelling about how there was trouble. They said Hermione was there.”
Draco calmed down a notch. “Ahh, so you decided to put your underwear on outside your pants and play superhero?”
“Okay, if I’m going to be answering these questions then you’re going to be asking them. That should be it, Malfoy. I don’t need this crap.”
“Fair enough,” Draco said again. “So that fight we had just then, that was the first time you’ve seen me since I died?”
“You did die, right?” Ron asked.
“Don’t sound so relieved,” Draco said crisply.
Ron almost apologized then, but restrained himself.
“Yeah. That was the first time I’ve seen you. But I’ve known . . . or I guess suspected for longer. Hermione mentioned she saw you at . . .” he trailed off.
“Well? At?” Draco prompted impatiently.
“Harry’s funeral.”
“Need a tissue?”
“Fuck you.”
“No, thanks.”
“Get out of here, Malfoy. Go back to Hell.”
Draco looked at Ron and for a second, Ron panicked. He normally would have had the equipment for a fight with scrawny, wimpy Draco Malfoy, but not when he was hospitalized and half dressed in a hospital bed.
But Draco didn’t hit Ron, and instead, he recoiled as if that was his very intention, but decided otherwise.
“If you care about Hermione still, you won’t tell anyone that you can see me. I’m guessing only you can see me because she actually told you she saw me.”
“She told a lot of people she saw you.”
“What?” Draco cried.
“She told her roommates.”
Draco tongued his cheek and then flicked a speck off his palm. “Only the people she actually cares about whom she told are affected, then.”
Ron didn’t blink. He did shift a little again from his spot in the bed. The slight sounds of crinkling sheets and movement following his actions. He hoisted one elbow up and looked at Draco carefully.
“Listen to me good and make sure you understand. Leave her alone, Malfoy. I don’t know what you’re doing, and I don’t know what’s going to happen, but if you’re involved, it’s bad news. And if you ever want to be decent in this lifetime, or . . . whatever this is, if you ever want to be decent, period, you’ll leave her alone.”
“You have no idea what I’m doing,” Draco growled.
“What are you doing?” Ron snapped.
Draco suddenly moved abruptly toward the door, and he didn’t turn around until it opened. “You’re going to regret talking to me like this. I’m going to do you a huge favor, Weasley.”
And then he made his way out.
“Who are you kidding, Malfoy?” Ron shouted after him. “You’ve never done anything for anyone except yourself!”
The door slammed.
* * *
The cold water continued to flub around Hermione’s ears, and she felt her neck muscles clench painfully as she jolted to consciousness under the water. The quietness was overwhelming, it was the kind of tranquility found in funeral homes; in stale hospital rooms long after the patient had left, at the ground of a fresh cemetery plot. It brought a strong chill to her body and despite being underwater, she shivered, her skin cold and speckled with goose bumps.
She had never felt so scared before. It was a thousand senses morphing into one, colliding directly into her chest, not giving her any time to think, to react. One part of her was willing to accept defeat, the bigger part of her was heartbroken for succeeding in failing at everything. The biggest part of her felt alone and so incredibly desperate.
She treaded pathetically, barely moving anywhere except falling further down into the abyss of dark, dark blue.
“Help!” she tried to yell out and then felt her throat clamping together as the icy daggers of water stabbed the insides of her mouth, the coldness jetting down her throat, plunging deep into her stomach.
She wanted to cry, but she didn’t know how.
The arms that had grabbed her wound themselves around her so tightly that she really did think she was dying then, and it was only a moment later when the water around her transcend into a much lighter, airier shade of blue. She tried to turn to see who her rescuer was, but found that she was too tired.
“Hold your breath a little longer,” her rescuer said. Strange, they sounded like they could talk underwater. “You’ll be okay,”
She nodded, her lips numb and hard from clamping together so tightly.
It was only seconds later when she submerged onto land and felt a hard shove against the right side of her ribs.
“Get out of the way! Stop staring! Stop staring!” her rescuer was yelling at the top of their lungs. The voice was persistent, impatient.
The voice was on her side.
She coughed violently, and with her palms clamped against the ground of the beach, against the grainy sand, continued coughing, spitting water and saliva out. Her hair clung all to her head and in wet, sloppy strands stuck to the side of her face. Her clothes felt heavy and weighed her down as she collapsed against her rescuer.
Harry wrapped an arm protectively around her, a dry towel hung on her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I knew you’d come.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Harry whispered back.
“I want to get out of here, Harry.”
Everyone was away at several feet a radius, like they were trapped a dome, placed there for show. All Hermione could see through the watery blur were terrible, ugly eyes. Nothing looked familiar.
“They won’t stare forever, Hermione. The longer you stay, the less they’ll stare.”
“No,” she said, warm tears swollen against her eyelids. “No, Harry---”
With one arm still protectively around her shoulders, Harry continued patting her back, encouraging her to cough out more water and with the other, waved over Ron, who was tearing through the crowd around them.
“Oy, Ron,” Harry called. “She’s over here.”
Hermione looked up expectantly and smiled at Ron. And the feeling, it shook her to the core - that feeling of relief, of overwhelming happiness to see Ron smiling at her. This pure, genuinely endearing smile on his face. Ron was happy to see her. This was her best friend, and he was back.
“You’re okay,” Ron said, relieved, his knees crashing against the sand as he crouched down next to her.
Hermione burst into tears, surprised that she did, and leapt out of Harry’s arms and into Ron’s. Ron looked over her shoulder at Harry. Harry smiled a little and shrugged, and then shook the water out of one ear by tilting his head, jerking it to the side a bit.
Hermione sighed in Ron’s arms. He was back. He was her friend. All she needed was for him to be there, she realized. Ron wrapped his arms around her tightly.
“I wanted to save you,” said Ron, “but I can’t swim.”
And then she felt the warm, strong grasp of Ron’s arms around her slowly dissolve into cold, empty air. It was only a split second later that Hermione jerked her head up hard and opened her eyes after a jolt you get when you dose off for a second in class.
She looked around at her empty room. Her heart was pounding, the Spell of Ipse laid before her on the pages and her wand was at her side.
“Draco,” she whispered, patting her hair, half expecting it to still be damp. “Who saved you?”
The notebook dropped to the floor as she stood up.
Draco had still been in the water. Nobody saved him.
She kicked the notebook under her bed as she bolted out of her room
Hermione didn’t feel like crying, then, she knew what to do now.
* * *
It was only minutes after Draco left that Hermione showed up at the Infirmary, breathless and red faced from running. She saw Ron right away and made her way toward him.
He didn’t avoid eye contact this time.
“Ron, I love you,” she blurted out and placed a trembling hand on top of his. Ron’s hand felt sticky and warm. He let out a slow, sighing exhale and she felt his warm breath trail across her hand.
Ron didn’t respond. He looked at Hermione blankly. Explain to me, those eyes had said so many times before in the years gone by. And Hermione Granger had always known so well that Ron Weasley needed - she was his bright best friend who was always at his side, explaining to him what was to be understood.
Hermione couldn’t explain this. It was Ron’s turn to understand.
The aftermath of the war may have one glaring detail - that being that the war was over. The big difference between the after and during is that the War occurs at the during part, and when you hit after, it’s a sign that the War is over. There are lives to be saved during the war. There is fighting. There is change.
The aftermath allows itself to be less drastic, not as harsh. But the aftermath proves to include the biggest fight of all - the fight to understand, the struggle to adjust to the different lighting.
There occurs the biggest change of all. The realization that the aftermath is merely a word attached to the War. There is still a war going on. There are still lives to be saved.
“I need time,” Ron finally said.
Hermione nodded. It was hardly a drastic moment; it was hardly a boldly defined black and white move that highlighted the roles of their relationship, but a subtle, quietly intense change. Acceptance. Assurance.
Hope.
“I get it now, Ron. I have to go, I’m sorry. But, I do get it now.”
“Wait, Hermione,” Ron croaked. He swore he had more to say now that her backside was upon view.
That same backside froze and eased around slowly. She was crying again, the silent tears etched down her face, staining her sorrowed expression.
“Please,” Hermione said. And it was funny, how desperation to that much depth could be attached to one word alone. “Listen to me. I have to go right now, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I need more time, too. I can’t keep doing this. My heart is telling me something else. .”
“What’s your heart telling you?” he asked roughly.
She turned away, but he could clearly hear her crying. It hurt both their chests. He placed a gentle hand up on her shoulder. Hermione looked down at it and bit her lower lip.
“I’ll be back, I just . . . I’m sorry, I know we never thought the end of the War would bring something like this, something this hard, this much more difficult into our lives. But everything’s just gotten harder for me. I’d never leave like this if I didn’t have a good reason. I can’t focus on so many people, on so many things. I’m not the multi-tasking girl I used to be.” She laughed, then, at the most inappropriate time to laugh. “Isn’t that sad? I’m weak. But I still know a lot of things. I know I can do this, I know we’ll be okay . . . we’ll be fixed, very, very soon.”
She grabbed the same hand he had placed on her shoulder, balled it up beneath her palm and gently handed it back to him, pressing it against his chest. She let her shoulder linger, rest for a moment, as it laid against his sweater. She sighed softly, inhaling the familiar scent of something woodsy, something musky.
Something Ron.
Then she exhaled and looked up at him.
“You have no idea how hard this is.” And her voice was barely audible, but Ron heard her. “Bye, Ron.”
And that same backside facing Ron’s line of vision again, Hermione fled from the Infirmary.
Ron felt like he was drowning.
* * *
Draco didn’t feel right. Since the moment he had made the transformation into a Wanderer, he had felt this constant chill lingering throughout his body. It was Hermione who had affirmed this - a Wanderer’s permanent state would be that of which matched up with exactly how they were right before they died.
And when Draco died, it had been mind numbingly cold.
He tried to stay still, sitting straight up on his bed. Nothing. He moved over to the windows and pried them all open, the chilly night air wafting through and brushing his face lightly.
Still nothing.
“Draco.”
Draco nearly jumped as he whirled around and placed his hands on the windowsill behind him, as if protecting himself.
Hermione looked tired.
“What’s wrong? Wait.” He paused. “How the hell did you even get in here?”
She didn’t answer but he found his own response as he looked down at what was clutched in her hands. He removed his hands from the windowsill, but left the window open to welcome the ventilation and ran his fingers over the cool, silky material.
“Oh, crap,” Draco whispered, his voice hush. “Do you have any idea how rare those are? Where did you get that? It was that fucking Potter’s huh? I’ll bet it was---”
Uncomfortably, Hermione moved her hands away and tucked the cloak away in her pocket.
“Weasley’s okay,” Draco said, looking at her. “I think he was able to see me because you told him about me. I don’t know how smart that was of you, Granger, but--”
“I performed the Spell of Ipse on myself,” Hermione said, interrupting him.
He stopped talking immediately, and a set of careful eyes fixed on her.
“Are you okay?” he asked seriously.
“It doesn’t matter right now,” she said, shaking her head.
He hesitated a bit. “Come here,” he ordered.
Hermione immediately crashed into Draco’s arms. He wrapped his arms around her, remembering what his own Spell of Ipse had made him feel like.
“Draco.”
“Yeah?”
“Can you swim?”
There was a long, deafening silence, then. The window panes rattled, hard and clunky against the wall. With one arm, Draco closed it.
The wind was doing nothing for him, anyway.
“Not well enough,” he finally said, his voice only a tinge above audible.
“I know why you died,” she whispered. “I know now.”
Again, he didn’t respond.
“You died because nobody saved you.”
She pulled away then, and let her hands clasp his sides at his arms for a moment as she looked up at him.
“That’s it!” she cried out, her voice growing. And she sounded hysterical at the moment. “That’s just it, Draco. When you came to me in the beginning, all I wanted was to know how you died. That’s all I wanted to know! I’m done; I should be out of here. I’m smart, you know. I’m brilliant, in fact. Smartest witch in my year. I can easily do that spell on my own. I’ll bring Harry back on my own. I have all the answers. I’m done! Shouldn’t I just leave now? Isn’t that what I would do? Isn’t that so something I would do?”
He hesitated in answering. Draco pursed his lips, instead.
“I cut off Ron, instead. I put Harry in my Spell of Ipse aside to wonder about you. Wonder why nobody saved you.”
“Oh, did you?” Draco sneered. “Did you wonder long and hard about that, Hermione? Did you come up with some ‘brilliant’ cliché as fuck theory about why nobody saved me? Maybe some crap about how nobody loved me. Or how I was a racist bastard who deserved to die anyway, and maybe I’m getting what’s coming to me if you leave me?”
“I have no theory, Draco Malfoy,” she snapped. “I have nothing. I just know one thing, and it’s really not much.”
“Try me,” he sneered uncouthly.
“I want to be the one to save you,” she said lowly, her voice raspy.
Immediately, Draco pulled Hermione close to him - so fast that her body collided with his in a hard pavement of contact as their two frames sloped against each other at a tilted angle. She looked up at him and leaned up to kiss him. With two gloved hands, he swept the hair away from her frame as he cupped her face gently for a second to kiss her back. Then, Draco removed his gloves completely altogether, letting them grace the hard wooden floors of his Slytherin bedroom.
His hands traveled back to run his fingertips along her hips, so that they tickled her sides gently before he slid them up her cloak. She gasped as she felt cool fingers make contact with the small of her back.
“This is so wrong,” she whispered, her breath hot against his lips. “This is so wrong,” she said again before she moaned softly, her mouth sinking onto his. His hands had now moved to the soft cover of her stomach, and he massaged the area between her pelvic bone and belly button, letting his fingers press against her and dance down slowly.
“We’re making a huge mistake here,” he murmured, in between kisses as she began to unbutton his collared shirt.
“I’m scared we can’t turn back after this. I’m scared we’re messing up the spell.”
“The thing one’s scared of the most,” he breathed, his breath warm against her collarbone as he kissed down her chest, laying her gently on the covers of his bed as she undid the last button and helped him remove his shirt, “is the thing they desire the most.”
She couldn’t stop, she found that hands were moving faster than she could think, and she was addicted to the rapid beats her heart was feeling her. She was hooked on this chemical reaction that Draco’s body on top of hers had created. She couldn’t get enough of him. She couldn’t get enough of this.
Hermione didn’t stop to think that Draco’s body was unusually warm for that of a Wanderer. Draco didn’t stop to wonder if being this close to a living human would wreak havoc upon his very status in the living world. Two normally technically skilled people were thinking with thoughts, feeling with feelings and it felt so good. So good.
“Draco,” Hermione moaned, “Draco, I can do it. I can teach you how to swim.”
“It’s too late.” he breathed, “I stopped holding my breath.”
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