Unwilling

In the twilit evening a figure carefully and respectfully approached the wrought iron gate to the cemetery, he pulled a wand from his pocket and silenced the creaking of the old and rusted hinges with a spell whispered under his breath. In his grief the ability to cast spells non-verbally had abandoned him. He wished more than anything that in all those long years at school of seeing her nearly everyday that he’d had the courage to tell her how he felt about her. He cursed his cowardice, now it was too late. The only woman he had ever loved, the only one he felt he ever could love, was dead and gone.

He slipped through the headstones as quietly and insubstantially as smoke, the last two years had seen Ron Weasley lose thirty pounds, he had become in his physicality as well as emotions a shadow of his former self. The loss of his brother coupled with the loss of his beloved had led many a person to express concern for his well-being. It seemed that everywhere he turned happy events, engagements, weddings, and births of children, were happening just to mock his loss again and again.

Ron had no real enjoyment even in holding his niece, Victoire, though he did manage to crack a smile as he held her for the first time. He did not intend to be rude, but the promise of renewal and rebirth held no comfort for him. He felt akin to an old man who had left no legacy; he had no hope, no love and no future as far as he Would allow himself to see.

He pushed the over-grown grass aside as he rested a pale hand on the handsome stone that marked the end of his sojourn into the rapidly darkening night. He illuminated his wand, “Lumos,” and ran his fingers over the words he had come to know so well:

Hermione Jean Granger
September 19, 1979-May 2, 1998
Brave of heart and sharp of mind,
A beloved friend we were lucky to find.

He mouthed the words as he had done dozens if not hundreds of times before; it brought him a strange kind of comfort in reciting those words to himself, though he could not begin to guess why. A single tear slipped from his azure eyes, it fell to the ground and where it impacted the dry soil the most beautiful flower that Ron had ever seen sprang to life in full bloom. A tiny ray of hope blossomed in his mind, but was soon rent to pieces by something less pleasant and far more troubling.

The thought that came to his mind as he beheld the flower was one that had come to nag him: ‘Why did they never find her body?’ He turned to leave, and could have sworn that he felt Hermione at his back lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’ve gone mental,” he said clearing his way through the underbrush without a backward glance.

The flower wilted minutely at the loss of Ron’s company.

Draco allowed those around him to believe that his enthusiasm for a quick wedding had everything to do with his desire to make Astoria his wife without delay. In reality, he had several motives for expediting the union most of which had nothing to do with his feelings for her.

Initially, Draco's mother had been scandalized by his haste to be married, “Darling,” she drawled with a simper crossing her handsome features, “I cannot imagine what has inspired such a desire for haste in you. Can you imagine what people will think if you marry Astoria in such a rush? They will whisper that she is pregnant, that she is trying to trap you. Surely you do not want such vile untrue things to be said about your dearest love?”
There was a gleam that Draco could not quite define as he looked into his mother's eyes, it spoke not only of a great devotion to her son, but also that she would destroy any who would ruin his happiness. That Astoria might find her mother-in-law the origin of such nasty rumors, were she not to toe the line and behave properly. It was strangely comforting for him to know that at least one person could be counted on to hold his interests after he moved away from his father. Narcissa was a formidable woman, even Lucius was not foolish enough to defy her will in something she defended so passionately. His father would yield, yes, he would yield to her.

“Certainly not, mother.” He smiled in recognition of the look in her eyes. “I will, of course, defer to your experience in determining a seemly amount of time. Though, I would ask that you indulge me in my great desire to decrease my wait by as much as possible. I love her so very much.” He watched as tears welled-up in his mother's eyes, greatly satisfied that he would continue to get what he wished.

“As you wish my Darling,” Narcissa said echoing his thought. Draco bowed deeply to his mother and set off to gather the papers and money needed to secure a home for his new life.

Having no fear that he might encounter his father, Draco flew through the halls of Malfoy Manor, with the sensation that he could fly without the aid of a broomstick. Servants scurried away from his smiling visage with the fear that it was malice not happiness that had lain such a fierce grin upon the Young Master's face. Not that Draco noticed the help scurrying like rats in the wake of torch-light. He came to a stop outside the doors to the room in which he kept all of his treasures, both monetary and illicit: Hermione's cell.

In the last week Draco had greatly lightened her task load, as an illness prevented her from doing manual labor without vomiting and shaking. He entered the suite to find that none of her tasks for the day had been started, let alone finished. A prickle of anger began deep in his gut, he would not see the mudblood ruin his perfect day. He swept through the anti-chamber and the force of his anger sent his magic before him in a wave of fury, bursting the mahogany double-doors open with a prodigious amount of force.

Hermione lay in bed clinging to the satin sheets in the hope that her force of will alone might stop the incredible wave of nausea that welled-up in her whenever she moved even in the smallest amount. Realizing the futility of the situation she threw herself from the bed and onto the floor, where a strategically placed bucket, already half-full of her earlier heavings, lay ready to accept her latest contribution.

In spite of the dizziness and nausea, she managed to place her mouth over the bucket in time to prevent the meager contents of her stomach from spilling onto the priceless carpet which she curled her toes into as she retched. Suddenly and without warning the doors flew open and Draco rode into the room on a nearly tangible wave of anger. Hermione was temporarily shocked out of her state of sickness and cowered, waiting for the blow to fall.

Draco missed seeing the bucket which rested at her feet, he saw only that she was out of bed and that in that instant that she looked well enough to be working. He flew to her side and grabbed her by the wrist and in so doing, knocked the bucket of vomit and effluvium on its side, splashing the contents across the carpet and up the wall. Without thought he whisked her into the hall and to the nearest staircase, meaning to have her begin cleaning for the day on the first floor of the Manor.

Hermione began to retch uncontrollably and in his disgust he let her wrist slide from his grasp. The sequence of seeing Hermione tumble down the stairs would haunt him for the rest of his years. She could not even manage a scream as she slipped from his grasp and tumbled to meet the seventh stair with the side of her head. Her hair, a brown tangle, fanned out around her as Draco made a desperate grab for her. Her body made dull thuds as it impacted stair after stair. She came to rest on the landing, her limbs coming to rest at awkward angles did much to confirm his suspicion that she might be dead.

Draco paused at the top of the stairs for the tiniest fraction of a second; it felt like an eternity. He might have taken time to marvel at the strange slowness that always seems to accompany accidents while they are happening. He could replay the event in his mind frame by frame, as with a movie. He felt the odd stillness and lack of sound that one experiences during a traumatic event that is then drown out by the sound of one's heart beating in one's ear.

Without a thought to his surroundings he rushed down the staircase and began to reach for her with a pale, trembling hand. He stopped short of touching her, sure that there would be no pulse and that she'd already grown cold. Draco was no longer afraid of the things he had been during his years at Hogwarts, he had seen far greater horrors and known far greater loss than the spoiled child he had been could have ever comprehended. Now he feared only death, and the immediate proximity of a freshly dead corpse was too much for his sense of motility to bear. Especially when he was, not a full minute before, holding onto that soft, rosy, living flesh. Especially when it was he who had let it slip...

There was no time for such speculation, Draco steeled himself and fought down the fear that had him by the throat and reached for Hermione's face. She was warm, one irrational fear allayed a very real fear still as yet unconfirmed. He reached for her chin and slid his index and middle fingers under her jaw in an attempt to find her pulse at the carotid artery. He was about to pull back his hand in disgust at having touched a corpse, but just before he drew away his fingers he felt it...slow and weak.

Draco let out a breath that he hadn't realized that he'd been holding. Now that he knew that she was alive he allowed himself the luxury of thinking on her death and the freedom it might have granted him. Of course in his fantasy where she was gone he was not haunted by the fits of conscience he would have been in reality. It was much simpler not to think on the negatives of her having survived the accident.

Having learned something of the use of magical emergency treatment during the war, Draco was able to stabilize her condition with surprising speed and little difficulty. He lifted her gently, she weighed nearly nothing and he had to correct his judgment in mid-motion, lest he jostle her and do further damage. “When had she began to lose so much weight? Perhaps it was the stomach virus that she had been recently stricken with, yes. That had to be the cause,” Draco rationalized brilliantly. Still, there was something about the situation that left him unsettled.

He carried the slight form of a witch back to her chamber and laid her in the bed amongst the satin sheets and left a servant, with express orders to find him and to attend her in case she were to wake. He needed to make a trip to the nearest apothecary, to secure for her the herbs and potions she would need in order to expedite her recovery.

She was running through a thick wood at night, pursued by an unknown entity, a creature of malice that was so thick that she could scarce draw breath. Her breath seemed unnaturally loud to her in the otherwise peaceful forest. As Hermione ran quietly she could see the lives of the people she had loved stretched out before her, from birth to death in perfect clarity.

She could see the moment she met Harry and Ron. Dear Ron, she knew right then that she loved him, though she'd never admit it. She saw their friendship grow and his jealousy for what it really was now, love and frustration. Then she saw his life without her.

She saw the world around him move on, while he could not. She saw his nieces and nephews, weddings and birthdays. The joy of the living never seemed to touch him, alone in front of her headstone reading poems to her or just telling her about his day, he was an island of grief.

She paused in her flight and took a moment to attempt to comfort him, even if this was not real she could not abide the feeling of his grief so close to her skin. She imagined a flower, a symbol of hope sprout from his tears and it formed in front of her eyes. She reached out and touched him softly on the shoulder.

Suddenly, her forgotten pursuer was just behind her and the image of Ron faded into the shadows of the dark wood, replaced by a being that seemed to be an amalgam of all of her fears. The image settled on Lucius Malfoy. He leered at her and spoke, “Be careful what you wish for,” every syllable dripping with contempt, “You just might get it.”

Her fear was diminished by having a definite target for her rage and she lashed out with her fingers balled into a fist. As the final word escaped Lucius' mouth the image changed to Draco's face and she was unable to pull the punch in time to avoid hitting him. His face was left a red ruin and he disappeared, melting into the darkness. All that remained was the vicious scornful laughter of Lucius.