marked me (like a bloodstain)

greedy little fire

for you i would ruin myself a million little times

Grief flooded her lungs.

Hermione thought seeing Harry jump out of Hagrid's arms—completely alive—would allow her to fill her body with air, but their victory had a bitter aftertaste. Every time she took a breath, it thickened on its way down, scraping, burning, until it turned to ash. She was gasping, but Ron wanted her close. He had already pulled out a needle to try and sow her to his side, connecting their ribs with unconquerable gold thread, but Ginny had caught Hermione's panicked gaze. She pulled her brother into the shattered circle of Weasleys, arms caging each other in, trembling hands taking stock of those who remained.

She knew they would count her as a Weasley until the very end, but Hermione had belonged to the Grangers first. She had a loving, kind mother and a stubborn, intelligent father with an expiration date on those memories. A date that had been past due weeks ago. She knew the risks that came with tampering with someone's mind, but keeping her parents alive while she helped save the wizarding world from Voldemort did not feel like a heavy price to pay. Not when it had been the only option. Yet, the searing pain of their loss rattled her bones, making itself known, making itself felt, when she saw Harry's dead body across that destroyed courtyard. In that short, agonizing time, Hermione had lost everything; she wanted to cross the distance, take Harry from Hagrid and curl herself beside him, letting the earth reclaim them until they were only memories that no longer ached.

While Harry had lived, once again bleeding and sacrificing for others, Hermione remained hollow. She knew she would eventually try for a smile and a tender, comforting gaze when Ron once again pulled out his needle, murmuring promises of healing and their blossoming affection as he bound them together, and she knew, with Ron pressed to her side, that they would climb the broken staircase to Gryffindor Tower and find Harry, all three of them huddling together to seek warmth while trying not to crumble further by the deafening silence—but she needed a moment to herself before all of that. Just for a minute, Hermione needed the freedom not to pretend she was capable of seeing a new world bloom from the darkness and bloodshed that had defiled their childhood.

Hermione never expected to find Draco Malfoy doing the same.

Fury never came. That was the first thing she noticed when she walked into that old, broken Potions classroom and saw him there. It was not uncommon for Malfoy to stir up hurricanes inside of her, especially when there was a mudblood always accompanying a ridiculing sneer or look of disgust. She had not counted on the familiarity and comfort of hating (pitying, even) him because the world that remained had not left any traces of herself that Hermione could latch on to; instead, something like relief brewed chaos in her bloodstream.

She took a step inside that dungeon because Malfoy was not holding on to a flickering hope, breathing magic over the spark like it could ignite into a wildfire that would somehow devour the darkness that was left behind. No, he sat among the rubble and ash staring at his ghosts like he knew they would always be around, shadows always accompanying his own.

It was the truest thing Hermione had seen in the aftermath.

Magic and cement would be poured over the skeleton of Hogwarts School, building walls just as high, just as winding, the dead would be buried under damp, plush soil, tears washing away the pain for the sake of love, for the sake of preserving treasured memories, and their government would start scrubbing at all the black and red, gathering criminals, gathering debris until it was all hidden away and it all felt like a nightmare they could wake up from.