A Forbidden Birthright

The Final Season, Part One: Chapter Thirty Six

Draco knew there were no books cataloging how to have a funeral without a body. But he let Hermione look anyway. He knew it was an unfaltering source of comfort, the ink and the pages, their soft leather bindings. That's why he hadn't forced her to stay. He knew she needed to reach out her own hand, her own effort, even if it would remain empty when she drew back. 

He had held her. Pulled her to his chest, gathering her in front of him when they mounted their brooms and shot back over the raging North Sea. The inky waters had grown riled during their short time on the island, cresting as they emerged in stunned shock. The ocean rose and lashed hungrily for them, as if sensing one of them had already died. 

It was eager for another. 

But Draco refused to let her go, to let his grasp on her slip, even when she fought him the entire way. Her screams sent fissures through his heart, but her wailing was even worse. He had never seen Hermione cry like that, not even during the Battle of Hogwarts. And feeling her rage against him was unbearable. But he'd grit his teeth, leveled his head low and close to her ear, his chin scraping across her shoulder. Behind the mask, his lips parted to speak, to say something. Anything. 

"Ron! No, no, no. No, please! Not Ron, not, Ron!" Her voice was raw, wind shoving itself down her throat. Both the wind and her tears choked her. "Not Ron," she whimpered again. 

No words could do anything to ease his death. Nothing he said could deny the truth, what had happened before their very eyes. It had all happened so quickly, but even so, Draco was ashamed he had not sensed it coming. With the Death Eater mask, his reaction speed should have been remarkably faster, his awareness increased. But the moment he turned, reaching desperately for Hermione's wrist to yank her away, the green flash of the Killing Curse illuminated the tunnel like a new sun. Between the caving stones and dust, Draco had seen the spell slam into Ron's chest, had watched him drop. 

It was as though time had slowed. Had seen it happen, and in that moment, was acutely aware of the air racing through his lungs like invisible smoke. His blood was a current in his body, climbing through his veins. His eyelashes brushed against his skin as he blinked. 

He had screamed Hermione's name. 

He had known the spell had hit Ron. Draco saw the moment register on her face, and it was the horror shining in her eyes, the scream that ripped from her throat, that propelled him forward, grasping at her. He would have clawed at her very skin if it meant she would leave with him and get to safety. 

He expected her to hate him, to blame him somehow, but he'd prayed, prayed like a common Muggle that she wouldn't. He knew things had shifted between them. Especially after that night, the way he'd locked the two of them in the upstairs bathroom of the Weasley's house. Merlin, he had imagined that incandescent expression of utter pleasure of her face countless times. For the two of them to step into such an intimate scene together was a weighted reality. It sank into him, melding with his skin. He felt lighter, somehow. After everything they had put each other through in school- mostly the things he'd put her through- what they had between them now would not easily gutter out. 

And yet still, he had been so frightened that she would turn on him the way he expected Harry to. But neither of them had. 

Harry had collapsed on the shore, both he and Ginny soaking wet. They had drifted too close to the water and gotten caught in a massive wave. For half a second, they were nearly thought drowned. The two of them were crying. Ginny was bent foreword on her knees, her head pressed into Harry's chest as his own tilted toward the sky. He opened his mouth and screamed. 

It was such a hopeless, furious sound. One accompanied by the curses and disbelieving rage that tore from Arthur Weasley and George. George kicked at the sand angrily, sending a spray of the wet grains out onto the water.