Rhapsody In Red

Rhapsody In Red

I never imagined it would be like this.

I suppose if I had to think about what life would be like after the war, I would probably have said that I would be working for the Ministry, either an Auror or perhaps an Unspeakable, and Harry, Ron, and I would still be as best of friends as ever. Harry and Ginny would be married with a little one on the way. Ron would be persuading Luna to get married in a traditional ceremony even though she insisted that white dress robes were cursed and proceeded to whip out a copy of The Quibbler to prove it. And I, well, I would have found someone eventually.

The fate and future of Draco Malfoy was the last thing on my mind.

It struck during our seventh year at Hogwarts. Paranoia swept through the halls of the castle as the war was waged outside the walls all across Britain. No one was to be trusted and we were hard-pressed for allies. It was then, as we sat in the Great Hall over dinner, each person in each house with their own allegiances and plots in mind, that I realized all of us might not make it through.

I was naïve in my youth to believe it would be a grand adventure. Foolish to think it would be like all the others Harry, Ron, and I had taken at the end of our years at school. This was not a simple riddle which could be solved by logic, nor would a Time Turner do much good.

This was war, plain and simple. A battle that was hard, bloody, and thankless.

Over the next two years, I saw things that I still sometimes relive in my nightmares. I saw comrades fall, some quick with the Killing Curse, but those are not the ones I dream about, even though I stood over their bodies and played witness to the emptiness present in their eyes.

No, the ones that still haunt me today are the screams, the madness, the all-encompassing delirium of people who have been repeatedly hit with Cruciatus. Shrill shrieks of sanity torn and broken beyond repair as they continued to live out their fears over and over again, malevolent visions unseen as they flashed only in their minds.

Then, there were others shattered completely. Nobody was able to penetrate their barriers of isolation as they wandered from place to place, seeing nothing and saying nothing, just absolute deadness reflected in their eyes, not unlike the bodies already under the ground.

There was now an entire floor devoted to the victims of Cruciatus at St. Mungo's with two wings, one for the screamers and one for the wanderers.

Sad, yes, but that is the reality I have been forced to accept. War is about death, and even when you're fighting for what is right, there's no time to take the moral high ground. I had to kill, even if my name was Hermione Granger, perfect prefect, Head Girl, and champion of all things downtrodden. It went against everything I ever believed in, but survival was key, so I did it.

I killed classmates, I killed former classmates, and I killed fathers of my classmates; and after each one that dropped at the point of my wand, another piece of my innocence, my naïveté, my optimistic outlook on life curled up and died. My hands were stained with the blood of my victims, and even if others could not see it, I could. I could feel it coating my fingers and palms all the way into the creases, seeping into my skin like a diseased plague until the tendrils clutched at my throat, threatening to choke me with my own actions. The thick, red evidence of my guilt that I could not wash away, no matter how hard I scrubbed or how much I bled.

Harry and Ron were unsympathetic to my torment. They had accepted the deaths of their enemies without a blink of an eye. Anyone who supported that monstrosity deserved to die, and they believed no two ways about it. They did not see it for what it was, the way I saw it. All those lives condemned for one bad choice, all that potential wasted before it was ever fulfilled, children dead before they truly had a chance to live; the shame and utter futility of it wore down on me day after day, like salt being rubbed relentlessly into the open wounds on my soul, manifesting into shadows on my consciousness until I nearly stopped eating and sleeping completely.

A year into the war, he came to our side. It was the first selfless thing I had ever seen Draco Malfoy do.

He arrived on the doorstep of Remus' flat, a feat in itself since it was so heavily warded and protected. We just happened to be in the middle of a planning session when loud banging reverberated from the door. Remus opened it, wand in hand with the rest of us backing him up, and there was Malfoy leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest, all nonchalant elegance, with his mother in tow.

Apparently, Voldemort wanted to execute Narcissa Malfoy for not being a more active participant in his Death Eaters. Malfoy offered to spy for us in exchange for protection for his mother. Harry and Ron were dubious, of course, but I could see the sincere concern he had for the woman who gave him life. Dumbledore conceded and Narcissa was brought under his care while Malfoy went back out to his manor where Lucius and the rest of the Death Eaters were waiting for him.

From then on, he reported back at least once a week on the activities of his father and the more senior Death Eaters. During these times, he also checked on his mother and it was then that I got my first glimpse of a different Draco Malfoy other than the cruel, arrogant boy I'd gone to school with. He was neither overly caring nor was he unkind, but rather he tended to her in a calm, gracious manner that bespoke of his patrician upbringing.

Perhaps Draco Malfoy was not as selfish as I once believed. He had, after all, put himself in great danger in sacrifice of his mother's protection, and he had far more to lose if he was discovered than Snape could ever claim.

When the war was over, the small shred of hope I'd been clinging to like a lifeline snapped completely.

Dumbledore, Remus, Tonks, Neville, Ginny, and many more gave their lives in the final battle. Harry, Ron, and I were still alive, but just barely. We spent many weeks in St. Mungo's recovering from our injuries as the rest of the wizarding world celebrated the end of the war, not considering the lives surrendered. During those weeks, I couldn't help thinking, where do we go from here?

Were we really supposed to just pick up where we left off and continue as if we had not just suffered through the worst times of our lives? Was that what was expected of us? To smile and be happy and forget the people we killed? Go on as if our closest friends had not been slain?

I do not know how people can think that way when everybody who was involved was irrevocably changed. I could already see the changes in Harry and Ron, even if I'd been denying it since they first turned away from my guilt. The war hardened them from the inside out and a stone statue would possibly show more feeling. Ginny's death had been the final straw for Harry while Ron had lost nearly half his family in various attacks throughout the war. Even Luna was unable to reach him when he'd finally locked himself off emotionally from everyone.

Had I changed?

Well, I still felt like Hermione Granger, although quite war torn. The guilt still disturbed me constantly, but I was beginning to accept the scenario as it was, even though I despised the 'kill or be killed' mentality, as if we were no more than animals. My sense of self was the same, ever the logical and intelligent witch, and my appearance was unchanged, although much thinner than I remembered and now with dark circles under my eyes that spoke volumes of my lack of appetite and sleep.

As I sat in my bed one day at St. Mungo's and looked into the hand mirror provided for me by the mediwitch on duty, I wondered, had I really expected to see some outward sign that I had become a different person? Was I expecting to see the word 'murderer' scrawled across my forehead for all the world to see? Some gigantic blight on my face to let everyone know what I'd done?

It was a stupid notion, to be sure, but one I somehow imagined, nevertheless. The idea that anyone would be able to look at me and see the faces of the people who were killed at my wand. It was bad enough that I saw those faces in my mind without having everyone condemn me where I stood.

Once I was released from the hospital with Harry and Ron still occupying their respective rooms, it suddenly hit me that I had nowhere to go. I couldn't go home to my parents because they had sold their house and went to stay with my aunt in Australia just like I had told them to in order to keep them away from the war. I couldn't go back to Hogwarts because it was still being repaired after a Death Eater siege. The Burrow was currently being used as a makeshift orphanage until a more permanent one could be set up. It was Molly's way of trying to fill up the house in absence of her lost children and also to help the cause in the best way she knew how.

Finally, I decided to make a trip into Diagon Alley and take a room at the Leaky Cauldron until more suitable living arrangements could be found. It was there, over a mid-afternoon snack of tea and scones, I saw the headline of the Daily Prophet; an article that not only shocked me enough to spill tea down the front of my robe but would change my entire life.

Malfoy Heir Thrown in Azkaban; Awaiting Dementor's Kiss

Was this what it had come to?

It was at that moment when I realized truth and justice were ill-conceived beliefs that no more existed than the Easter bunny. There was corruption on each side of every conflict, and perception could be warped. Instead of focusing on the ones who were so obviously guilty, the Ministry officials were concentrating on a young man from a high-profile family who was only suspect because of his alleged loyalty to his father. Not only did he spy for our side and help us win this damn war, but I knew for a fact that Draco Malfoy had never taken the Dark Mark. Was this how he was to be repaid for putting his life in danger?

It was wrong in so many ways that I quickly lost count as I continued to sit there in a daze staring at the picture of Malfoy moving behind the bars of his cell at Azkaban. He still looked every inch the aristocrat, even in gray prison garb, as he paced back and forth across the frame with his hands clasped behind his back appearing very much like a caged tiger. As I watched him on the front of the paper, his movements mesmerizing, I was suddenly attacked with the need to do something, to fix this. I was Hermione Granger, isn't this what I did?

It was obvious to me how the Ministry had been able to keep him locked up. Dumbledore and Remus were both dead, therefore unavailable to speak for him, Harry, Ron, and I had been indisposed at St. Mungo's until my release this morning, and anything his mother said in his defense would automatically be dismissed as a ploy to save her only child. No one else knew of his duplicity to his father other than the small group and no written records of anything had been kept. All the information Malfoy had passed to us was through word of mouth. It would have been too risky otherwise.

I grabbed up the paper with shaky hands before throwing some coins down on the table. After a quick word to Tom about my room, I was on my way back to St. Mungo's on unsteady legs, my knees threatening to give out beneath me. As I walked down the corridor to Harry and Ron's rooms, thoughts and ideas were already swirling in my mind. I would talk to Harry and Ron first, and then I would send an owl and request an immediate inquiry into Malfoy's culpability. I was seen as a hero of the war and I would execute that authority if I had to. I would make this right.

I reached Harry's room first. It had been weeks since I had laid eyes on either of my friends since the mediwitchs insisted on a full recovery before they were allowed any visitors. As I walked in the door and closed it softly behind me, I was hit by the consuming darkness that permeated the room. Harry had evidently told the staff to keep the blinds drawn since not even a crack of light shown through. I had a hard time making my way over to the bed without stumbling over something and when I reached my destination, I wished I could turn right around and pretend I had never been there at all.

Harry was spread across the starch sheets looking more desolate than I had ever seen him. His green eyes, which were always so bright with life, were now only a lackluster comparison to how they once were before. His cheeks looked gaunt with sickness and his perpetually messy hair had grown wild until it nearly eclipsed the white pillow on which it rested.

His gaze never once looked up from the object in his hand as I approached him. It was a wand, made of birch, seven inches, and a core of unicorn hair. Ginny's wand.

I lifted my hand and placed it on his shoulder, but he just flinched back. I wanted to ask him if there was anything I could do, but he turned on his side and faced away from me. I turned to leave, realizing that no help would be forthcoming from him. This was starting to look like my own personal crusade.

My spirits were raised somewhat when I entered Ron's room. There was light coming in from the window thanks to the setting sun, at least, and he looked up when I came in through the door. The huge grin Ron used to greet me with, however, was noticeably absent on his freckled face and he only blinked owlishly at me as I took a seat at his bedside. Without saying a word, I handed him the paper and watched him expectantly as he read over the article. I was anticipating him to be outraged at the sheer unfairness just as I had been, but I was to be sorely disappointed.

He handed the paper back to me, his expression unchanging. 'So?' he had asked, his voice devoid of any inflection or emotion, simply a scratching of air against his vocal chords.

I wanted to rip the hair from my scalp in frustration and cry until I was drained of all tears when I comprehended my circumstances. The two boys who had once been my best friends had suddenly been snatched away and replaced with strangers. I knew then that nothing could be how it once was.

The war had dealt each of us a different hand and now we had to continue with what we had. There was no way to switch the cards of fate. We had all been put on separate paths and though we had walked parallel with each other as the war came to a close, a crossroads was ahead that we couldn't avoid. It was hard to relate now to Harry and Ron because I had not lost the love of my life or any of my family. It was maddening to know I could not help them, and the feeling of helplessness when faced with such a situation was so vast it threatened to pull me under.

I would not let it deter me though. I had my own life to rebuild and there are some things that only time can heal. My presence would probably be less than helpful because it would only serve to remind them of happier times. Maybe one day in the distant future, we could be friends again. Now, it was too soon, the wounds were still raw, the pain still blinding.

I left St. Mungo's with my heart heavy but my mind still on the objective. Before I turned in for the night, I sent an owl off directly to the Minister, the position now being held by Amelia Bones, with directions on how I wanted everything to proceed the next day. It wasn't long after that a reply arrived with a note stating my request had been approved and my heart felt slightly lighter as I slipped into a less disturbed slumber for the first time in months.

The next day, I made my way down to the courtrooms where I knew the Wizengamot was waiting for me. I had chosen to wear red dress robes, a deep vermilion that would make even a rich Bordeaux green with envy. It was a way to ensure I would attract everyone's attention and keep it; I had something important to say and I didn't want to repeat myself.

I entered the room, not really knowing what to expect, and was startled when I came face-to-face with the very man I was trying to save. He was chained to a chair in the center of the room, his head held high looking as proud as ever while members of the Wizengamot glared down at him. His chin jutted out in a show of stubbornness as he refused to display any fear in front of those he considered lesser beings. He glanced to the side when I walked in and his fathomless gray eyes connected with mine, awareness zinging between us.

As I stood there and gazed into his eyes for what felt like an eternity with the Wizengamot seated above us, I suddenly understood. It was the thing that had eluded me about Draco Malfoy since the day he first called me a Mudblood. I had always wondered, how could someone hate me without knowing the first thing about me? Hate me just because of the way I was born?

It was so simple now, so simple that I questioned why I had never seen it before. It wasn't about bloodlines or to which parents we were born, it was about lines that should never have been crossed. It was about seeing the traditions your world is built on crumbling before your very eyes and why Muggles don't know about the wizarding world in the first place. It was about choosing one or the other, but not being both. Trying to be both was belittling the gift of magic for the marvel it was and a slap in the face to squibs born to magic families who had no other choice. Muggles who would be nothing else would never know any different.

In that moment of clarity, I forgave him for any and all transgressions he had committed against me, and even though I had came that day to speak in his defense, I found new enthusiasm to do so.

I stood up in front of the panel and said my part about Malfoy's true involvement in the war and was not surprised to see quite a few of them shoot disbelieving looks my way. However, I had full confidence that none of them would refute my statement when I finished off by saying if they didn't believe me, they were welcome to ask Mr. Potter and he would concur with me. Nearly every member stiffened at that as they glanced around at each other and the message was clear: not a one of them was willing to cause The-Boy-Who-Lived anymore distress.

A vote was called, and twenty minutes later, Draco Malfoy was trailing behind me on the way to collect his wand from the Auror office. Once that bit of business was taken care of, he followed me to my room at the Leaky Cauldron. I think he was still amazed that I had come to defend him since he had only spoken once to thank me. I offered to have a light tea sent up since it was nearing noon and he acquiesced with a nod of his white gold head.

We sat down at the small table set up by the window and as I sipped from my teacup and watched him over the rim, I wondered if this silence was characteristic for him since I had never before been privy to anything besides his sneer. Just as I was about to ask him what his plans were now, he stood up quickly from his chair, upsetting the tea tray and making the items upon it go scattering across the table and onto the ground, minus my teacup which was still in my hand. The look on his face was frightening as he stomped back and forth running his hands through his hair in irritation until he punched his hand through the defenseless wall.

I started in surprise at the impulsive action before going to his side and helping him pull his hand back through the gaping hole. His knuckles were split open and bloody as well as caked with dust. I made him sit on the bed as I retreated into the bathroom where the first-aid kit was kept. When I came back into the main part of the room, he was looking down at his hand sadly.

'They were going to take my life away,' he had said then, his voice drenched in melancholy.

'I know,' I had replied quietly, taking his hand and cleaning it before dabbing the cuts with a disinfecting potion and wrapping them with gauze.

'It didn't matter what I said.'

'I know,' I said once again.

'Why did you help me?' His tone then was insecure, as if I would revoke my claim and he would once again be thrown to the Dementors.

'Because you needed me to and you did not deserve to be treated in such a way. You should be heralded as much of a hero as I or Harry or Ron have been in our efforts to win this war.'

I saw something then that I never would have imagined was possible. I saw Draco Malfoy cry.

Only a few tears had escaped his eyes before he grabbed me up and crushed his lips against mine. I was too astonished, at first, to respond, but as he traced my bottom lip with his tongue, coaxing me to react, I lost myself in his caresses as my mouth opened to his onslaught. The salt of his tears mingled on our tongues as they danced together in a synchronous rhythm of heat and longing.

I recognized it for what it was. It was a verification for him, to prove that he was still alive and he was really out of harm's way. I had no objections, for as he pushed me down on the bed and started tugging my robes off my shoulders, I felt myself begin to become attached to this man who was still an enigma to me in so many ways. The day before, I had felt lost without any real connections in this world as my friends dealt with their own troubles on their own time. It felt right to cling to something familiar in the foreign place our world had become. Perhaps he felt the same way.

Already, in this one day, I had seen more of Draco Malfoy than in the previous eight years of knowing him. I had seen his gratitude, his anger, his sadness, his relief, and now, I was seeing his passion.

He reverently cupped my breast with his large, slender hand and I gasped, my eyes glazed over as I peered into his own. I was once again assailed by the stormy, gray depths, now darkened with desire, believing that one day I might just be lost forever if I looked into those orbs for too long. He recaptured my attention by nipping sharply at my collarbone as he covered my body with his own.

I lifted my legs off the bed and wrapped them around his narrow hips to join my arms in surrounding him as he entered me slowly, mindful of any discomfort I might have felt. Once he was in me to the hilt, our eyes connected once again and something unexplainable passed between us like a breath of fresh air and just as sweet as we lied there, intimately connected.

I'd always heard fanciful sayings of nonsense in romance novels about 'my other half' and 'finding a piece of myself I never knew I had lost' but I was a sensible person who never put much stock in such things. At that moment though, I felt it, a union with another person that went far deeper than anything else I had ever experienced, and if the look in his eyes was any indication, he had felt it, too.

When he pulled back from my center, it was like the tide receding and sorrow burned through me until he filled me once again, letting elation replace the sadness. It was an epiphany in itself as he continued to move within me, building up his pace as pleasure tingled down my spine all the way to my toes.

We reached our completion together and I had never felt a more perfect moment until that day. The worry, the horror, the anguish, and everything else I feared I would not be able to move past after the war melted away until I was crying tears of joy as my mind calmed in ecstasy. The weight of his body was welcoming as he collapsed on top of me and I stroked his back soothingly, both of us too weary to move.

We stayed like that for nearly an hour, clutching each other in desperation as if we were the last two people in the world. As our eyes met, I saw we held the secrets to heal each other, the ways to exist as normal people again. Once we moved, it was back to his manor where his mother greeted the both of us with open arms, never questioning my presence or why I had suddenly taken up with her son.

Sometimes he still calls me his crimson angel, descending from the heavens to save him from a terrible fate, and I can still sometimes see his panic, dreading he would be put back in prison to let the Dementors finish their job if I ever left him. Nevertheless, he is the cool salve my soul yearned for, who will simply hold me when the guilt is too hard to bear. It is ironic that I saved his soul and he, in turn, has saved mine.

We have never had a discussion about what our relationship means or where it is going. Perhaps we will one day if we ever decide to have children, but maybe we have become one of those universal truths that just make sense and no one questions like the sky being blue, grass being green, or blood being red.

We just are.