Quicksilver and Rosemary

The candle's flame wavered in the faint draft from the window and a blob of ivory wax dropped onto the parchment, obscuring one of the words in the document's title. The rubbed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. The report wasn't due for another few weeks but she felt the need to finish sooner, as always. Her husband had once told her, looking up from a musty tome on psychological principle, that her perfectionist leanings were a defense against the chapters in her life that had ended abruptly in their infancy. She couldn't argue with that assessment.

The flame danced madly now, as if that bit of wax had been the only thing holding it steady. With an exasperated sigh, she used a letter opener to scrape the parchment before rolling it up and tucking it into her desk. It took all of her strength to open and shut the massive drawers of the wooden monstrosity she'd inherited from her predecessor, full of training notes and files on old recruits. The Muggle clock on her blotter told her it was well past eight o'clock; she'd missed supper, not that it would surprise Ron these days. She was forever working late, ostensibly tracking the progress of the newest batch of Aurors as they neared their final tests.

Hermione gathered her things; pens, papers, and the latest novel she was working her way through during her infrequent breaks. The walls of her cavernous office were pitch black outside the candle's light. The shadows held no secrets, though - she knew her office well. Every wall was covered wtih shelves of files, manuals, and the trophy curiosities that she and her predecessors had gathered.

As she was about to pinch the flame into oblivion, there came a soft tapping on the window's bubbly, antique glass. Hermione bit back a startled cry, her wand coming to her hand without conscious thought as she limped silently to the window. She opened it with steady hand, a hex hovering on her breath. An owl glided past her before she could blink, its soft, white wings barely brushing the edge of her cheekbone. In just a few seconds, the owl deposited a scroll on her desk and wheeled in the shadows that clung to the ceiling before diving back into the night.

Her hand was no less steady as she picked up the scroll and unrolled it with the thoughtlessness of long practice, scanning the contents with one sweep of her gaze. A breath of wind swept in through the window, killing the candle's light and splattering more wax across her blotter. She didn't notice or care; the words on the paper had scattered her thoughts like that breeze.

Dear Mrs. Granger-Weasley, we a pleased to inform you that your standing inquiry has at last yielded results. Please see the report copied below from one of our researchers in Normandy...

Ron was sitting near the fireplace, letting the warmth bake the pain from his bones when his wife blew in, flinging the front door open with uncustomary energy that spoke of emotional turmoil. He stood as quickly as he dared, ignoring the ache that burst across his ribs where they had been crushed at the final battle over fifteen years ago. Magic healed, but even the best spell could never erase the scars.

He read her face like a book with a single sapphire eye, taking in her wild hair and wide eyes. The scars she had earned at the talons of a Death Eater's dragon were outlined in vivid red on her cheek. A hand seemed to squeeze his heart, forcing a lump into his throat that he couldn't hope to swallow. "They've finally found him, haven't they," he said, his words more statement than question.

She came to his arms in a spasm of movement, her damaged knee almost tripping her in her haste. He simply held her, reassured by the warmth encircled by his arms as she rested her face against his collarbone.

When she finally spoke, her voice was small and sad. "They're not certain, but it's the likeliest lead that I've ever found."

Ron closed his eye tight, waiting for the pain of emotion to pass before he spoke again. It was sorrow, fear, and hope in one; he'd been drinking his bitter draught long enough. This signaled that perhaps it was time for an end. "Then you need to go."

With a start, she looked up, eyes wide. "Are you certain...?"

He kissed her forehead, then her eyes, feather light. "You've been waiting for this for fifteen years. How can I ask you to stay? But..." he said, then kissed her fiercely on the lips, taking a long, lingering taste like a man starving, "return to me as my Hermione. Find the part of yourself that you've lost and come back whole."

She clung to him for a long moment, as if she could force their bodies to become one, then let go and stepped back. "I promise," she said. Her expression was almost childlike in its earnestness.

Ron watched in silence as she completed her few preparations; cloak from the closet, her broom, and the satchel that had sat on the mantel for the last fifteen years among their wedding photographs, always at the ready. Then she was gone without a backward glance, her mind already far away.

His movements stiff, Ron poured himself a nip of scotch from the cut glass bottle that resided next to the photo that Harry and Cho had sent them from China. Pink cherry blossoms swirled around the smiling and waving figures as he knocked back the drink. Liquid fire burned its way down his throat.

Moving like a man twenty years his senior, he settled back into his recently vacated chair. In the cheery light of the fire he covered his face and wept.

The air tasted of brine, filling the lungs with stinging exhilaration. Hermione drew in breath after breath, hoping that the air with its faint chill would cleanse her of uncertainty and worry. It brought up memories of sitting next to her father under a brightly colored umbrella as he read her poetry. She unbuckled her shoes and removed her socks, rolling them neatly. The sand was soft under her toes, chilling the bottoms of her feet.

"The brine is of my blood, and my blood runs with the sea, the oceans dancing in my veins, the waters bright and free..." she breathed. For a moment, basking in the silvery moonlight, half-hypnotized by the pulsing of the waves, she forgot why she had come. The beach was so peaceful, like a magical oil painting with the moon hung perfectly in the sky and surrounded by diamond bright stars.

It was impossible to believe in that moment that this had been the site of so much death - this simple strip of sand in Normandy that had been called "Sword" in the long ago second World War. Little more than fifty years later, the ocean's waves had once more turned thick and red, the sand stained crimson during the final battle against Voldemort's forces. So many had died, and more had been left scarred. An incongruously warm breath of wind, like an unseen hand brushing fingertips along the nape of her neck made her shiver.

"You are here, aren't you..." she whispered, long unshed tears stinging at her eyes. She could almost feel the energy of the long dead surrounding her, poised in the earth to be called. Perhaps, one specific spirit was amongst them. She limped slowly to the water, her knee made stiff by the humidity and chill. She still could not recall how that injury had happened - from Ron's expression when she asked him of it that was for the best.

The satchel landed on the ground with a soft thump and she knelt next to it, not caring that her skirt drank the moisture from the sand. With great care, she unpacked each item; a small cauldron, vials of dried herbs, a button-sized magical heat source, and one tiny bottle of quicksilver. The potion was one she had etched into her memory, and her hands moved without her direction, mixing and preparing. Some would have considered it useless - there were very few cases where a dead wizard who had not moved on did not walk as a ghost. Research and obsession were the only reasons she had found the spell; stubbornness and grief were the only reasons she had kept it in her mind for so long.

The potion boiled quickly over the efficient little heat source. Last of all, she dropped the quicksilver in, turning the concoction into a smooth, silver mirror. The Gallic words of the spell rolled thickly off her tongue as she made the necessary motions with her wand. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she kicked the cauldron over and let the potion that now moved like a thing alive rush into the ocean.

Pain shot up her leg and she sat, nursing her foot. The potion may have stopped boiling, but the cauldron was still hot and she hadn't put her shoes back on. For a long moment, there was no sound but the rushing of the waves as she cursed under her breath.

The hair on the back of her neck suddenly stood on end and she scrambled to her feet. A tall column of water erupted from the ocean, spinning with threads of silver. It began to shrink and change, like an unseen sculptor was forming the curves of face and hands, details of clothing, and the fine lines of hair. Faint, washed out color began to spread, giving further detail though the figure still remained translucent. Last, the eyes opened, the irises made of quicksilver, shining softly in the moonlight.

Hermione bit back a sob, clutching at her stomach. He was covered with the wounds that had surely killed him; ribs poked from a gash in his side, the slash of claws had made his neck into ruin, his limbs were bent and bleeding. He smiled at her, and with the wave of a hand the wounds closed, leaving him as whole and perfect as the last cherished memory of sunlight, bare skin, and breathless pleasure that she held in her heart.

He held out one pale hand toward her, and she took a few halting steps forward before she could stop herself. "Wait," she said, "wait. I need to know, first. I have to ask you. That's why I'm here." The words were raw in her throat - how many times had she wondered if she actually didn't want to know the answer? "Did you betray us, like they said? Are you really the Great Traitor?"

Draco Malfoy smiled, the expression tender and sad. "You already know the answer, or you wouldn't be here."

His words unraveled the last thread of her self-control and she half-stumbled, half-fell into his arms, tears stinging her eyes. It should have seemed strange, to be held so closely by a ghost; he smelled like brine and his touch was damp. There was a feeling, though, the presence of his spirit and soul wrapping her in a silvery embrace that she had felt only once before.

In their pool of moonlight, woman and ghost held each other as the waves lapped at the shore. Hermione's tears were swallowed by the curve of Draco's shoulder, becoming part of his body. Finally, voice thick, she spoke, "I didn't want to believe. When they had your name disgraced along with your father's, I cried. Even with all the evidence they found, I couldn't make myself believe..."

A hand stroked her hair, weighing it down with water. "Only Moody and Severus knew - they didn't even tell Dumbledore. I knew the risks I was taking even before they dropped on the beach." He shut his eyes, a look of pain creeping over his face, "Severus fell protecting Potter's back, minutes before the Wyvern turned on me. Moody's heart failed him during the first charge. He fell like a stone at my feet."

"We found them both. They have proper gravestones, and they're spoken of as heroes," Hermione said, "but we never found you. Some thought you'd even escaped, were still alive somewhere, trying to make yourself into the next Dark Lord."

Draco chuckled, "I don't know why everyone thought I had an interest in that. I liked the spotlight more than the next person, but really, that business just isn't my style. Red eyes and scaly skin? I think not."

That drew a tearful laugh from Hermione. "I've been looking for you since...every spare moment of the day, because I had to know..."

"My father knew curses that would leave no bones. I died where I now stand, and I've been waiting for you since. You held me here with your searching - or maybe I just couldn't leave you with your question consuming you from the inside out. I'm glad you've finally come, Hermione." He caressed her cheek with the tips of his fingers, leaving damp trails indiscernible from the tracks her tears had run down.

There had been so many things unfinished between them, from the argument that had been their last contact before the battle, to the first time they had kissed. She had thought to ask them all, but only one question seemed important now, the one that had driven her to ignore the pain in Ron's eyes and the worry of her family. "Why?" she asked, the words tearing at her throat, "Why did you do this? WHY?"

The smile most would have found un-Draco-like returned, sweet and sorrowful, "I can't give you the answer you want to hear. I didn't do it because I saw the light, felt the need to fight for the righteous cause, or anything else you've been hoping for. I didn't forgive Harry or decide I wanted to prove myself to the world as a good man so that I could join your circle of society and walk as a hero." He shook his head, fingers brushing her lips with so much tenderness she thought she would begin to weep all over again.

"No," he said, "I owe you the truth. I did it because you gave me the greatest gift that I had ever received - you allowed me to step out from my father's shadow and be my own man. For that, I was in your debt. Perhaps I thought that the world under Voldemort would be too dark even for my liking, so I chose the lesser of two evils - I never really thought in those terms."

He bent his head, and warm lips that tasted of salt covered hers. The tip of his tongue flicked briefly, leaving a tear of seawater behind. "I did it because I am no man's servant or stooge," he said, "and because I knew that even if you could never understand me, this way you could at least forgive me."

A shudder ran through her. "I want to hate you," she gasped out, "I want to despise you for not being what I want you to be. But I can't. I just can't."

"I can't be other than what I am; if I were, you'd never have loved me so. Let me go, Hermione," he whispered against her lips, "just let me go. Fifteen years is a long time for the dead to wait in this world. For the living, it must be an eternity."

She shook her head, not wanting to leave the warmth of his arms. Her fingers tightened against him, until they broke through the surface tension of the water and plunged into his body. Her head snapped up and she looked up at him, meeting his quicksilver eyes for the last time.

"How often did you tell me in those days," he said, his gaze intense to the point of burning, "that life is for the living?"

The words were a blow. She had known all along, somehow, but hadn't wanted to acknowledge it, to look into the darker places in her own heart. Numbness spread through her body, but with the light edges of hope to it.

She had found her answer.

"I release you," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "to continue on your journey. I will miss you, Draco."

His only answer was a smile as he loosed himself from her grasp and stepped away, walking backwards into the ocean that had birthed him. In a moment, he was gone beneath the waves, dissolved into nothingness. To Hermione's wonder, the next wave came higher than those before it even though the tide had been receding, covering her feet. When it had gone, the glint of silver caught her eye. It was a sprig of the rosemary she had used in the potion, covered with the silver of mercury made solid. A soft, wondering smile came to her lips as she picked it up and turned it in her fingers.

"I will," she said, "I promise."

The fire had long since burned out and light was creeping in the windows, but still Ron did not move. No coherent thought seemed to want to stay in his mind for more than a minute at a time; he was running in circles of worry and pain, a long worn track.

The front door opened, and he looked up, hardly daring to breathe.

She looked like she had been put through hell; her hair was a mess, her clothing dirty and crusted with salt. As she walked toward him, though, there was a lightness to her, a long missed glitter in her eyes that spoke of hope he'd been afraid to even think of. She paused at the mantle, setting down a bit of silver filigree where her satchel had once been. It caught the morning sun and glowed with orange fire. With great deliberation, she picked up the decanter of scotch and poured herself a glass, then filled Ron's.

He raised his glass in mirror of hers, his expression puzzled.

"To Draco Malfoy," she said, "who was true to himself, and to the gift he has made of the future." The wedding band she wore caught the light as well, nearly blinding him with its brilliance.

A broad smile lit up Ron's feature, an open and joyful expression that he hadn't been able to summon since his childhood. "To Draco's gift," he said, a laugh bubbling up inside him.

His wife had come home.