Hello

Hello

Playground school bell rings again.

A sharp, crystalline ring sliced through the noise of the Great Hall. An ancient wizard stood, forlorn expression on his face as he held out his arms, greeting the silence.

Even from afar, it could be seen that the usual twinkle in the headmaster's eye, behind his half moon spectacles, had been replaced with the dullness of absolute grief. Only those closest, however, could see the slight glint of a tear that had begun to form at the edge of his eye.

"I have terrible news," he said.

The mass of students held its breath. Overhead, the ceiling visibly changed. The once-serene sunset that had begun was overtaken by dark clouds.

Rain clouds come to play again.

Walking along the deserted hallways, he looked back on his time at Hogwarts. He had spent nearly seven wonderful years there, with only laid-back work, no regrets and no care for anyone but himself. For seven years he had taken pleasure in taunting and hating his peers.

As he strode down the hall, he thought again to himself, It's nearly been seven years.

He seemed to remember vividly, however, against his will, the one thing that had gone wrong during the past year. He still had everything: Despite being Head Boy, he did what ever he wanted, regardless of the rules. He could have whomever he pleased.

Only, he couldn't have her.

He never could quite fully understand what it was about her that had allured him. She had always been there, every day of every term of every year, getting in his way. She always seemed to be one step above him, driving him insane with her incredible intelligence. Filthy Mudblood, he had always thought.

However, when they met at their shared office as Head Boy and Girl, he had slowly begun to see her in a different light, bright and undimmed when her friends weren't around to shade it. Her intellect still annoyed him to no end, but he had begun to appreciate and be amazed with the capacity of her mind. Though he couldn't stand her Gryffindor kindness, but he had begun to be more tolerant of it, and of her constant desire to help.

Over time, he had started to notice that his head would swim when she entered the room, and he had racked his brain for reasons why. When she had asked him a question, his stomach would twist, and he had often found his voice beyond its correct pitch. Sometimes, when she had asked him to hold some papers for her, his hands would sweat, and he had feared he might smudge the ink or misplace the documents.

He had frequently questioned why these things were happening to him, spending many nights analyzing his reactions. After numerous agonizing hours, which were spent pacing his room and furrowing his brow in concentration, he had realized that he did not hate her, nor that he felt indifferent towards her. Instead, he became conscious of the fact that she had started to grow on him.

Unaware of his feelings, she continued as things had always been; cutting words and hurtful remarks were exchanged that had never affected him before, but now had slowly begun to split his heart in two.

He waged a war within himself; the half of him that wanted to snap back at her brandished its sword as the other half insisted that he be kind, mocking his fierce desire to yell. Some days, when he neared his breaking point, to where he might let loose an insult, he would clench his teeth, and force into his thoughts the mantra, I must not sneer, I must not snap, I must not hurt her, like a parched man tells himself the oasis is just over the next dune. There were times when his efforts seemed futile, where she seemed not to notice his struggle. Deep down he only wished that she could be made aware of the pains he was putting himself through.

Often, when they were forced to share duties, he had tried to welcome them. He made attempts to talk, to find something, anything that they could use to bond, so that he could find out who she really was.

He would try to use his charm on her, giving her occasional, subtle compliments; she seemed unfazed by this. Figuring that charm would not get him any attention, he had begun to focus more on academics, studying odds and ends to bring up during their meetings, knowing that she would readily discuss them. During one occasion, he had stretched himself languidly out on a couch, striking up a conversation about a topic he had read in Hogwarts: A History. However tempted she may have been, she had kept strictly to business.

As their meetings had progressed further into the year, she had begun to act more warmly towards him. On occasion, he had sauntered in, sat down opposite her, and had insisted that they talk about anything other than the agenda. During a few of these instances, she had agreed, claiming that the day had been long, and that nothing needed their immediate attention. He had once remarked that this had seemed unlike her, and she had snorted, replying that not everyone was what they seemed.

But somehow, all that time had seemed to slip past Draco's fingers, like water that he tried in vain to hold in his hands. He wondered if it was possible to catch it again as it fell. Draco shook his head in disdain, causing several strands of light hair to fall out of place. He knew it was useless thinking such things, but sometimes he still hoped it was possible.

Draco found himself at the door of the hospital wing. He was unsure if he could bring himself to walk in. He knew they would be there with her. Still, he had to go in.

Pushing back the straying hair, Draco entered the wing.

Upon his entering, two young men at the end of the hall turned to face him. As he approached, one of them rose from where he was sitting. His flaming red hair and red-tinted face were recognizable in a blur as the boy walked briskly past, knocking into Draco as their shoulders collided.

Draco, however, walking with growing fear, made his way to the other boy. The boy had naturally unkempt black hair, and bright green eyes that had seemed to fade to a darker shade of gray, though they flickered with unmistakable contempt at the sight of Draco.

Draco raised his hands in defense. "I'm merely here to see her, Potter. Now's not the time." He felt his breathing become more labored than it had before. "She wouldn't want us to fight now."

Harry nodded, sighing in exhaustion. Both boys looked at the figure in the bed, whose hand Harry held firmly in his. Draco could have sworn there was still color in her cheeks, but he knew there wasn't.

Slowly, his mouth dry, he asked, "How is she?"

He already knew the answer; Harry's angry stare and watering eyes merely confirmed his fears.

Has no one told you she's not breathing?

Harry looked down at her as he let go of her hand. "Her parents will be here to pick up the b - her."

Draco shot Harry an angry glance, offended by his clumsy slip, then nodded. As Harry left the wing, Draco sat next to the hospital bed, holding her hands to his lips.

In doing so, his mind wandered back to the first time he had ever made such a gesture. He recalled his memories of the Yule Ball, and how it was after then that they had begun to become friends.

The night before the Yule Ball, they had been in their office, talking about the plans for the next night, laughing about various things, when she had looked at the clock on the wall, and had got up to leave.

Draco had looked up at her questioningly. Looking down at him as she repacked her schoolbag, her eyes had lit up as she had thrown her head back and laughed.

"What's so funny, Granger?" Draco's steel gray eyes darkened as she continued to laugh. She had looked down at him again, with tears in her eyes from her outburst.

"It may have just been me, Malfoy, but when you glanced up you looked like a helpless puppy, watching its owner walk away, leaving him behind."

The half of Draco that had previously been losing, the half that wanted to hurt her, had exploded with a heated desire to take revenge. Her teasing may have been meant to be taken lightly, but no such analogy could be shrugged off; he had reached the point where he could no longer be mocked unfairly.

Draco had crossed his legs and put his hands behind his head. He had looked up at her scornfully. "Malfoys are not helpless, Mudblood."

He had known he would regret saying it, despite his slight satisfaction in snapping at her. Hermione had looked down at him, hurt evident in her face. She had stormed off then, without another word.

The Yule Ball had almost seemed to be a failure - even Draco himself was disappointed, though he couldn't say he had expected much. The icy glares and tension between the Heads had seemed to circulate throughout the Hall; no one had dared to do anything, for fear of being caught in the crossfire. Hermione had refused to speak to him, though had been determined to get the planning done. People don't go around ignoring Malfoys; especially me, he had told himself, trying desperately to believe it.

During the decorating on the day of the Yule Ball, she hadn't even consulted with him what he would prefer. She had merely picked something and claimed, "Malfoy will like that one." He didn't care to make snide remarks, such as "How the hell would you know that, Granger?" Coincidentally, it was what he would have chosen, though he would never admit it; it angered him to no extent the way she made him squirm uncomfortably when he knew she was right.

There had been no one on the dance floor almost all that night. Nearly the whole school had turned up, staying behind during the holidays, but it seemed as if the dance floor had been cursed; no one would go near it.

Exasperated, she had run to him.

"Malfoy, we've got to do something to get everyone dancing!" By the look of her flushed face, Hermione had evidently been running around, attempting to get people off their seats, but to no avail.

"It's not my problem that they all enjoy being wallflowers." He shot a glance at her. Seeing her expression, he had sighed heavily. "Listen, why don't you go put Jelly-Leg hexes on the lot of them; make their feet move of their own accord or something ingenious. I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Hermione glared at Draco, her infuriation evident. "Someone needs to start everyone off," she said matter-of-factly.

Draco had looked at the empty floor. "Go find the Weasel, then. He's your boyfriend, isn't he?"

Hermione had looked pained, he saw from his side-glance at her. She had opened her mouth to reply, but he had beaten her to it, feeling the bitter taste of bile rise to his throat.

"Don't you dare say that you two are merely friends, Granger. I've seen the way he looks at you and treats you - he holds your books to and from class, doesn't he? You may convince yourself that he's just doing it to be nice, but we both really know what he wants from you. He actually sits in the library with you, now, doesn't he? He watches you over the top of his book, only to pretend to read when you look up at him."

Hermione had colored slightly, clenching her fists. "And you would know that," she said through gritted teeth, "only because you watch me just as much as he does."

She had stalked away, leaving Draco to stare after her, affronted by her comment. As he turned his head to look back at the dance floor, he noticed the music switch to a slow, rhythmic tempo. Next thing he knew, Draco had been pulled onto the dance floor.

Hermione had turned to look at Draco, and let go of her death grip on his arm.

"I don't care what you say, Malfoy, about me or Ron ... or Harry; you're going to dance with me, whether you like it or not."

Draco was very conscious of everyone's eyes on the pair of them, and swallowed nervously.

"You're crazy, Granger," he had said as he began to walk away. He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers, disgusted that she still had an effect on him. However, she caught him, and with unknowing force, she had spun him around to face her again.

"Please, Draco. The floor is empty, and no one else will dare move if we don't stop fighting and dance. Please dance; if not for the sake of our responsibilities, then for me." She looked up at him, her eyes silently pleading with him.

His mind told him to tell her, And what do I care what you want, Granger? But Draco wasn't listening. She had called him by his first name, and the foreign sound was simply irresistible. Slowly, he placed his right hand on her waist, while she drew her left around his neck, and he lightly grasped her other hand in his.

He had had to admit, Hermione had grace. And while they had danced, others, slowly, had begun to join them. After the song had ended, feeling daring, he had ever so slightly brought her hand to his lips, and had brushed them against her skin. She had blushed, and both had separated to go their own ways.

In the end, their joint forces had brought about success. He knew she was elated that they had fulfilled their task perfectly, and was reminded when he found her occasionally glancing at him after the Ball. He was surprised to realize that he was doing the same; unable to prevent his straying eyes from looking at her too long, constantly being reminded of her warm, soft fingertips beneath his lips, and of the flush that had tinted her cheeks. Once, he had looked up during breakfast and met her eyes across the Hall. She had smiled, catching him off guard. Hesitantly he had smiled back, and he would never forget the look of happiness that had entered her face then.

Hermione's friends, however, wouldn't let her forget what she had done. He had heard her tell them that it had been for the sake of their responsibilities, though she didn't sound as if she believed it. They had accepted it, but had continued to shoot Draco angry glares.

That's how it had started, and how it had continued. In Draco's opinion, despite the hateful and ignorant glares from Weasel and Potter, his life had reached a simple, yet perfect state of ananda - pure bliss, simply from being in her company. He found himself smiling more often than not, and he didn't mind the feeling anymore, especially when she would grace him with the same expression.

Their pleasurable company evolved into a secret friendship. Draco knew Hermione's hopes, dreams, and fears. She truly trusted Draco, and he, eventually, trusted her in return.

Everything had seemed entirely perfect until that fateful day that had ended everything.

Oh God, what I would do to take it all back, he thought. If only to keep you alive, even if you hated me, even if I had to give up all that we had - I'd do it to keep you alive.

Hello, I'm your mind, giving you someone to talk to.

"They're here, Draco." Harry said, lightly placing his hand on the Draco's shoulder.

Draco started slightly at the sound of his given name. Staring up at Harry with confused eyes, he suddenly grew very aware of his proximity. Draco turned back to face the girl in the bed, feeling her limp hand in his. He nodded his understanding, yet he had hoped in vain that it hadn't come to this. He took a deep breath, slowly exhaling as his lips met her cold hand for the last time.

And then she was gone.

Hello.

They were sitting in a field, rich emerald grass beneath them. He could feel the cool morning's dew beneath the palms of his hands, and it seemed so real. Clear blue skies were above them, the wind stirring their hair about. She looked so beautiful, simply enjoying the breeze as it blew in her face, her eyes closed in contentment. She turned to him, placing her hand on top of his.

"It's not your fault, Draco," she whispered. "They took me away from you. I loved you, and they killed me away because of who I am, not because of you." She hugged him, and Draco knew she was wrong. It was his fault. But he didn't say anything, fearing she would let go.

"I forgive you, Draco. Please forgive me."

She kissed him then, and he smiled.

If I smile and don't believe,

Soon I know I'll wake from this dream.

He woke up to a cold, empty room; the fire was out, and he felt lonely in his bed, its sparse sheets tangling him in his despair. He lived a cold, empty life; there was nothing to look forward to, and his studies only took up time that he didn't want. Draco was faintly aware of what went on around him. He knew that people whispered and pointed, and he knew that Potter and the Weasley girl would try to stand up for him, though the Weasel never seemed to be in the picture. He couldn't understand why they would do such a thing, but he was grateful, because he didn't want to do it himself. There was no point, he reasoned; why try to live when no one would be there in the end to be proud of him, to love him?

Snape was concerned, and it nagged Draco to no end that his Head-of-House wouldn't just leave him be.

Draco didn't reply to his father's warnings that if he pulled a stunt like that again, he would do the same to anyone that he did to Hermione, even to Draco himself. He burned those letters, because it didn't matter anymore. Nothing in the world could happen again like it had between him and Hermione, because Hermione wasn't there, and he didn't care for himself.

Sometimes Potter - no, Harry - would take him flying at night, around the Quidditch pitch. It seemed to be the only thing Draco could do now, balancing himself on the broom, rising high into the air. He could escape at these times. He even felt like he could finally die at moments when he rose too high; the air would be too thin for him to breathe properly, and he could just envision himself falling when he was too weak. But Harry would pull him down again, though he never said anything about it.

Sometimes, Draco cared enough to notice that Harry wasn't doing well either. He was always pale, hollow features tainting his beautiful face with darkness. He looked just as devoid of everything as Draco felt inside. Sometimes, he noticed that Harry's cheeks were stained, identical to the way Draco's were. They didn't talk about it, though. They preferred their silent companionship.

At times, instead of going their separate ways after they had flown, Draco and Harry would stand there on the field, with their brooms in their hands. They would look at each other, thinking of their past, and what had brought them there. They would let the tears fall, and soon it became a habit for them to stand there, several meters apart.

It was on one of these occasions that Harry finally spoke to him.

"I'm sorry. She shouldn't have died; but neither should we."

It was only a few words, but they said so much to Draco that he cried harder. He knew that Harry was right - they shouldn't waste their lives away simply because Hermione was gone. It was simply too hard, though, and the overwhelming feeling shook his body uncontrollably. At one point, he thought of how shameful it was to show Harry that he cried, but his pride wasn't a part of him anymore.

They both closed the distance between themselves, though Draco wasn't sure if it had been him or Harry who had done so first. It didn't matter, because they ended up in the same place - in each other's arms, clinging to each other like it was the end of the world. They did it every night, and every night the pain seemed just as vicious as the time before.

Others around Draco didn't seem to understand. They constantly offered help, wondering why he wasn't doing any better, or why he wasn't doing his work, or why he didn't come to classes anymore. They wondered what went on between him and Harry, but neither of them made any indication that he would reply.

Then the Headmaster brought them to his office, sitting them down in his tacky armchairs. He offered his condolences, but demanded that they shape up. They had lives that they had to live, and there was a war that need their attention. He even offered help, but without pause, both told him, "No."

Don't try to fix me,

I'm not broken.

He liked to dream of her, no matter where he was, or what he was supposed to be doing. He liked to remember her smile, and the way the corners of her lips would disappear under her dimples. He liked to remember the way her hair was so bushy, and how she tried in vain to tame it. He liked the way her brown eyes danced when she laughed, and how her laughter was so alive and real. He wanted so much to hear it again, thinking that it would spark some element of life left in him to come alive. He loved her personality, her love for books, organization and knowledge. Her ability never failed to amaze him; her ability to memorize and recite millions of Arithmancy formulas and equations was incredible, and he often found himself envious of her obvious ease. Her ability to captivate him drove him mad. He remembered the way her lips were lush and dark, smooth and addictive.

But then, he couldn't help but lament the way she had been pulled away from him at the very moment that they had committed their first kiss with one another. Her fragile body had broken under his father's grasp and she had seemed to float as she had plummeted from the Astronomy Tower to the ground below.

No one knew how those few Death Eaters had succeeded in invading that night. It didn't matter; only Draco's father had survived Hogwarts' resistance.

However, Lucius had left two casualties: Hermione, and his son's broken heart.

Hello.

He sees her in everything. He sees her eyes in the coffee he attempts to drink in the morning. He sees her hair bouncing through the crowd of students in the hallways. He hears her turn the pages of a book when he sits in the library. He hears her laughter in all the people around him, people that shouldn't be happy, because she isn't there to make them laugh or annoy them about their homework. He feels her hand touch him when the breeze washes over him.

He even sees her in Harry, at times, like she rubbed off on him. He feels her when Harry holds and soothes him.

She's everywhere, either to haunt him or to comfort him with her memory, and he isn't sure which it is.

I'm the lie, living for you so you can hide.

He cries at night, knowing she won't be there in the morning. He screams into the dark when he can't sleep, fearing he'll forget her. He dies every time, because she's not there to make it all right.

Don't cry.

Harry was there every night, though, even when she wasn't. He would hold Draco, and tell him that he was safe now. It didn't matter to Draco anymore if it was the Boy Who Lived who would take care of him, the savior of the wizarding world, vanquisher of evil - this was Harry, a person caught between being a boy and a man; whose glasses were too small, and hands too big; who gave himself up for Draco; who talked to him about everything and anything, just to keep him alive.

Harry would cry with Draco sometimes as well, and both would fall asleep in each others arms on their bed at Grimmauld Place, similar to the way they had clung to each other on the field at Hogwarts. At times it surprised Draco how much Harry had seemed to move on, still being strong, but both knew that if it was real, it wouldn't last.

At night, he dreamt - not of Hermione - but of himself. He lay in a bed in St. Mungo's, and he dreamt of crisp cotton sheets and itchy hospital clothing. He dreamt he had visitors every day, there to keep him company. He often saw the Weasley girl, who would talk animatedly while he sat and listened, not really present to take in what she had to say. He dreamt of how the nurses whispered about his sanity, and how he wouldn't speak to anyone anymore.

He dreamt that Harry was no longer there to take care of him. Harry, who had flown with him around the Quidditch pitch at night when he felt lost and alone, never visited him. Harry, who had taken him in after they had left Hogwarts, taken him to no. 12 Grimmauld Place when he had nowhere else to go, had never stopped by to talk to him. Harry, who had held him at nights and comforted him in his sleep, was never there.

They told him that Harry was gone, off to save the world from people like his father and Voldemort. He dreamt that the world was better because of Harry. He dreamt that people told him this everyday, since Harry never had the chance to. And quietly, he wondered to himself why Harry wasn't there.

And as he dreamt that he over heard a visitor mourn because Harry had died and had left Draco alone, he realized that he wasn't really dreaming.

Suddenly I know I'm not sleeping.

He wondered aloud why Fate had done this to him. Why had Hermione been taken away, when all she had done was love him? Why had she been stolen away when she was the only one who made him feel alive? Why take her when she was the only one who had ever trusted him?

And why had Fate taken Harry? Why the Boy Who Bloody Lived? Was he not the savior of the wizarding world? Was he not the champion of the people? Why take Harry when he was the only one left to care for and love Draco, despite what had happened to and between them both? Why had Fate taken Harry, who had been the only person that had understood what Draco was going through?

Why hadn't Fate taken him instead of the only two people he had ever loved?

Hello, I'm still here.

As the nurses closed the curtains, telling him he should be quiet so that he could rest, Draco looked over to the side table next to his bed. He saw for the first time the present his visitor today had given him - he was sure it had been the Weasley girl again, now all grown up.

Standing there was a double photo frame, containing two Wizarding photographs. Draco felt his breath hitch as he realized who they were.

One was of Hermione, clutching a book to her chest as the wind tossed her unruly hair into her face. She was smiling her lively smile, her eyes dancing.

The other was of Harry, dressed in his Quidditch robes, holding the Snitch. The wind from Hermione's picture seemed to travel into Harry's, as his robes flapped in the breeze. A small smile adorned his face as he looked across the green Quidditch pitch, reminding Draco of their flying days.

Draco wished he could go to them.

All that's left of yesterday.