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He is dead.
He, who touched her reverently, worshipfully. Like she wasn’t just the golden girl, a symbol of a sidekick, a soldier for the light, but a real fucking person who deserved time and care and love .
He, who had absconded his name, his family, and his birthright to follow her to the ends of the earth, even if that meant fighting a war against everything he had ever known.
He, who had just weeks ago bound himself to her, mind, body, magic, and soul, to have and to hold in this life and the next.
He, now lying in a crumpled heap on the floor of the castle that once served as their safe haven, the home of childhood dreams and rivalries and innocent mischief, is dead.
She is alive.
She, who did everything, always, until she did nothing at the time when it mattered most. Because she had refused to fight, had let her hubris get in the way, had wanted them to ask, to acknowledge, to give her just an ounce of respect . Because she had insisted to fight on her own terms or to not fight at all.
She, who hadn’t been there to protect him.
She, who had gotten him into this whole bloody mess in the first place.
She, who was to blame.
Hermione felt it when the bond snapped. When the invisible string that kept her moored to reality, anchored to the earth, broke clean in half with no struggle and no warning. How could she not? They had melded themselves, their magic, and their very souls together., bound in this life and whatever came after. Now, he is in the after.
She will not— can not — let him leave her behind like that. They had made a promise to be by the other’s side always.
Emotionally, she feels empty, and yet her magic stores feel so very full. She can’t help but wonder if he left his behind for her. Perhaps as a parting gift to draw upon until they reunite. Enough magic to last a person a lifetime, surely, though she supposes that this lifetime will be very short. The thought of a continued existence without him does not seem horrific, or colorless, or excruciating as others who had lost their soulmates had described. No, it is simply unimaginable.
It is impossible to apparate into Hogwarts. But she is impossible. An impossible girl in an impossible situation with an impossible amount of magic. She arrives with a crack, right in the middle of the Great Hall. Next to her, crumpled on the ground is a body that looks just like him. The body has his sculpted face and artist's hands, much too fine and beautiful to be sullying themselves with war, but the gray, lifeless eyes just confirm what she already knows. Her husband, her soulmate, her Draco no longer exists on this plane. The heap of flesh on the floor of the castle is simply an empty vessel.
She does not look at it for very long— instead, she draws her attention to the woman looming above it, her pointed boot resting upon the chest of what was once the love of Hermione's life and cackling maniacally, crooning her victory of being the one to financially take down the traitor.
Bellatrix. It is almost poetic. After all, she had been the one to bring them together, in a way. That fateful day on the Manor floor, Draco had lept on top of his aunt, pushing her off Hermione and apparating the both of them away, saving Hermione from what had been, up to that point, the worst anguish of her life. Her body carved into, her mind violated. Of course Bellatrix would be the one to introduce Hermione to an anguish a thousand times worse— the tearing, shredding, and complete evisceration of her very soul.
Unlike that day on the Manor floor, Hermione doesn’t scream. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t beg. She doesn’t even acknowledge the shouts of happiness, anger, and awe from her most fearsome enemies and closest friends as she pops into existence in the middle of a battle she swore to take no part in, in a place it should be impossible to apparate into.
They should know better than to underestimate her. Don’t they know she is the golden girl? Bright as the fucking sun, capable of burning with a brilliance that leaves people scorching in her wake. And now she is in possession of everything he left behind. Silver-hued and subtle, but of the northern stars and no less celestial in nature than her solar magic. She is devastated and broken and unmoored, yes, but she has also never been more powerful. Unstoppable, really. A fucking supernova.
She does not think. She does not have to. The two words slide off her tongue, easier than breathing. One jet of green light. Bellatrix does not see it coming, and then she is dead. Now there are two empty vessels at Hermione’s feet. One used to be terrible, evil incarnate. One used to be the light of Hermione’s life. Both are nothing now.
Lucius is next. He is as responsible as anyone for Draco’s death, is he not? Then Dolohov. Then Nott. They all fall out of existence through a few flashes of green light from her wand. They are all at fault, all to blame. They created and nurtured and fought for this world. A world that Draco is no longer a part of.
She can feel the curses flung her way, see dark robes move around her, hear their shouts as they try to take her down. She does not care. She is invincible and bursting with too much magic, too much substance, too much for one person to carry alone. He, only 21, had so much time left, so much potential, and so much power left to use, and now she, powerful in her own right, is left with it all to carry. Those in black robes continue to fall around her as death flows out of her wand naturally, instinctually, much too easily for curses that require an intensity of magic that tears your soul apart. But she is full of magic, so full—and her soul is already in tatters. She has nothing left to lose.
She did not realize quite how much pain she was in—the broken bond an open wound, ragged and vicious—until it suddenly stops. She feels herself falling, though not in a physical sense. Her body, now just another vessel, had fallen quickly, unceremoniously to the floor once Voldemort focused his attention on the woman who had wiped out half of his forces in one blaze of glory. No, this is a slow fall, a descent, maybe she is even floating. It is hard to tell. Her conception of space, of direction, feels off. She is unable to orient herself.
When she lands, comes to rest, or perhaps materializes, her first thought is that she has never been somewhere so starkly white, bleached, and devoid of color. Her second thought, before that first thought could even be fully processed, is that he is there. With his platinum hair, pale skin, and bone-white robes, many could miss him as he blended in with the surroundings. But not her. He could be invisible and she would know if he was there in a room of thousands. They are bound, after all. The string tying them together had been severed in a past life, but here it was waiting for her in the after.
Their eyes lock and he smirks at her, eyes full of affection and humor. “Took you long enough, Granger.”
“That’s Malfoy to you,” she quips back, satisfied their little game has followed them into this plane of existence. “And besides, I couldn’t have arrived more than 15 minutes after you did.”
“Time works differently around here,” Draco shrugs. “And besides, any little bit of existence without you feels like an eternity.”
She can’t help but roll her eyes at his cheesiness. “Aren’t you supposed to say you wanted me to take my time? To live a happy and fulfilling life without you? That you’d be happy to wait as long as it takes so I could discover my full potential?”
His smirk transforms into a grin as he chuckles. “Maybe so,” he responds, “but I’ve always been rather selfish. I’d rather just have you here with me.”
He reaches out his hand. She takes it. A whistle sounds in the distance, echoing off the pristine blankness.
“You ready to board a train?” She asks, feeling no nerves, no anticipation, only peace.
“With you? Anything.”