War Heroines and Other Drugs

Snow

The healer left and Malfoy looked at her like so many of her loved ones had before and she knew she had to leave right away. The look of grief, sympathy. The look one gives to another before delivering the news that a family member has passed away. Except it wasn't a family member of hers that had passed, it was her.

She knew as soon as he turned to face her. As good as Malfoy was at hiding his emotions, she could see it in his eyes even though the rest of his face was stone cold. A part of her was honestly almost gleeful. Finally, it was almost over. The life she knew, it was almost over. Only she didn't know how much time she had.

To most people this would be a turning point, a time to change their lifestyle. Most people would want to see the world, do things they haven't done before. What do dying people who have already seen it all want as a death wish?

For it all to end quickly, she assumed.

She had seen enough in her lifetime to be content. If she died today, that would be okay with it. And she would have no regrets, none at all. She fought enough trolls, broke into one too many banks, and learned everything she ever wanted. She was at peace with the thought of dying soon. She was tired.

This was what she dreamt of for the last year, what she had been purposefully trying to achieve.

For it all to end.

"I... I need to go." She stood from the chair the healer checked her in.

"Granger, it's best if you just stay here." Malfoy insisted with his never-altering, stern, cold voice walking closer to her.

"I can't. I–I have to sleep in my own bed, I need... I need to go, I can't be here right now." She walked past him, breathless, toward the floo.

"Just wait, you shouldn't–" She was gone with a flash of green trailing her. He didn't even try to stop her, not that that mattered.

Hermione isolated herself within her apartment for three weeks after this.

Careful not to go out for much other than groceries, smart enough to get her substances delivered to her. Suffering for three weeks, trapped inside this place she resented more than she resented breathing. Why had she never thought of moving?

She laughed at the thought that occurred to her after that very question. Who would care if she did move? Who would try to contact her? No one. If she did leave, who would notice first? Who would walk up to her front door and knock? Who would realize that no one is going to answer after a couple of days? Who would have enough sense to knock down her front door and search her flat? Who would worry about not finding her there? Who would call the Aurors?

Hermione knew the answer to all this. She was getting too carried away now. Because the answer is no one. No one would go to that extent. No one would try to save her. That's just the way it was now.

Except for... No. Not even him. Not even if he had saved her from being drugged and let her sleep in his bed. She should just move....

That was all a joke; a fever dream she'd soon forget. Draco Malfoy would never help her. That wasn't true. That wasn't true. That wasn't true.

It was never real.

It was her hallucinations. A lucid dream. A drunken, made-up story her mind thought to be true. There were so many at this point, it was easy for Hermione to blend this one into the others.

Splayed out on her bed, staring dazingly at the ceiling, she came to a conclusion.

Draco Malfoy was a mirage, made up by her imagination.