Aftermath

T E N

A few days had passed since Hermione's heated outburst in the Great Hall, and Draco had kept his distance ever since. The stolen glances persisted but felt more tensed rather than amiable.

Their interactions were reduced to strained, obligatory conversations about the memorial, devoid of the strange tension she'd grown almost accustomed to. Hermione tried to convince herself that she didn't care, that she was simply too busy to dwell on it, but the truth gnawed at her like an untold truth, eating at her. 

The memorial had become her only focus, a task she threw herself into with her usual fervor. There was so much to arrange, so much to finalize, and even though she'd enlisted help from the house-elves, she could barely keep up with the endless to-do list. 

"Miss Granger... Winky doesn't understand where each flower should go," squeaked the house elf, fidgeting with guilt.

Hermione groaned but flicked her wand, summoning a parchment listing each flower type and its place.

...

Exhausted, she found herself sprinting between the Great Hall and the castle's storerooms, setting up tables and guiding house elves on the placement of candles and flowers. Still, every time she turned around, there was something else that needed attention. 

She felt she was barely keeping it from slipping through her fingers.

By late afternoon, with the event only a day away, Hermione found herself standing in the middle of the Great Hall, frowning at a stack of memorial programs that had been printed with the wrong date. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers against her temples in frustration.

"Miss Granger" squeaked a small voice beside her. She looked down to see a house-elf gazing up at her with wide eyes. "Do you need anything?"

She took a shaky breath and gave the elf a weak smile. "Yes. Can you... can you go and find Draco Malfoy for me?"

The elf nodded eagerly, vanishing with a snap of his fingers, and Hermione returned to arranging the flowers, trying to quell the nervous flutter in her stomach. 

She shouldn't feel anything about seeing Draco again—it was just the practical help she needed. I'm over this, she told herself, placing a bouquet a bit too forcefully on a table. I'm over him.

Time stretched on, and she almost gave up on him coming at all. But finally, she heard the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps. 

She looked up and saw Draco standing in the doorway, his hands buried in his pockets, his expression anything but willing. His silver eyes narrowed as he walked into the hall, and his mouth was set in a hard line.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice sharp and distant, each word laced with irritation.

The tone caught her off guard, slicing through her already frayed nerves. She stood straighter, fixing him with a determined look. 

"I need help," she replied, as evenly as she could manage. "There's still too much to be done, and it would go faster if you'd just... pitch in."

Draco's lip curled, a hint of a smirk flashing across his face. "Pitch in?" he echoed, as though the idea amused him. 

"No, Granger. I think I have better things to do."

And with that, he turned as though he intended to walk away without a second thought.

A flash of anger lit within her, mingling with the ache of exhaustion that had been building up for days. She took a step forward, her hands clenched at her sides. 

"Better things to do? That's all you ever say!" Her voice came out louder than she intended, and he paused, looking back at her with a raised eyebrow.

She didn't hold back. "You act like none of this matters," she said, her voice trembling. "Like none of them—our classmates, our friends—mattered. 

And all you do is stand there with that arrogant look on your face, pretending you're too important for any of this."

Draco stared at her, his expression unreadable, though she thought she saw the barest flicker of surprise in his eyes. But she wasn't done; the words spilled out of her, years of resentment and grief and something deeper, something she couldn't fully understand.

"You and your family were a part of everything that happened! People died, people we cared about, and you—you just stand there like none of it affects you. Like it's all beneath you."

His face paled, and for a moment, Hermione thought he might shout back, might give her some well-worn insult or look at her with that familiar sneer. 

But instead, he just watched her, his expression strangely open, vulnerable even. It made her anger waver, her heart thudding in her chest.

"Do you feel anything, Malfoy?" she asked, her voice softer now, almost pleading. "Or do you just... not care?"

The silence hung heavy between them, her question echoing around the hall. Draco didn't respond right away, but his gaze never left her, and she felt caught, like she'd stepped into something she couldn't pull back from. 

His mouth opened slightly as if he wanted to speak, but then he closed it again, his eyes shadowed.

Hermione's breath hitched, and she realized with a pang that she hadn't wanted to accuse him, not really. She'd wanted him to defend himself, to give her a reason to believe he felt as deeply as she did, to prove he cared.

When he remained silent, she swallowed hard, suddenly ashamed of her outburst. "I... I didn't mean..." she stammered, her face flushing. The strength in her voice cracked, and she took a step back, her fingers clutching the edge of the table behind her for support.

Draco's eyes softened slightly, but still, he said nothing. The hurt, the anger—all of it still simmered inside her, but now mixed with a strange sense of regret. 

She broke his gaze and turned, leaving him standing in the silent hall as she walked quickly through the corridors, her heart pounding.

She didn't stop until she reached Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Slipping inside, she closed the door behind her and pressed her back against it, her hands covering her face. 

The anger that had fueled her finally drained away, leaving her feeling empty, her chest heavy. She felt her throat tighten, the sting of tears welling up as her breath came in shallow, unsteady gasps.

Silent tears traced down her cheeks, warm and unwelcome, falling faster than she could brush them away. The weight of everything—her outburst, the memorial, and, worst of all, the unshakeable pull she felt toward him—settled on her like a heavy shroud.

A soft, echoing voice broke through her solitude. "Hermione?"

Hermione opened her eyes and saw Myrtle floating beside her, looking at her with an unexpected tenderness. 

The usually mournful ghost reached out as though to offer comfort, resting a translucent hand on Hermione's shoulder.

Hermione managed a small, tearful smile, the ghost's unexpected gentleness soothing her in a way she hadn't expected.

"He'll soon realize," Myrtle said softly. "It's easy to ignore what they don't understand."

Hermione looked up, meeting Myrtle's gaze. For a moment, she felt seen, and understood in a way she hadn't expected. She nodded, taking a shaky breath. 

"Thank you, Myrtle," she whispered.

The ghost gave her a gentle smile before dissipating into thin air with a 'poof', leaving Hermione with her thoughts once again.