All he remembered was being very cold, except for his hands.
He places his hand over her heart, and he can feel the blood pumping there, feel it as it slides between the cracks of his fingers and onto the ground.
Shot. She has been shot, and he doesn't know if it was from one of those Muggle guns or if it was a nasty spell.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
And he doesn't care. He has to get her to safety. She can't die like this. Not Hermione. She's strong. She'll get through this.
She has to get through this.
He walked through the streets, fingering the necklace she had made for him on their honeymoon. He laughed bitterly, and remembered teasing her when she gave it to him.
"I made it," she pouts, holding up the necklace. It's a simple black cord that has a tiny conch shell on it. She lets the shell roll through her fingers, smiling. "I can almost feel the waves running in it."
"You said the sound of waves in shells is just your heartbeat echoing off the walls," he protests, smirking at her.
"Do you have to be so difficult?" she protests, raising an eyebrow at him.
"That's why you love me," he shoots back, gearing up for the game they always play, the game that drew them together in the war.
"I can think of a thousand different reasons why I love you," she whispers, putting her hands on her hips, "but your arrogance is not on that list." She shrieks as he lifts her into his arms, smacking him when he jiggles her.
"Let me make it a thousand and one," he whispers into her ear, and carries her off back towards their little shack of a house.
He bit his lip, a habit he picked up from Hermione. She was not his better half, she was simply the best, the only thing he wanted, the only thing he needed.
And now she was dead, lying forever in the ground. Except her last breath. A breath he caught and poured into the little conch shell. It was warm against his chest, bouncing off his shirt, reminding him of what he had to do.
How could anyone kill Hermione? As the rain began to pour from the early evening sky, he stalked on, the florescent lamps of downtown Muggle London casting shadows of wrath on his face, carved deeply by the death of the last woman he had loved. The last one he would ever love. His mother, dead of grief, and Hermione, oh Hermione, dead by revenge of some unknown assaliant.
He had sat at home for ages, unwilling to accept that she was dead. He went to bed, and woke with his arms and legs wrapped around her pillow, scented with the expensive perfume he had bought for her, claiming one Christmas that it was only to cover the smell of Mud, but secretly bought because it was what he smelt when he drew in whiffs of Amorentia- the smell of ink, parchment, and electricity. The smell of Hermione, the annoying, frazzled, bitchy Mudblood he had been forced to work with in order to prove that he was trustworthy, in order to save his mother- the smell of Hermione, industrious, clever, forgiving Hermione, who finally accepted that he was on the good side.
Ron and Harry had stood with him at her funeral, the only time the three could stand together and not be at each other's throats. Even in death, Hermione could keep all her boys in hand. She made them try. She made them succeed.
She made them believe that anything was possible, and that which was said to be impossible simply meant that it was going to be fairly difficult.
"Do you, Draco Malfoy," intones Kingsley Shacklebolt, "take this woman, Hermione Granger, to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do," he says solidly, looking down into her blushing face. The dress is simple, and the veil is plain and tangled in her mass of brown hair.
She's never looked so beautiful.
"Do you, Hermione Jane Granger, take this man, Draco Malfoy, to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
"Might want to think about that, Hermione!" catcalls Ginny from the back, and the room explodes in laughter. Hermione blows a raspberry at Ginny, and Draco's chest rumbles as he throws his head back and laughs, trying to glare at Ginevra Weasley but failing miserably.
"Well...." she says, and his breath hitches. She can't back out. Not now. Not like this.
"....I suppose it's do-able," she finished. Kinglsey raises an eyebrow at her, and she shrugs. "He cooks better than me," she adds for clarification. Draco scowls at her, and she smiles innocently. "I do, you prat, so stop glaring. You're going to get wrinkles."
"If any in here wishes to stop this union, speak now, or forever hold your peace!" proclaims Kinglsey.
"OBJECTION!" yells Harry from the back.
"OVER-RULED!" shoots back Hermione, and the room collapses into giggles.
War-time weddings are always quick and dirty, but Hermione has made it a point to liven them up, to make them as fun and nice as possible. She tells Draco that it's because everyone deserves a spot of happiness, even in the dark times.
He looks down at her ring, a tiny, circular diamond in a cheap gold band. He remembers when he was richer, before his father disowned him. But she had said yes, and he could make money for them later. She presses her thumb into his hand, and they smile.
"I have an objection!" shouts Ron from the back, and Draco rolls his eyes.
"Yes, Ron?" asks Hermione, trying to be patient. "On what grounds?"
"Inter-species breeding is illegal!" declares Ron in triumph. A moment later, he's smacked in the face by Hermione's bouquet of daises as she hurls them towards his head. Her bridesmaids, Parvati and Padma, throw theirs as well.
"Honestly, Ronald!" she says, fists on hips and foot tapping. Draco can't contain himself; he roars in laughter, slumping against the wall, and even Harry laughs- they all laugh- and the room glows. She glows, and he inhales the light of heaven and electricity- the scent of Hermione.
"I'm afraid that doesn't apply here, Ron," says Kingsley dryly. "And since there are no objections that make any sense here, I pronounce you two- hey!"
Draco sweeps Hermione into his arms and kisses her soundly. The whole room is filled with "aww"'s from the girls and "ewww"'s from the boys.
He had money now; he'd gotten his inheritence back. And now he spent his days and nights in pursuit of the man who killed Hermione. Three years later, he got his break. He found the man. He found the reason. He found the means.
He found his reason for living one more day. To avenge the death of the only good thing he had known for years.
He found Hermione's killer.
Hermione died quickly. Her killer won't.
He walked and turned a corner and stopped, feeling for his wand. He tensed when someone stopped behind him.
"Malfoy."
He turned his head slightly, one pained grey eye staring through a curtain of loose silver hair.
"Potter. Weasley with you?"
Harry shook his head. "Fleur's in labour; he's waiting for Bill to get back from Egypt."
They stared at one another for quite some time, warm green eyes boring into a frigid iron glare, glances clashing and spitting sparks in the dark.
"So, I see you're going home, Malfoy," said Harry non-chalantly. Draco pulled a face; Potter knew well and good that their home- his home, was hundreds of miles in another direction.
"Good thing I ran into you," he continued, looking around in the sky. "And took you home after you got piss-drunk. In case anyone wanted to know where you were going, and where you were tonight, and all."
Draco stared blankly at him. Harry leaned against the wall, looking at nothing in particular as the silence grew and screamed between the two enemies, and former lovers, of Hermione- one who loved her as a brother, and one who loved her as a Goddess.
"You get him, Malfoy," Harry said finally, raising a hand and putting it on Draco's shoulder. "You get him good, you get him bloody, and you send him into a thousand years of Hell."
"A thousand and one," whispered Draco, and the two nodded at one another in understanding. They parted ways, Harry walking across the street and Draco contining into the seedy underbelly of London. Draco gripped the sea shell in his cold hands, trying to remember a time when Hermione blew golden breaths across them, when he had kneaded soft, pliable, warm flesh in them and pulled out passion and pleasure from his wife.
She's soft, and limp, in his hands.
"Hermione," he whispers hoarsely.
"Cold, Draco," she mutters, pulling weakly at his sleeve. "Wrap me up?"
He pulls her into his arms and into his chest, wrapping his robes around them. The moon hid her eyes from view as Hermione gasped and writhed, trying to hold on for her husband's sake. Her wedding ring flashes in the light of the stars, who grow brighter and twinkle furiously, frantically trying to save the dragon's wife from a fate she doesn't deserve.
"I love you, Draco," she says, and she smiles, and for a moment, the moon shines down on the pair, illuminating Hermione, and the heavens and Draco think she'll pull through.
"I love you more than anything," she continues, and presses her fingers to her lips. She kisses them, then pushes them against his lips. He puts his hand on her chest, trying to staunch the wound.
The Order called him the Demon Slayer, for his inhuman ability to take down Inferi. They were his speciality. But it was easier to kill a demon that was dead. Catching a live one was much harder, but he had worked for three hard years. He had spent a small fortune finding him, consorting with people that Hermione would have smacked him for hanging around if she were alive.
Of course, if she were alive, he wouldn't be in this situation.
He stood in a corner, and waited. And waited.
And waited.
Hours passed by.
He waited. And then he saw it.
The one who took her life away. His life away. The killer.
He began to silently run towards his prey, his mind shifting from human to Hunter. He spotted his prey by the familiar sheen on light hair, a familiar body, a familiar person. He hated that the most; he knew the killer.
He knocked the man down.
"Draco!"
"What is it, Hermione?" he asks irritably, pushing his reading glasses back up his nose and sifting through some of his fiancial papers.
"Draco..."
Draco looks up, and leans back in his chair, enjoying the sight of his wife in her long white nightgown and bare feet.
"Let's go outside," she whispers, holding out her hand. "It's nice. Please?"
And he's never been able to deny her anything. So he pushes away his papers, takes off his glasses, and goes outside into the cool spring air, and they lay for hours in the grass, speaking of children and love and the future.
He had no future now. The man had stolen it from him. He would pay.
He rolled the man over and pressed the tip of a knife into the man's neck.
"Wha-What?" gasped the man. His eyes opened wide as the furious, angular face of a wasted Draco Malfoy, drained of life and joy.
"They have a saying in my family," Draco rasped. "Nemo me impune lacessit. None attack me with impunity. You took my light away from me, murderer, and now I'm going to take you."
"Hermione wouldn't want you to do this!" the man protested in fear.
"How would I know?" asked Draco, digging his knee into the man's solar plexus. "She's dead. You burnt away the light of the world, killer. All because of you and your jealousy. Jealousy that was unfounded. Potter never lifted a hand against me. Even Weasley didn't, and everyone knows he used to be in love with her. You hated me for taking her away from you, and yet you punished her. Why?"
"She... she was mine," the man stuttered. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry isn't going to save you, and she was never yours. She was mine. She was the world's. She belonged to everyone, and damn it, she loved you too! Why? Why did you have to take away my light? I loved her! I STILL LOVE HER!"
Draco slapped the man, breaking his nose. Using his wand, he bound the man and levitated him into an alleyway, letting him float in midair. Draco took the little sea shell from around his neck and tucked it onto his ear.
And as he started to work on the man, using his dagger and his fists, he thought he could hear the sound of the seashore, and Hermione's heartbeats.