Nightmares and Nocturnes

The Voracious Guilt

a/n: if part of this chapter feels familiar, it's because this fic has quietly been inspired by a scene from my previously written one shot Reparations, chapter four in Amortentia.

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Chapter 16: The Voracious Guilt

The more time spent in the night girl's presence, the more the day boy began to question whether time itself was any powerful thing; he had thought, as a child, to fear it, but realized that all it did was pass, from night to day, and day to night - a tired thing, and hopeless. Better to be her, he thought, in all her light, or else be what he was when he was with her, cured of his fears in the dark; for they, at least, could stand and fight, and glory in their mortality.

For what force was night, and what blessing was day, and what did it matter, when girl and boy were joined? For day or night may pass, and both may become dust; but this, the boy knew, touching a finger to the spark between them, would triumph.

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2000

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At first he would have guessed it to be a nightmare; except in his dreams, her hair was never this disheveled. It seemed his subconscious had cut her some slack, as the level of unruliness before him was nearly unfathomable. He lowered his wand, gaping at her.

"Granger?" he croaked, and she whipped around, training her wand at his chest.

"Malfoy," she gasped, and then shoved something behind her back, a small, beaded bag that he would have bet his fortune contained an illegal expansion charm. "Funny," she remarked, and then grimaced at her choice of words. "Running into you, I mean."

"Funny is one way to put it," Draco agreed hesitantly, "though decidedly not the one I would use." He stared at her, waiting for her to disappear, or for himself to wake, as surely this wasn't - surely she wasn't -

"I see you're still standing," she murmured, and he swallowed, the guilt of his survival thudding wildly through the channels of his chest.

"I see you're not dead," he attempted hoarsely.

She paused at that, considering him from afar. "Oh, I'm dead," she said softly, her lips curling into a smile. "This is a fantasy. I'm not really here."

He smirked at her. "You certainly give yourself a lot of credit, Granger," he remarked loftily, finding comfort in a familiar rhythm. "Sorry, but you're not really one of my fantasies."

Her smile twitched once - as though it might have broadened - and then stilled.

"Ah, well," she said evenly, shrugging. "I tried."

For reasons he could not explain, Draco found himself impressed. The Hermione Granger he had known - the one he had last seen - had not brushed him off so easily. Now the jab slipped carelessly from her shoulders, like a garment she no longer cared for; like water that slid from her hands.

"How are you not dead?" he pressed. "And how did you get in my house?"

She shrugged again. The motion was sharp and quick; dismissive. His glance caught on the slip of her shirt against her clavicle.

"You know, you purebloods overestimate yourselves," she demurred. She played coquettish with a lowered gaze, he noted, but the tip of her wand never wavered from his chest. "Blood wards and all that. But do you know how easy it is to fool a blood ward?"