Chapter 1

She just wanted peace. She ached for quiet. Her soul was wearied by the memories of sound it carried. No historian ever bothered to point out the fact that war was LOUD. The clanging of spells hitting buildings, the yells of curses being cast. The roar of buildings collapsing, its rubble thundering down in a cloud of dust. And oh, the cries. She would give anything not to hear those again. The moans of the wounded…..and the heartbreaking wailing from those finding a loved one dead.

Yes, Hermione had taken all the noise she could stand. That was what had driven her to seek the solitude and quiet of the forest she now called home. The sweet singing of birds heralded each day. Buzzing bees gossiped the secrets of the wildflowers that grew in abundance near her secluded cottage. Every once in a while, Hermione could hear the heavy clomp from the hooves of a centaur seeking rare herbs.

After the war, she had bidden her friends farewell. Most had not understood her desire to leave civilization. Harry had sobbed, then he'd railed against her decision, calling it the most selfish thing she'd ever done. Later, in a complete about-face, he himself left England to battle his demons in raucous Rio de Janeiro. For Harry, noise was not the enemy but the antidote. It kept him from hearing and replaying in his mind the horrors that haunted his dreams. There within the borders of Brazil, muggles accepted magic; there, nightly diversions kept his loneliness at bay. There, under a sunny sky and with mulheres lindas, Harry Potter, the Legend, the Boy Who Lived, could disappear.

Ron could not be consoled after the death of his brother, the absence of his two best friends, and the cruel murder of his former girlfriend. Begging George for help, the remaining twin finally acquiesced to his baby brother's pleas and obliviated from his mind every trace of his losses caused by the war. Fred, Harry, Hermione and Lavender ceased to exist for the former Gryffindor keeper.

When Hermione found out what George had done to Ron, she wept bitter tears. She knew better than anyone the full repercussions that would come from that action. Obliviate, once released, was insidious. It would not stop or relent in its objective until every memory associated with the named target was gone. She and Harry had infiltrated Ron's heart and mind to a point where he would not remember Hogwarts at all. And with Fred, many of his childhood memories would be gone. His education and training would be wiped out; his experiences, forgotten. Ron would be left as a small child in a man's body. The day she heard about Ron's decision was a very loud day for Hermione. Her mind would not shut up but kept replaying conversations, memories…..everything that had shaped Ron into the warrior he'd grown to be.

Gone, gone…..

All gone.

She wondered if he would remember how to play wizard's chess.

000

Draco was focused on nothing as he made his way through the thick underbrush. The waterfalls were not far away. He could hear them now. They always guided his highly trained senses back to the place that served as his new home. Not that he couldn't have used a point me spell; but why add the danger? Someone might notice; magic could be traced. While outside, Draco had learned to live without it. Only within the wards of his fortress did he feel safe enough to use his powers. The stone lodge nestled beside the river had always belonged to the Malfoys, even though it was not on Malfoy property. In times past, its use had been primarily for hunting excursions, but for the last Malfoy living, its purpose was now as a refuge. A stronghold against the hatred that sought out the only remaining death eater from the war.

The poster boy for pureblood supremacy was now little better than a hermit.

Draco pushed against a spruce branch blocking his path. He readjusted the kill he was carrying on his shoulder. Thank Merlin his father had taught him how to hunt without magic. Lucius Malfoy had been many things, not the least of these pragmatic. He always reminded Draco that a Malfoy should be on top, and to do that, one must be prepared for every contingency. He taught his son at an early age how to handle a bow and arrow; how the bark on a tree was as good as a compass if one knew how to read it, how to tell poisonous mushrooms from edible ones and how to start a fire without magic. These skills were now invaluable to Draco. He could thank his father for that one small insight while wondering why he hadn't seen the glaring error of following a half-blooded maniac to his doom. Draco suddenly shivered and not from the cold. Then he snorted. Malfoys on top? Hardly. It had been all they could do to stay alive while Voldemort had been living. The things Draco had seen; the things he'd been forced to be a part of….

What was your contingency plan for all that, Father?

He'd killed the pheasant he was carrying with more kindness than what had been shown to poor muggles at death eater revels. He and his father had been sickened to their very souls with the things they had witnessed. Watching other purebloods act like vicious animals set loose on helpless humans. It had reminded Draco of the muggle stories that told of early Christians being given to lions to amuse a bored audience in the Roman Coliseum.

Draco stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes in shame as he remembered. Horrible waves of memories crashed over him. Of the screams, the blood, the demonic laughter, the unspeakable acts against nature, of…..of…..

It was all he could do to make it back to the keep. Pushing open the door, he tossed the dead bird on a table before racing to the toilet where he vomited the remains of his lunch.

Will this torment ever end?

Once everything was out of his stomach, Draco leaned his head against the cool stone wall. Not for the first time, he contemplated whether he'd actually died and was now in hell. It often felt like it. He was alone. Without friends. Without resources.

Without hope.

Maybe I should give myself up, he thought. Then his daydreams of hell might become an actual reality. At least then he'd know where he was. He would no longer have to fear the future.

Even though he'd been acquitted of his crimes due to his age, a vengeance-mad public didn't care. They wanted him dead. Nay, worse than that, he corrected himself. They wanted to make him an example. A victim to inflict their rage and pain upon. A condemned goat. But it wouldn't be enough. Draco already knew it. No other death eater being alive was testament to that. The wizarding world would never get enough retribution to take away their hurt. Healing didn't work like that, not that they would listen. It was no longer eye for an eye; nowadays, if one was not on the winning side, it was death first, questions later. Vigilante wizards would not hesitate to bring back the carcass of the once proud Malfoy heir. He'd heard that bounties had been placed on his head. Just like the muggle American Old West style of law. Wanted, dead or alive. Guilty or innocent. It no longer mattered.

Draco sometimes wondered if the wizarding world ever considered how pleased the Dark Lord would be at their bloodlust.

000

Hermione urged her mare onward. It was already getting dark in the forest, although it would be awhile before the sun would set. Still, she was prepared. She'd brought a lantern. She knew the flower she sought was somewhere close. She could hear the waterfalls. It was near the river where she'd seen the magical flower before; a night-blooming variety, with tremendous healing properties. Hermione wondered how that plant had made its way into the heart of the woods. A wizard or witch would have had to plant it there. Maybe they were the owners of the nearby stone cottage she'd come upon one day not long after she'd first moved into her forest home. She'd sensed wards around the structure, but didn't detect any signs of life within it.

She wondered if the family owning the residence had been involved in the war. And if so, if they'd made it out alive.

After dressing the pheasant and settling it on the spit to cook, Draco cleaned himself off, then grabbed a sack from a nearby stool. He wanted to gather some greens to go with his meat, and he also wanted to grab a few petals from the moonflowers growing on the banks near the river. His grandmother had planted them there decades ago for the hunters if they ever needed to make a healing potion in case of an accident. Right now, Draco wanted it for his stomach; it still hadn't settled down. He slowly walked to where they were blooming.

Pretty things, he thought. White and pure, with a sinfully sweet fragrance. They inexplicably made him think of Granger.

I wonder what happened to her. It had been months since he'd last received any word of the magical world. He could only assume she was thriving in it. At least, he hoped so. He owed her a debt; well, actually, he owed one to the entire golden trio. They'd all spoken on his behalf at his trial. Why, he didn't know.

Insufferable do-gooders.

Draco could imagine them in the new world they had won. Granger would undoubtedly become the youngest minister of magic in the history of wizarding England. Potter, an Auror, to be sure. And Weasley? If that man had half a brain, he would settle down with Hermione. Then he could become a celebrity of sorts and maybe even write a book of memoirs…..with the help of a ghostwriter, of course. Even while grateful, Draco couldn't help but mentally sneer at the redhead. How he'd been lucky enough to have the other two as friends, he would never know. Ron had never matched the intelligence and class of Granger or the bravery of Potter. In a rare moment of honesty, Draco admitted the person Ron most matched was…...himself.

Hermione sniffed. Was that…..was she smelling meat cooking? She breathed in deeply. It smelled divine. When was the last time she'd eaten meat? She couldn't recall. Only that at some point after the final battle she'd developed an aversion to raw flesh. Seeing it or smelling it. It had become another deafening cry in her psyche. Ron's screams after being splinched, his shoulder and arm horribly misshapen by the hunks missing from them. Her own and the boy's collective moans from their scorched skin after retrieving the cup, the rawness blistering against the rough scales of the dragon beneath them. The awful gurgle from Lavender, her ripped throat pulsing out her remaining life blood.

Molly told Hermione she was being illogical, but she couldn't help it. Raw meat meant something had died. And death carried too much sound. Too much memory. Just. Too. Much. So she'd avoided it. Until now. Without consciously realizing she was doing so, Hermione guided her horse in the direction of the savory aroma.

Draco cocked his head. He knew he hadn't been imagining things. The dull puft sound that he'd heard before happened again. And again. He became as still as a statue, barely breathing, as he listened to the methodic sound come closer….closer…

Blast, he thought as he realized his wand was in the house. Of course it was. He never carried it out anymore. But he had a hunting knife. It would have to do. Draco slowly drew his blade from its holster on his belt. The person coming was undoubtedly a bounty hunter. They would have the advantage of having a wand.

He would have to be quick.

Hermione eased off of her horse and held up her lantern. She didn't remember there being so many of the flowers before. She obviously must have found the source of the plants she'd found deeper in the woods.

Draco saw a light coming his way. He held his breath, half-crouched beside the hedgerow.

Steady….don't rush…...let them become a fixed target…..there. The light was now closer to the ground. Whomever it was, was now on foot. That was to Draco's advantage. He stayed still, watching intently, waiting for them to get closer. The light was grower brighter.

Any moment now…..

Hermione led her horse to the main bank of flowers. Leaning down, she plucked enough of them to replenish her supply. Then she straightened up. From where she stood, she could see the old stone house. For the first time, she could see a light coming from one of its windows.

Is someone living there now? It's smells like they're grilling outside.

Hermione felt a strange excitement. It had been so long since she'd talked to another human being. She began to quicken her steps.

With any luck, they would ask her to dinner.

Just as Draco was about to release his knife, he heard a familiar, feminine voice carry over the gloaming.

"Hello? Is anyone home?"

No….it couldn't be, he thought to himself. Why would she be miles deep inside the middle of a magical woods?

The figure grew closer. Draco could now see his visitor clearly. He would know that profile anywhere.

Sweet Salazar, it is her!

He stepped away from the hedge that was hiding him. Standing up to his full height, he showed himself to the witch who was now standing in front of him with an expression of shock on her face, holding a lantern in one hand while a gentle-looking horse followed behind her.

"Malfoy," she breathed. "Is….is that you?"

"'Fraid so," he answered. Then he said the first thing that came to mind. "Have you been stealing my flowers?"

AN: This chapter came from a conversation I had yesterday with lightofevolution. I know most of you already know about her writing prowess, but did you also know what a wonderful human being she is? I feel joy every time I talk to her! Well, getting back to our discussion, we were talking about how blessed we felt compared to the day-to-day sufferings of so many in our world. That got me to thinking. What would the lives of the teens in the Harry Potter Universe be really like after the war? I've never gone through a war, but I imagine it would be something that would take me a long time to recover from. Would Harry, Ron, Hermione or Draco suffer from PTSD? Would they want to escape from their memories? How would each of them respond?

That's what this story will explore. As with Dreams of Blue and The Ring, this will also be a short story, with chapters staying in the single digits. Updates will be when I can manage them, depending on my husband's health and my workload.

Reviews are treasured, follows and faves are greatly appreciated; PMs are welcome! I love hearing from you.

Lastly, if you or a loved one have gone through war, I would love to hear your story IF and only IF you would feel comfortable sharing it. I want to make this as real and authentic as possible, but I know imagination can carry me only so far.