Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. All rights belong to J.K. Rowling.

Warnings: This chapter contains graphic violence and some dark themes. It is rated at a high 'T' or low 'M'. Subsequent chapters will likely not be as dark.

Full Summary: They'd carved the runes so carefully, planned the ritual so meticulously - they would die, so that their past selves would survive. The pair would find out better than anyone: there were unforeseen consequences for meddling with time. Time travel 'redo' fic, with a twist. DHr.

"It's like…re-remembering something," Hermione explained, leaning over the cauldron. The surface beneath it was marked by a series of interconnected symbols, dimly glowing in the otherwise dark room. Draco leaned away from the concoction, resembling less a potion than liquid ashes. Its fumes stank of death and despair – foul remnants of what his life had become. She picked up the ladle, then slowly scooped the contents into two sets of glass vials.

"…I see," Draco responded. He hadn't the first time she had explained it. And yet, eventually he'd come to understand. Hermione had been the one to teach him the runes. For countless nights, they'd pored over book after book – learning occlumency, arithmancy, and hundreds of ancient and obscure spells – but Hermione wasn't the brightest witch of their generation for nothing.

She'd designed the ritual from mere scraps of information on the ancient magics, while he had learned how to draw the symbols and cast the series of incantations to activate them. He'd carved the runes again and again, until his hands had started to cramp, to ensure that on this day they would be – needed to be – perfect. Perhaps he had even grown adept in the art, aided by those tiresome nights in the library and the constant sensation of the magic coursing through his fingertips.

Her gaze flickered up from the potion, meeting his for just half a second, and he shrank back at the concern that he found there. Then her eyes were gone, and the nausea was back in his stomach, churning – but he couldn't afford to be sick, not now.

"The effects of the Tempore Mutationem are drastically different from those of Time-Turners," she stated. "The use of the latter is much more straightforward. The witch or wizard sends their current body into the past, leading to duplicate copies of themselves. And yet no matter how hard they tried, they'd never be able to change it. Attempt to save someone's life, and they might find themselves causing that person's death."

They'd discussed it time and again, of course. Yet he knew how much Hermione liked to explain things, to ensure that every possible facet of their plan had been analyzed and re-analzyed.

"But this won't be like that," he nodded. "This time, we can change things from how we've remembered them. Not because we've altered history, but because they've always been that way, and we've simply been remembering wrong this whole time."

He rubbed his forefinger against his thumb. An almost imperceptible movement, and yet a weakness to those who would use it against him. He had learned to never let his true emotions show.

"Quite," she agreed. "It's like snapping a rubber band. Flicking ourselves into the past, and then forwards yet again."

Her soft, warm hand placed one of the vials into his. Chestnut eyes met grey, and the corners of her lips curved upwards. God, when was the last time he'd seen her smile?

"To rediscover one's past is to insist that the present never was," she whispered. Then silence, save the gentle clinking of glass, a final toast for their final moments.

"To death, then."

"To death," he affirmed, gulping down the liquid.

-oOoOo-

Voldemort hadn't been an idiot. An arrogant psychopath, yes, but not stupid.

Harry Potter had survived the killing curse once before, and Voldemort had been left without a body for thirteen years. So when he'd finally stared down upon the boy's limp form in the Forbidden Forest, he decided to personally ensure that Potter was indeed gone.

Yet he wouldn't be the first to approach the boy. Should any surprises be awaiting, the victim would be one quite unfortunate witch.

He brandished his wand and craned his neck to examine Mrs. Malfoy, cloaked in the shadows of the overhanging branches.

And if he were to find out later that she'd lied to him, well…

-oOoOo-

Potter's eyes had been dead. Not emotionless, but unfocused and glassy – as if they weren't seeing Draco, but were simply staring straight through him. Draco wondered if perhaps he wasn't the one who had died, his ghostly presence invisible to all those around him. No doubt it would have been a better outcome.

The Boy Who Lived could not be dead.

Those illusions were shattered when he saw the rest of the body.

Granger had screamed. Weasley had sobbed. Draco had simply felt numb.

The Final Battle had been a slaughter.

-oOoOo-

He'd never been able to recover all the pieces of his mother.

He'd found her hand first. The same hand that had caressed his face those nights when he was sick, that had held and comforted him when his father's temper had reached its tipping point. Still adorned with a little silver ring on the fourth finger, engraved with the Malfoy insignia.

Granger had been the one to find him, bent over that sole fragment of her corpse. He hadn't responded when she'd spoken to him, not even when she'd shouted his name. He'd simply stood there, frozen, until she'd come up beside him and rested her hand on his shoulder.

And in front of the Mudblood, Draco had cried.

-oOoOo-

The few remaining survivors had been forced to flee Britain or go into hiding. Slowly, they had been picked off, each week bringing about news of another dead mother, friend, brother.

When Dumbledore had died (the mere memory sent shivers down Draco's spine), everyone he'd told about 12 Grimmauld Place became Secret Keepers. Moody had cast wards against Snape and the other Death Eaters, but the security of their headquarters had been compromised. While fleeing from the Ministry that past year, Granger had accidentally apparated Yaxley into the house. The man had been left without his left arm and two lungs. It was the first time she'd had to clean up a body.

Following Snape's death in the Shrieking Shack – for why would anyone Draco cared about remain alive – the few remaining Order members had hesitantly re-convened in the manor. Some, including the Weasleys, had taken up residence there.

Granger had been the one to drag him into the house. Weasley had protested. ("He's a bloody Death Eater, Hermione! The bastard'll murder us in our sleep!") Three days later, Weasley's accusing glares stopped, hostility shifting to outright avoidance. Draco thought he saw something strange flicker in the man's eyes whenever he approached – weariness, but also an almost-not-quite sympathy.

Draco still wasn't sure how much she'd told him. Granger had never mentioned it, and he'd never asked her.

-oOoOo-

Shacklebolt had died within the month. McGonagall had lasted two. Ron Weasley had managed a record of three months before being captured by Death Eaters, held as bait to draw his family out of hiding.

He still remembered the look on Mrs. Weasley's face. A gaze so tired and dead – just like Potter's dead, dead eyes. She'd watched her children slip away one by one, until eventually she'd died too.

Throughout it all, Draco had stayed cooped up in one small room of the house, though he'd never consider it his room. He'd grip the handle of the door, wanting to go out and say something. 'You're a mother who's lost her children,' he'd think. 'I'm a man who's lost his mother.' Then he'd remember the disdainful insults he'd hurled at the Weasleys in school, and his hand would slip away from the frame. Who was he to console a family he'd helped destroy?

He was such a coward. Always such a coward.

-oOoOo-

It was the little things.

Like how he couldn't get a glass of water without his hands shaking until the liquid threatened to spill over the rim. The tremor in his legs when he'd walk up the stairs towards the Black family library, never reading with a purpose, but simply with an incessant desire to escape from this hellhole, to bury himself in learning until he'd forgotten all that he'd lost.

(He'd made sure to check each one for curses before opening it, of course. Growing up in Malfoy Manor had taught him some important lessons about messing with dark tomes.)

The Blacks' copy of Most Potente Potions was yellowed and old. This section dealt with mind-sharpening elixirs, most notably the Mentem Acuta, renowned for its ability to improve the drinker's focus and memory. Granger had walked in, silently, and began browsing through the nearby shelves. She'd pried out an arithmancy text, and without a word, sat down in the velvet armchair beside him.

They'd continued on like that, day after day, week by week. Sometimes, he wondered if she ever felt like he did, seeking knowledge to replace the emptiness, to distract himself from the pain. Had her thirst for learning ever been motivated by this hidden desire? Had she ever used her studies to hide from such unwanted thoughts and emotions, afraid that they'd otherwise eat her alive?

Eventually, she'd offer to bring him back an extra cup of tea when she went down to the kitchen, and he'd offer to find her a book when she was cross-referencing various texts. When she'd come in one morning, eyes red and bleary, he'd insisted on going down to make the pot. He'd given her the mug, and if she'd noticed the tremor in his hands as they brushed against hers, she hadn't mocked him for it.

It's a sign of strength, don't you think?" she'd asked him one day, face still buried in the tome. "The world may try to make you tremble, to break every last one of us to pieces, but we keep getting back up."

Draco had frowned. Granger had never been the same after Potter and Weasley had died – had lost that spark of life in her eyes, just like the rest. And yet he'd sensed determination in her voice, a firm resolve that she would succeed.

Succeed at what, he knew not.

"What use is it?" he'd whispered back. "When all hope has been lost?"

She'd shut the text, turning to look at him. "That's just it. If we've lost everything, then what more can be taken from us?"

-oOoOo-

Conjuration magic, governed by Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, enabled the caster to create objects out of nothing. *According to Granger, there were five exceptions: wands, money, isolated body parts, potions ingredients, and food. The last was especially notable when one was forced to go without. Though the quantity of food supplies could be increased, the magic caused its nutritive value to dilute each time.

'And no house-elf to fetch us any, either', Draco had sighed. Not that Granger would've agreed to that. He'd stared at the collection of heads lining the wall. Kreacher had become just another body from that bloody battle. And wasn't it just so sad that his head would never be mounted alongside the rest?

-oOoOo-

Their numbers had been dwindling, to go openly out in public a death sentence.

"The glamour will work," she'd insisted. "No-one will pay any attention to the elderly muggle lady buying bread and eggs from the local market."

But she hadn't just gone to the market. Instead she had come back, pale-faced and shaking, with a copy of the Daily Prophet snagged between her fingertips. Later, he would learn that the shopkeeper had left the issue on the counter as he'd gone to fetch potions ingredients from the back. Though he'd no doubt spelled his merchandise with anti-theft charms, he hadn't thought to pay mind to one insignificant newspaper.

The Death Eaters had been orchestrating attacks outside the U.K. 'Dark Lord Cleans up Muggle Trash,' the article had lauded, proudly displaying pictures of the carnage. Hundreds of mangled bodies had lined the city streets, and if two of them didn't just bare a striking resemblance to Granger…

"I obliviated them," she had sniffled, hands rubbing at her eyes. "I had to do what I could to protect them. I couldn't let them die because of me. I – "

And this time, he had held her as she sobbed.

-oOoOo-

"Knockturn Alley," Draco had stated, frowning. It wasn't a question, but rather an expression of disapproval. "How'd you steal the ingredients without being caught?"

"I didn't," she'd responded, shifting through the jars of newt eyes and snake scales. "The Blacks had quite a bit of money stored in their chambers. They couldn't keep all their gold at Gringotts. I left ample payment on the front counter."

He had scoffed. "And it was worth risking your life?"

She'd shaken her head. "There was no other choice."

-oOoOo-

"Do you think it's worth it?" he'd asked her one day, as she began tracing yet another rune from the pile of books by their feet. "To continue to live, after everyone has gone?"

She hadn't responded, which wasn't quite like her. She was always consoling others out of concern, that stupid Gryffindor sort of concern, and her sudden silence had prompted him to continue.

"What does it matter?" He'd laughed. "We're already dead, aren't we?"

Her quill had scratched ceaselessly upon the paper. Hermione – for somewhere along the line, she had become Hermione – remained expressionless. She would get like this sometimes, on the worst days, when she was trying not to remember. Draco had understood.

Then she'd looked up and smiled, such an anguished little smile, and said, "July 31, 1991. Nearly a decade after Voldemort's supposed defeat. Ironic, isn't it?"

And Potter's birthday, Draco realized. He'd hardly gotten her to talk that day, and she'd locked herself in the library all night. Draco had stayed with her, refusing to sleep. Nigh a month had passed, but Draco knew the pain wouldn't fade.

He'd sat down beside her and grasped her hand. His had felt so right in hers, and hers so right in his. Two people, broken and beaten, lost in the dank, dark, and desolate cold. And yet through that one touch – warmth.

-oOoOo-

Floating in an empty abyss – not lost, for there was nothing to find. Yet so much as life begot death, and death begot oblivion, oblivion gave rise to life. The first tendrils of thought rose within the void. They whispered, first softly, then insistently, until their cry could be ignored no longer. Darkness melded into light, and oblivion itself came to shatter.

Draco Malfoy had woken up.

Author's Notes:

*Although referenced by Hermione in the Deathly Hallows, the only specifically mentioned exception to Gamp's Law is food. Using evidence from the book, fans have speculated regarding the nature of the other four exceptions. The examples in the story are referenced from "The Harry Potter Lexicon - Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration" (web address not included due to formatting issues).

This story is mostly identical to canon up until the Final Battle, but there are some exceptions. Draco's relationship with his father is different than in the books. Many other minor details have also been tweaked (such as the death of Yaxley).