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A/N: Random little one-shot. I'm a bit obsessed with angsty!Draco at the moment. Hope you enjoy :)

He dreams of ghosts that night. It’s not unusual.

Last night it was Creevey, camera round his neck and eyes blank and staring. This had struck him as odd, he remembers. Creevey didn’t even have the camera on him when he died.

Tonight it is two children, though he doesn’t know their names. This isn’t unusual either. They were all the same to him, back then. Now he wishes he knew the names, the faces, the hopes and dreams that would never be. He feels guilty for never having cared.

They’re only children. Fifteen, no more. They were much too young to go. Gryffindors most likely. Always breaking the rules for the greater good, for their own greater glory. They thought they were making a difference, and they were gone before any difference could be made. They thought they would be willing to make the sacrifice, and now they seem surprised at the end they should have foreseen.

He remembers the bodies, row after row of them, bloody and broken and yet still warm on the floor of the Charms classroom. He wonders what they use that room for now. They wouldn’t still teach in it, surely?

He remembers standing in the door of that room, standing and staring at the horrors it presented. His mother clutching his hand and his father holding hers. She cried when she saw Bellatrix. He had looked away. Her corpse had been unblemished, her face serene with eyes still wide open. His mother had closed them because nobody else had thought to.

He wonders why Bellatrix has never come to him. He can see her as a ghost, a vengeful phantom; she has no place among those who are at peace. Yet she has never troubled him as the rest have done and do and always will. They come and stand and stare and refuse to go even as he tries to blink them away. They even speak to him, now and then.

Wormed your way out of Azkaban, did you? Rodolphus had murmured to him once. Don’t worry; they’ll be back for you soon.

Why do you fear death? There are far worse things in this world, an old man had lectured.

I should have taken pictures, Creevey had said last night. Pictures of the battle. I don’t suppose there are any, are there?

He hadn’t known what to say to that.

I’m Becky, the girl says now. I’m fifteen.

Oliver, the boy mumbles.

I’m fifteen, the girl says again. Fifteen forever.

I’m sorry, he tells them over and over and over, but they never seem to listen. What do you want from me? he begs in the silence that shadows them, but they never deign to give any reply.

They should have gone by now, shouldn’t they? Gone to wherever they’re meant to go. They should have moved on. They should be at peace and so should he.

He isn’t crying or screaming as he has done in the past, but she knows to come and she does so at once. He feels her warm embrace and he clings to her, his rock. Whenever he sinks, she is there to pull him out.

He loves her.

“Mother,” he whimpers, and only when she jerks away does he realise it must be Astoria. He wishes it wasn’t. He wishes he were home, something this place and her grasping arms will never be.

“It’s just a dream,” she whispers. She loves him enough to pretend not to be hurt. “Go to sleep, my darling.”

If he sleeps, they will return.

He closes his eyes, and he sees them clearly again.

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