Vinyl

Hermione had long grown accustomed to being the one everyone turned to for help. Her world was densely packed with tasks, books, and successes, but beneath it all lay a deep, bone-piercing exhaustion. Every morning, she mustered the strength to get up again and pretend that everything was fine. She smiled at her friends, laughed at Ron's jokes, and enthusiastically discussed spells with Harry. But in the evenings, when life at Hogwarts quieted down, an unsettling stillness would descend within her. No one saw how she lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, suffocating from her own helplessness. In moments like these, music was her solace. Old Muggle vinyl records became her small sanctuary, a lifeline. She found something real in them, something distant from magic, yet magical all the same. One composition, in particular, had burrowed its way into her soul, and without realizing it, she often hummed it—softly, her lips barely moving, as if afraid to disturb that fragile reality. Draco noticed her habit almost by accident. One gloomy afternoon, passing by the library, he heard a quiet sound. It was barely discernible, almost transparent, dissolving into fragments in the ringing silence. Her voice was unfamiliar — faint, yet enchanting, seeming to emanate from the depths of her consciousness. The melody was simple and slightly melancholic — like an echo of distant memories. "Granger, what are you muttering about?" he asked, feigning utter disdain. Hermione flinched as if torn from a distant world fenced off with barbed wire. She turned around — her face a mixture of confusion and a shadow of fear; her gaze, usually sharp and perceptive, was now empty and lifeless. "What?" she breathed out, frowning. It took a few moments for her usual defensive mask to slip back into place. Her gaze was long, exhausted, with a flicker of something he couldn't decipher. The girl gave a weak smirk and, without another word, turned away. Malfoy stood there a little longer, struck by a strange feeling. He returned to his friends, deciding it didn't matter and that he would have time to sort through these thoughts later. Yet, there was a nagging sense that he had missed something, something incredibly important. Later, he began to watch her. It wasn't entirely conscious — something compelled him to search for her gaze in the crowd, to catch her quiet humming, which had become a kind of enigma for him. He didn't know that these sounds helped her stay afloat when life became too unbearable. And he couldn't have imagined that these melodies were a silent plea for help. He noticed how her movements became slower, her gaze increasingly distant. She was there, yet at the same time, she was beyond reach, in a world of her own. And every time he heard her voice, that fragile, mournful motif, he wanted to go closer, to say something… But he didn't know what. He was used to barbs and taunts, not support. He was used to being indifferent and arrogant, but with her, that feeling involuntarily faded. "Are you alright, Granger?" he once asked in a voice that was barely his own when they accidentally bumped into each other in the corridor. She looked at him with a piercing gaze that spoke volumes, but her answer was short: "You wouldn't understand, Malfoy." Her words stung, but deep down, he knew she was right. He didn't know how to help her. Perhaps no one did. Soon, the day he would never forget arrived. He heard the news from a Gryffindor and froze on the spot. The world around him seemed to vanish, turning into a gray haze where everything sounded with a dull ringing. She was gone. She had left quietly, just as she had lived recently, leaving behind only a thin, trembling thread of memories. Her melody, her quiet, uncertain voice — that was all he had left of her. For a long time, he couldn't believe it. He constantly thought about what he had done and what he hadn't. It felt as if she had left something invisible, something elusive, yet it lingered in every moment they had ever shared. Though such moments had been painfully few. Malfoy wandered the school in those days as if lost, oblivious to his surroundings. Memories surfaced: her voice, her melody, her gaze fixed on some distant point. He knew he couldn't just let her go, couldn't just go on living as if nothing had happened. Then he remembered her favorite song, the one she always hummed, unaware that she was being heard. He decided to preserve it, not to let it disappear. Memories of her were like fragments of a melody, sounding in his head like restless souls. Draco traveled to the Muggle world to study their music, to study their vinyl records, which Hermione had cherished, in an attempt to understand how they worked. He found something symbolic in them, ancient. As eternal as her sadness. As her song. He had her ashes pressed into a vinyl record. Now he sits in his empty room, his head bowed gloomily, once again tracing his fingers over the spiral grooves. The record player was the same model as hers — what a poignant absurdity. The click of the needle — and the familiar melody poured from the speakers once more. She was with him again. Her melody — the last trace of her existence, her song — her farewell.