Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling. Despite what she and the masses believe, Draco Malfoy belongs to Hermione Granger. Please note the sarcasm and the indifference I show to others. It'll be prominent throughout the story.
Cliché
It was raining. Of course it would be. Isn't that always the case when someone who matters dies? A storming, gray day fits these funeral scenes all the time. It was so cliché.
The tall, black-cloaked character standing over a recently covered grave was also unoriginal. Soaked to the skin, he stands there in a numbing despair, just like any other person mourning a loved one's death.
He was alone too. There was no one else to see the silent tears gliding down pallid cheeks. Not a single person around to notice how he was literally shaking with his sorrow, his loss.
There is always no one around.
Dropping to his knees, he's bawling like a baby at this point, hands to his face as though trying to muffle his sounds. His body is racked with his cries. It is almost disturbing to witness such grief.
His silver eyes usually gleaming with wit, is now dulled and lifeless. A pale, trembling hand slowly made its way to the headstone, fingers lightly tracing the engraved name, a secret caress.
It was a touch full of regret and longing.
The scene is commonplace. How many lovers have lost their sweethearts to death? How many poor souls cried out their despair, just like him, when they suffer the empty space of their missing half?
It is always too many. War brings about the mortality of humans, the cruel realization that life is a bitch. How much more trite can this idea get? No one is an exception to the rule. Not even Draco Malfoy.
Fate never fails to bring about the unexpected.
Time doesn't stop. It only appears to. Gradually the tears stop, mingling with the rain drops. Sluggishly, he stands, struggling to stay upright. It must have been hours, although in his perspective, it could have been days, months, years…
He drops a single, white rose over the mound of dirt. He meant it to represent her, how she was pure, innocent of the war that took her young life. And with that he turns his back, determined not to look behind him. What a banal thought.
Purity can never remain untainted.
As he walks away, world weary, he wonders at the price he had to pay for the short time he spent with her. Was it worth it? There were those secret, forbidden meetings in empty classrooms; a few quick, sneaking kisses in dark niches in between class periods.
How her eyes sparkled at their heated banter when they were in public. And finally the sad, yet resolute look in her eyes as they parted ways at the beginning of the war. He stops abruptly at this thought, and turns his head back to glance at her name,
Hermione Jean Granger
Shaking his head, a small half-smile creeps onto his face. He briskly walked back to her grave, the smile on his face alarmingly getting bigger. Those silver eyes were alight again, madness gleaming slowly brighter.
She had always said that their parting was only temporary; that they would meet again soon, and that they would not have to hide their love anymore. What a silly, stale statement she made. It was blind, foolish optimism.
Love makes fools of us all.
He laid himself on the ground next to her grave, one arm curling around her headstone tenderly, as if it really was her. His other hand held his wand tightly, the receiving end pointed at his heart. The blinding, green light illuminated his radiant face for a moment.
It was raining. Of course it would be. Isn't that always the case when someone who matters dies? A storming, gray day fits these funeral scenes all the time. It was so…
Cliché.