Hi guys! Here's another Dramione fic - and it's also the longest oneshot I've ever written. Quite honestly, I have no idea how it turned out, even after re-reading it five times. It's very, very dark, very sad, very twisted in an odd way. It's most definitely OOC, but hopefully you'll understand the blatant rewriting of the characters at the end of the story.

Anyways, please review, especially with this story, since I am most anxious to hear what you think. Hope you all enjoy! xx

The uneven cobblestone floor had maliciously tripped her up on more than one occasion as she walked down the long, endless corridor. The dimly flickering torches hung on the walls seemed to wink at her, mocking her with their dark golden licks of light, making her shrink back and quicken her steps, which led her to almost step on the black cloak that was worn by the man in front of her.

Hermione Granger tried to conjure up the Gryffindor courage she knew she possessed, but the blackness of the corridor seemed to suck all of it out of her, not even leaving her false bravado to fall back on.

The tall man stopped at the end of the hallway, holding up a hand in a silent order for her to stop as well. They stood in front of a large black door, and she was suddenly consumed with a frantic need to escape, to run away to anywhere but here. But it was too late, she had arrived.

"Need I remind you, Miss Granger, that you are in no way to antagonize him in any sort. Nor are you to comment on his condition. You are here at his request. You are here to comfort him."

The deep baritone voice of Severus Snape held no trace of any emotion, but looking up at her former teacher, she saw a real, true concern in his black eyes, almost bordering on fear. She nodded in acknowledgment of his commands, not trusting her voice. Swallowing thickly, she wiped her sweaty palms on the front of her jeans and, with a trembling hand, opened the door.

The smell of death was the first thing her heightened senses picked up. It wasn't the actual smell of death, but an unpleasant mixture of various spices and medications swirled together in such a way that could only be described as the smell of death - or of near death, anyways.

The room was hot, heavy with a dampness that she instinctively knew people had tried to cool down to no avail. A large fireplace was roaring on the left wall, but it wasn't the cause of the warmth, the red and orange flames dancing with the blue and white ones, casting a soft, melancholic glow over the whole room. And in the middle of the room was a massive four-poster bed with silver and green sheets twisted around a body. Then the body spoke.

"Granger," Draco Malfoy whispered, "you came."

She was positively trembling at this point, overcome with remorse. Why had she come? What events had led to this point in her life?

"You got my letter, then," he added in that same weak voice as before. Oh yes, the letter. She had received his owl yesterday and had hesitantly opened the letter, half-expecting it to explode in her face. What the beige parchment had actually contained had shocked her more than any explosion could.

She had heard from Ginny that Draco Malfoy, the seemingly invincible Prince of Slytherin, was gravely ill, cooped up with the best wizard doctors in his family mansion. But that piece of news, heard over a month ago, hadn't mustered up any concern or pity for her former schooldays torturer. Though it had been two years since they had all graduated from Hogwarts, she still carried around a simmering hatred for the Malfoy heir that flared up at the mere mention of his name. So if he was sick, then hooray. A month or two of puking his guts up would do the smug bastard some good.

And then yesterday, the letter had come. The words had been written shakily, as if the writer had been unsure of what he was penning at the time. The arrangement of the words into the sentences she had read had shaken her to her very core.

He had asked, in a curt, clipped tone, if she would so kindly have an audience with him. He was quite sick, you see, and apparently wanted her to come to the Malfoy manor. The reasons he had given in asking her to come had made absolutely no sense to her, and were inconsequential now. She had actually laughed out of loud at the absurdity of his request, until she had gotten to the very end of the letter.

Please, Granger. Please.

In all the years of her knowing Draco Malfoy, she had never once heard him say please, let alone heard him say it twice in one sentence. And she had certainly never heard him beg. But here, in this letter, he was doing both.

In a moment of sudden pity, mixed with a vague concern and a piqued curiosity at what he wanted exactly with seeing her, she wrote back with her agreement. And today, two hours ago, Severus Snape had very unexpectedly appeared in the apartment she currently shared with Harry and Ron. She told no one where she was going, left no note for the boys. With no more than twenty words spoken between them, she had apparated with her former potions teacher to what she could only assume was Malfoy Manor.

"Hello, Malfoy," she finally answered, her voice sounding strange to her ears. "You looked bloody awful." Shit, why had she just said that? Snape had very clearly ordered her not to say anything about his condition. But no one was in the room other than her and Malfoy, so there wasn't a chance of being chastised for her mistake. She just hoped the boy in the bed didn't hex her for it.

Instead, he laughed, a low, throaty laugh that led to a coughing fit. She became concerned after five seconds of straight coughing, and hurried over to his bed, picking up a small blue bowl that sat on the nearby table, holding the bowl in front of his head. He spat up blood, the crimson liquid coming from his mouth horrifying her into seeing just how very, very sick he was.

"Oh, Malfoy," she sighed, her nurturing instincts taking over as she absentmindedly rubbed small circles on his back as he hacked up more blood.

"I'm fine, Granger," he snapped after finally gaining control of his coughing.

"Clearly, you're not. What's wrong?" There she went, breaking another rule that Snape had laid down for her.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said coldly, stiffening up as they both realized her contact with his bare skin.

"Why am I here then, Malfoy? You want me to play nursemaid for you?" she asked angrily, pulling her hand away from him. He didn't answer, turning his head away. She sighed heavily, running her hands through her unruly hair in exasperation.

"Fine, you git. I'll just leave then. Have a nice life, Malfoy." She got up from the bed and crossed the room, intent of getting away from this hellhole as soon as possible.

"Wait."

His plea stopped her in her tracks, the desperation in his voice evident.

"Please, just stay, Granger." She turned around and looked at him again, suddenly aware of how dull and lifeless his usually snappy gray eyes were.

"Malfoy, don't play with me, okay? Don't just - "

"I'm dying."

His blurted confession knocked the breath out of her. No. No, that simply wasn't possible. Draco-fucking-Malfoy, the boy who had tormented her, who had laughed at her, who had made her life a living hell for seven years, couldn't be dying. He couldn't.

"I'm dying, Hermione, and I need you to stay with me." His first ever usage of her given name couldn't have come at a worse time.

"Malfoy..." she began, her whisper cut off by his next sentence.

"Hermione, please, please, just stay." His voice cracked in what she could only identify as true, honest terror. She couldn't help it as the tears began to form at the corners of her eyes. A strange force began pulsating around her, a force akin to magic pushing her towards the bed again. She didn't move her feet herself, they simply moved on their own accord. And then she was sitting next to him for the second time, his gray eyes locking with her brown ones. She could see a fight raging behind his heavily lidded eyes, a war with himself over something she didn't know.

"I'm not going to last the night," he said finally, his voice shaking with both fear and exhaustion. "I accept that. I couldn't leave this god-awful world though, until I saw you one more time."

She was confused, so terribly confused. Was he going to hurl the mother of all insults at her? Was that what he wanted? One more battle of their wits?

"I love you, Granger. Fuck it all, I know I shouldn't, but I do. I have for a long time. Since Fourth Year, when you wore that amazing dress at the Yule Ball. You looked so fantastically beautiful, it hurt to look at you." He was talking so fast that she almost couldn't keep up with him. His eyes burned into hers, pleading with her to not reject him in his weakest moment. Her mind was positively whirling with so many thoughts that it was impossible to keep up with both her mind and his words.

"I love you. Hermione, I love you. I love you," he repeated again and again, whispering it with a small smile, as if it was the most wonderful thing to say. She stared at him, a rush of despair and sadness tearing through her, an excruciating pain pounding against her temples. But then the pain slowly evaporated, dissipating away, replaced with a strange warmth. There it was again, that queer magical force overtaking her, edging her closer to him.

She kissed him, the hesitant pressing of her lips against his catching him off guard, a small gasp escaping his mouth. There wasn't any hesitation on his part, for as soon as she kissed him, he pulled her down so that they were both laying on the bed, her half-on top of him. He tangled his fingers in her hair, moaning in either pain or pleasure, she couldn't tell. His cracked lips moved greedily over hers, clutching her close to him as if fearing she would suddenly vanish. He tasted of blood, that acidic coppery taste filling her mouth as he began to slowly swirl his tongue with hers. Her hands slid to his bare torso, tracing random patterns on his feverish skin.

And then he simply stopped kissing her back. She pulled away, scared that he had passed away right then and there, but was put to relief when he opened his eyes with a ragged breath.

"I can't, anymore. I'm sorry, I just..." he began gasping for air in short, shallow gulps, and she realized that he was simply too weak to continue. It had felt right, kissing him. It shouldn't have - she despised the bastard, but she couldn't have helped herself. It was almost like she had been compelled - no, she was sure she had been compelled.

Oh God, what was happening to her? She closed her eyes, only to open them when she heard a whimper. He was shivering violently, a thin sheet of perspiration covering his entire body. A horrified realization came across her - he actually was dying.

"Granger, could you...could you hold me?" he asked in a pained, scared voice. She nodded, a tear escaping her eyes. She gently gathered him in her arms, caressing his skin with her fingers. Slowly, hesitantly, she lowered her lips to his shoulder and kissed him softly. She continued down, kissing his arms, his stomach, his ribcage, his sternum, his neck, his jaw, his cheeks. He lay there motionlessly, the only exception to his stillness the shuddering of his body as silent sobs racked him. She kissed away the tears that fell from his closed eyes, her own tears falling on his flushed body, cooling the fevered skin.

She held him for an undetermined amount of time, until his breaths became almost too shallow for her to hear.

"Hermione," he murmured, not opening his eyes. "Promise you'll visit me."

A sob escaped her mouth as she clung to him, kissing his jaw gently. "I promise, Draco."

He smiled softly, and it was only then that she realized how utterly beautiful he was.

"I love you, Hermione." And with that, his final breath ended. She felt his magic fade away, his aura growing cold. She sobbed openly now, unafraid of disturbing him any longer.

She pressed a final kiss against his lips.

Hermione bolted upright in her bed, tears streaking down her face as she slowly returned from the land of dreams. She pressed a hand against her mouth to muffle the sobs that were threatening to consume her. She rocked back and forth, her knees drawn up to her chin, the sheets tangling between her legs.

"'Mione?" a sleepy voice asked. She looked down at her husband, his red hair illuminated by the moonlight that shined through the tiny opening of the curtains. "You alright, love?"

"I'm fine, Ron. Go back to sleep." She watched him smile before drifting off to sleep again. She got up, careful not to pull the sheets away from him, and padded silently downstairs. She grabbed her long overcoat from the chair on which it was slung over, shoving her feet into black boots that were two sizes too large. Making sure her wand was still in her coat pocket, she took it out, closed her eyes and apparated.

She didn't open her eyes again until she felt something cold fall on her nose. Looking up, she saw a steady fluttering of snowflakes falling down on the ground that was already blanketed with a thick covering of white. Taking a deep breath, she opened the small wrought-iron gate, sucking in sharply at the frozen metal against her bare skin.

The graveyard was silent, eerily so, as the moonlight shone down on the plot of land reserved for the departed. Her curls had already become lightly dusted with snow, and the small portions of her skin that were left uncovered were starting to grow numb, but she ignored it, walking through the frozen blades of grass until she stopped at an black alabaster gravestone, the white carved words shining unnaturally in the dark of night.

Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Other words followed after - the dates of both his birth and death, and a rather lengthy epitaph. But she only read and re-read the first line on the stone. She knelt down in the stone, tracing the name over and over again with trembling fingers.

"Oh, Draco," she whispered, her breath coming in short, frosty puffs. She muttered a spell, and a single rose grew from the tip of her wand. It was a deep, deep red, so dark that it looked almost black. She ran her fingers over the wonderfully smooth petals before laying it down on the grave.

"I hate you, you know," she muttered through tears.

No, you don't. The wind sighed through the bare branches of the trees that sparsely populated the graveyard. That familiar voice that had once so mercilessly taunted her now breathed those three words gently, caressing her ears with their deep melodious sound.

"Yes, I do," she spat out, glaring up at the sky that was darkly hooded with gray clouds. She moved her restless knees on the ground, closing her eyes against the guilt that was mounting inside.

Three years ago. That was the amount of time that had passed since Draco Malfoy had died. She had received his letter, asking, pleading, for her to come, a day before he had died.

She hadn't gone.

A half-shrieked sob ripped through her throat, leaving her with only more tears to cry. Not a month went by without that dream invading her sleep. It was always the same dream. And it always fell on the same date. The 17th. The date he had died.

She knew it was somehow his fault, that somehow he had found a way to haunt her from the grave, bombarding her mercilessly with guilt and despair. And she knew, in some sick, twisted way, that the dream she had just dreamed - the one she always dreamed - was what would have happened if she had gone, like he was showing her what the past would have been like if she had just came instead of holding her pride and staying away. But she didn't know that for a fact, did she?

She knew she would be haunted by if-only's for the rest of her life. This was just the beginning of her torment.

"Promise you'll visit me." Those words hadn't been spoken in real life, only in her dreams, but she felt compelled to uphold her imaginary promise. So she visited his grave. Every 17th of every month. She would stop coming the day the dreams stopped happening. But she knew that wouldn't happen for a very, very long time.

If only he hadn't gotten sick. If only he hadn't written that letter. If only she hadn't received it. If only she would have gone.

If only.