A/N: Long time no see, everybody! :D
I am here with a two-shot. This one is a little (okay, VERY MUCH) longer than normal. It's an entire, proper story in itself, but I felt it better to post it in two parts, rather than dividing it into a multi-chapter fic, because that would break the flow too much.
It's a bit slow towards the start, so give it a chance ^^ I hope you like! :)
Disclaimer- I don't own Harry Potter.
Grave Keeper
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As these waves crash against the highway cliffs,
I'm so scared they'll flood me where I sit,
Well, the roads, they change to waterways,
They never carry home
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Draco really fucking hates rain, not to mention that depressing, haunting aura that seems to surround the cemetery every time monsoon comes around. Teeth gritted, his fingers dig painfully into the shovel in his grip as he leans forward, ploughing the shovel into the mud with all his strength.
He must really be mental if he prefers the presence of dead people as opposed to live ones.
Wiping away soaked blonde locks from his eyes as the rain crashes down all around him, he doesn't even cringe at the squelch of mud under his shoes, staining the edges of his navy blue coveralls.
Oh, how things have changed. If it had been a year ago, he would've thrown a hissy fit over getting dirty. And now, he practically digs up mud for a living.
Digs up graves, to be exact.
"Fucking graveyard."
It's cold and he's sweating profusely, and his baggy clothes stick uncomfortably to his skin as the rain crashes down.
He stands back to regard his work. A perfect rectangular grave is around him- with him standing right in the centre, muddy water up to his waist as the rain fills it with fervour. He can see the faint glimmer of moonlight shimmering in the water in the midst of the heavy downpour.
"Great." he mutters under his breath, "I don't even know why I bother." The embers of his previous anger have rushed away, leaving behind a cooling numbness in his head that never fails to feel absolutely fantastic.
Maybe that's why he does it.
Grabbing the edges of the squelching soil of the pit, he hauls himself up, not aware of the presence of someone else- of the sounds of footsteps making their way towards him in the foggy wisps of rain. Taking a deep breath, he watches as the grave he has spent an hour digging is flooded with dirty, soapy water and rocks within a minute.
But that's okay. He wasn't doing it because a dead body had been assigned to arrive. He'd done it because it has never failed to make him feel better about the dull, calm chaos that his life has become- and now as he shrugs off his soaking shoes, panting and shivering from the bitter cold that envelops him, he feels his frustration ebb away.
And that's when he finally catches the sound of footsteps sloshing in the muddy pool on the ground and whips around, only to have a blinding white light hit him directly in the eyes.
Letting out a loud curse, he shelters his eyes, and is able to make out the silhouette of a woman standing there, against the shadows. "Who the fuck-?!"
"Malfoy?!"- the voice that gasps back is hauntingly familiar.
Squinting against the piercing light and the shower of water droplets raining down on him, he grits his teeth.
"Merlin's sake, lower your wand, Granger!" he yells over the racket the rain is making "We're in the Muggle world, and I'd like to have my vision intact."
The source of light is immediately re-directed and Malfoy blinks, purple lights dancing before his eyes as they hazily settle on the woman standing in front of him.
It really is her.
Hermione Granger.
Her bushy hair are sticking to her in dripping dark strands, and her soaked robes cling to her body, accentuating soft curves. Judging by her composure, Granger is very much alert- her wand hand outstretched, ready to be wielded if need be, but she's staring at him in bewilderment.
"Well, who would've thought there'd be a time when the Muggle would see the Pureblood covered in mud." he calls out, faintly unsure if his remark is insulting or complimentary.
She hasn't really changed much. Grown an inch or two taller, filled out her figure. Her cheeks are flushed and she looks refined- even under the cascade of rain with water dripping past her lips. She opens her mouth once again in disbelief. "Malfoy…"
He brushes sopping locks of blonde hair out of his eyes "Well, I can see cavorting with Weasley has impacted heavily on your intelligence. If you'll excuse me, I have-"
"What- what are you doing here?" her eyes dart around as thunder roars overhead, raindrops splattering on the greyish pallor of graves around them "This is a Muggle cemetery!"
"Ten points to Gryffindor."
Her lips purse against the harsh rain that courses over them, bright eyes narrowing at him. "I swear to God, Malfoy, if you're upto something funny here…"
He rolls his eyes "Look around, Granger. This is a graveyard. I'm sure the only people I can mess around with here don't have a pulse and sure as hell don't give a damn about-"
"I'm serious-" her voice is firm, stoic. Chillingly cold, like it had always been when she regarded him. Something heavy drops in his chest. "If you think that digging up graves and hiding dead bodies is a funny way of getting back at Muggles, or- or whatever this is- then I'm disgusted-"
"Oh, save it." he snaps, anger coursing through his veins "I have better things to do that go around digging up fucking dead bodies."
Well, technically he doesn't. But she doesn't need to know that.
"Then what are you doing here?" she glares.
This- this is why he's always hated her- more than because of Pureblood ideals, more than because of her annoying know-it-all qualities or her tendency to always be able to outwit him. More than anything, it's this- how she seems to give everyone a chance except him. How her eyes turn imminently cold when they focus on Draco.
This is why.
"I'm not answerable to you." He spits back. He can't feel the cold anymore. The rain around him seems to barely help, blowing and whistling by in deafening roars. Lightning strikes somewhere nearby.
"As an Auror, I have full rights to question you. And with you being on exile-"
"They have a Trace on me thanks to that, Granger." He snarls. "And you have no right over me. I'm doing nothing wrong, so unless you can prove otherwise, get the fuck off this property. What the hell are you doing here at this time anyway?"
She glares, pushing soppy strands of dark, curly hair out of fiery brown eyes, and her skin is somehow shining- eyes glittering so painfully bright in the dark fresh mildew of the background that Draco feels an aching tug at his chest.
"I'm not answerable to you either." she says defiantly.
He arches a brow "You'll find yourself terribly wrong." he stands as high as he can "You see, Granger, I manage this cemetery."
Granger blinks, shocked, and Draco savours the expression on her face, even though he knows that there really is nothing to gloat about. Merlin's sake, all he's really done is tell her he works at a stupid graveyard.
"You…what?"
"That's right. I work here." he repeats "So I'd like to know what you're doing here at nearly midnight in the middle of a storm."
Her eyes snap up to meet his. She still looks entirely too shocked to be able to say anything, but when she notices his glare, her lips thin into a scowl.
"Never mind." she forces, teeth gritted "I'll be back when you're not there."
He laughs. That's not possible. He's always there.
He watches her spin around and stalk away and releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, the agitation still fresh in his chest. His clothes are soaking, sticking to his chest, rivulets of water chilling as they stream down the contours of his muscles, but he barely feels anything.
Turning around only to find the grave he'd dug up flooded with muddy rainwater, he sighs and walks to the shed, grabbing a bucket and beginning the hour long process of emptying it out.
By the time he's done, there's rainwater in his eyes, his anger is gone, replaced by bone-cracking exhaustion and the sound of the rain beating against his body, as he slowly makes his way back to his cottage.
Flitting through the damp grass, Draco's eyes catch the faint hint of smoke rising in the air, and the glow of a cigarette. He groans.
"Really?!" he calls out "How many times have I told you not to smoke near my place, Harold?"
The scruffy, square-jawed man cooped up against Draco's front door, safely under the protection of his porch, grunts and takes a long drag from his cigarette "It's my ruddy cemetery too. Ge' used to it."
Draco looks at the man and shakes his head. He wishes maybe he wouldn't care, but ever since the war; there have only been a handful of people he's acquainted himself with- and oddly, he's made a point to care about each and every one of them. It's probably not that hard, since Harold and Amelia are really the only ones on that list.
Well, the only live ones anyway.
Draco's mind goes back to Granger and he scowls. He still doesn't understand why he's so bothered by it all- but there's a certain apprehension at the back of his mind that maybe Granger might tell everyone about where he is. He has more or less come to terms with his past and his present, but not so much that he will willingly let himself be made fun of by Granger and her two minions.
"Ya look stressed." Harold is gently blowing a puff of smoke in the humid air "More than usual."
Draco sits down next to him "I…met a classmate back from school."
"Lemme guess- he wasn't exactly impressed by your current job?"
"She, actually. And no- I could care less about what my classmates think of me." Probably because he's been called worse, and done worse "I used to bully her in school. It was not exactly a welcome reunion."
Harold lets out a bark of laughter. "A girl, eh? Used to pull her pigtails?! Call her ugly?!" Harold wiggles his eyebrows.
Draco gives him a dirty look "She would be so lucky if she ever managed to get those mane of her hair into pigtails. And she was ugly."
No, she wasn't. She never was. Liar.
The glint in Harold's brilliant blue eyes is all too knowing as he grins, one gold tooth in the corner of his mouth shining "And how's she look now?"
Draco's insides clench as his mind travels back to Granger at the cemetery earlier. She'd had her wand pointed at Draco, and her eyes had been bright- flashing brilliantly- and the rainwater gushing all around them had turned the soft angles of her face painfully harsh and attractive, the line of her lips a sharp, precise cut.
Wet and dangerous was definitely a very good look on her.
Draco folds his arms on top his knees and buries his face in them "Not that bad." His voice is muffled.
When Harold offers the cigarette to him, Draco glowers "I'm not smoking."
"Aah, come on, kid! You're one step away from being a depressed, lovelorn cliche! One drag won't hurt!"
"No, and I am not lovelorn! And you need to quit."
Draco has known Harold ever since he started working at the cemetery. The old man is the other gravekeeper, but unlike Draco, his liking for digging graves and spending time planting flowers on gravestones is considerably limited. Draco can't really blame him.
Draco has never really questioned Harold about anything. He likes the man for who he is- careless, indifferent and witty- with his occasional moments of philosophical advices. He's never uttered a single word, or inquired Draco about his life, and it's a change Draco welcomes.
"I got nobody to stop it for." Harold answers, sitting back and watching the rain. Draco can feel the wet and chilling discomfort of his sticky- soaking clothes, but says nothing "My wife's dead, my daughter's married and off and forgotten about 'er old man, and I work at a cemetery. And you wan' me to stop smoking." he laughs bitterly and takes a long puff.
Draco's lips thin.
"Smoking isn't going to make all of that go away." Draco refuses to feel sympathy for Harold, especially when he knows his life hasn't been any better. He isn't smoking, or drowning away his sorrows in alcohol.
No, you're just hiding in a cemetery and digging graves instead.
"When did I say it is?" Harold is saying, glancing sideways at Draco, amused. He claps him on the back "Remember one thing, boy, when you've lost everythin' you caredfor, you do whatever the fuck you like doin'. Get drunk and knock something out, wear coconut dresses and learn to play the banjo- it's too bloody pointless to put restraints on yourself when you've got nothing left for you without it."
Draco doesn't think he can say anything, partly because he doesn't know what the hell Harold is going on about. Maybe he's drunk again.
But mostly, because Draco has never really felt the urge to do anything that might ever allow him to put a restrain on it.
How do you restrain yourself from doing something you like, when you don't really have anything you like anymore anyway?
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Draco is tending to the grave of a certain Susan Yewborn the next time Granger decides to pay a visit.
The sun is shining, glowing the cemetery up and the sunlight making the gravestone sparkle as Draco kneels down. The glaring afternoon is a nice change of scenery from the torrents of rain of the past few days, although Draco finds himself hopelessly missing the airy evenings that filled out the graveyard. Afternoons like these make the graveyard look hauntingly bright and cheerful, and it's just…wrong.
There's just something about the cemetery that soothes him. That flickering sense of satisfaction that he's in a place where people will not judge, where he can take care of them endlessly without anyone seeing, without anyone there to put his guard up in front of.
The grave of Susan Yewborn- however- is a little bit more personal than that. Draco knows Susan's daughter- Amelia. Such a tiny thing, with a bouncy blonde ponytail and an annoyingly evergreen smile. She comes to visit her mother's gravestone with her father every other week or so. She had personally and bravely walked up to Draco a few months back and demanded he plant lilies around her mother's grave, because 'my mum likes them lilies very much, sir'. She'd had that fierce glint in her eyes that assured him she could be a very dangerous ten-year old if need be.
If she had been a witch, there would've been no doubt she'd have been a Gryffindor.
Draco's eyes soften as his hands pet the soil around the lilies he's freshly planted there. A bright yellow one is swooping, bending over just above Susan's gravestone.
He shifts, when there is the familiar prickling sensation of someone watching him. He turns to find Granger standing a few feet away, watching his moves suspiciously.
"Can I help you with something, Granger?"
"You're…" her voice sounds painfully constricted, as if her confusion is physically hurting her "…You're planting lilies."
"You know, Granger, one of these days I'm going to present you the Great Observation Award."
She scowls, but says nothing. Grabbing his toolbox and the mug of water lying next to him, Draco gets up with a sigh and begins to walk away. He's half-way to the shed when her voice stops him dead in his tracks.
"Do you do that for every grave?"
He gestures his head to the side to indicate that yes, and he is indeed listening, but is waiting for her to get to the fucking point.
"Plant flowers, I mean?"
He turns, something fiercely protective washing over his chest. These are his gravestones, his people. This is his cemetery, and he damn well takes very good care of it, thank you very much!
"Look around. Does the variety of flowers give you any hint, Granger?" he says unpleasantly. She still has that uncertain expression on her face as her eyes dart around; and it's with a horrible aching feeling that Draco looks at her.
She looks healthy- pink flush to her cheeks, hair as bushy as always and those robes flowing down her body as gracelessly as ever. And yet, there's something just unconditionally beautiful about her.
She looks alive- like she has managed to live again after the War.
Of course she has, he thinks bitterly. With that ginger oaf, nonetheless.
He's jealous.
He's so jealous.
"I was just asking, you know." she snaps "You don't have to get defensive every time I ask a simple-"
"I'll decide when I have to get defensive. And I will get bloody defensive because whatever I'm doing here is none of your fucking-"
"I was just curious! Honestly, I don't even know what I'm supposed to have done to get you so angry all the time!"
His fists clench painfully.
He knows.
He knows exactly what she's done.
Vivid images of his sixth year flash in the back of his mind and he thinks of that particular stupid potion- brewing there and looking all fucking innocent when Slughorn had shown it to the class.
When Granger had blushed as she'd rambled on about what she could smell.
And Draco's utter horror when he had caught a whiff of the potion and recognised whose scent he could smell.
He looks back at Granger's frustrated face and glares "I don't care what you do, but leave me the hell alone. I think it's pretty obvious that what I'm doing here in the Muggle world is far from dangerous. Asking me about flowers and graves is not going to-"
"I didn't ask you because I was suspicious, for Christ's sake!" The brightness in her eyes make him pause, and Granger halts, taking a deep breath "I was going to ask you for a favour, but you just cannot help be an indignant prat!" her voice is sharp and strong and threateningly vicious- something that just seems to exclude the immense power he knows she's capable of. "It's not Hogwarts anymore, Malfoy."
"I think it's pretty obvious it's not Hogwarts." he gestures to the cemetery all around him "Honestly, Granger, you're getting really close to winning that award." Sneering, he shifts against the sodden mud, trying to look as authoritative as he can in his fading gravekeeper coveralls.
He finds these clothes oddly soothing too.
Fuck him, maybe he really has gone mad.
"So?" he asks "What can I do for the great Muggleborn?"
She blinks up at him "What?"
"The bloody favour, Granger! Merlin, what has Weasley done to your IQ level?!"
She glares at him through flushed cheeks, but says nothing, shuffling her feet. All of a sudden, she looks extremely bashful. Draco wonders what exactly this 'favour' is.
"Marigolds." she murmurs, and he has to strain his ears to listen to her.
"Marigolds what?"
"Marigolds, Malfoy." she's says, voice louder this time. "I'd appreciate it if you could plant them in the graves of..." she hesitates, and looks up to meet his eyes "-of..um…Monica and Wendell Wilkins."
Draco freezes.
Monica and Wendell Wilkins.
Those are the names of the only two gravestones in the corner of the cemetery that remain isolated and unvisited. Nobody had turned up for their funeral, except for the neighbours and the priest. Draco remembers feeling disgusted at the couple's family for not even bothering to turn up, and then thinking that maybe they'd had no family.
"Friends of yours?" he asks cautiously.
Granger looks up at him, and her eyes cloud "Family, actually."
And there it is- that stab of disgust. He cannot believe it, but there it is.
Maybe the Golden Girl of Gryffindor has some skeletons of her own in her closet.
"Really now?" he asks, expression turning bitter "Very nice of you to turn up a year after their deaths, Granger."
"What-"
"You know, I would've never pegged you as the kind to forget family in the midst of accolades and fame." -and he truly means it, as he slowly begins to ascend towards her "-But it looks like I don't know you that much after all. All that Gryffindor loyalty…"
"Malfoy, don't-" She looks dangerous, her hands fisting around her wand, but Draco feels too angry to care. He's not going to pass up this opportunity to give her a piece of his mind.
"...Clearly, I was wrong. I honestly thought you were better than that, Granger." he continues to close in on her, not stopping until he's a breath away from her lips, loathing emanating from him.
And the heat pooling his insides at being in such close proximity with her, the sharp pang that clenches and twists into his chest when he looks directly in her eyes makes him hate her even more.
Her eyes are sharp- no longer their warm chocolate brown- no, they're piercingly bright and lethal, and he feels a great deal of satisfaction knowing he's the reason for it.
"Don't talk about things you don't know, Malfoy."
"Why not?" he sneers into her face "Not that open when it comes to your own secrets, are you? Weasley and Potter- I wouldn't even bother, but you…? No, you had brains, Granger. What happened to you?"
There's a swish and a flash, the tearing of robes and a sharp, bone-splitting pain in Draco's arms as he's violently thrown back.
Granger has her wand whipped out and pointed at him, shaking in barely-controlled fury. There's the warm, sticky recognition of blood as he clutches his arm, teeth gritted, looking up at her from where he is sprawled on the ground.
In that moment, as Granger looks down at him, she's terrifying.
He chuckles bitterly, clutching his stinging arm, "Hit a nerve there, did I? Honestly-"
"Their names were Philip and Wendy Granger." She spits at him.
Draco goes numb. Granger's voice is low. Threatening. In the aftermath of the slowly setting sun, her hair cloud over her eyes as she talks, nearing him. "-And they don't remember me because I Obliviated them during the War. I like to believe I did the right thing, and allowed them to live a happy life as much as they could…"
Draco shifts uncomfortably. He'd heard Monica and Wendell Wilkins had died in a car crash.
He eyes the heat emanating from Granger's stiff posture above him, the shadow over her eyes and for a minute, his heart melts and he allows the sobering guilt to burn into his chest, spitting and aching and hurting.
He's horrible, he knows.
"…So don't you dare blame me." Granger's eyes are bright and she's shaking "If there is anyone who would know what it feels like to be forced to do something in order to protect their family, I imagine it'd be you, Malfoy."
He cringes.
Well, she definitely knows exactly what to say so that it hurts.
And with another swish of her robes, she's gone.
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"Marigolds?" Amelia is scrunching up her nose in disgust "You hate marigolds."
"I know." Draco huffs, opening his hands so that she can hand him the delicate flowers, wrapped up in a plastic full of soil. He's careful- he doesn't want to mess this up. "They smell f- very horrid."
Amelia giggles "I know what you were going to say, you know. Daddy uses that word when he gets angry at his clients." her brow furrows in confusion, as she looks at the marigolds in Draco's palms "-But you're still planting them."
"Yes. Yes, I am." Draco mutters, patting the soil and allowing Amelia to give it a motherly pat.
"Why?" she asks. Her long blonde hair swish past her and fall in front of her eyes as she gives the newly planted flower a tender look, and Draco finds himself grinning uncharacteristically.
He looks up at the two gravestones- Monica and Wendell Wilkins- and the marigolds that are bordering therm prettily.
"Their daughter wanted me to plant them." he replies, "Just like you."
Amelia's eyes widen as her gaze shifts to the gravestone "Oh! Does she come here often?! Maybe I can talk to her!"
"I suppose." Draco stands up, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment in his veins. He looks down at Amelia "Want to come over for tea?"
She nods wordlessly, and he leads the way, locking eyes with her father, who is kneeling before his wife's grave. He nods at him and Draco nods back. It feels nice to know that somebody trusts you with the most precious thing in their life. His hand comes down to protectively hover behind Amelia as she skips puddles.
Tea in the evening at Draco's cosy little place has become sort of a routine for him and Amelia. Draco had been taken by her feisty personality, and after a particularly bone-crunching hug, and several heartfelt days when he had just sat there next to the little girl, watching her sniff in front of her mother's grave and cuddle closer to his warmth- he has fiercely guarded Amelia ever since.
"This girl- the Marigold girl." Amelia is saying thoughtfully as they edge towards the corner of the land, where there is a light clearing and a small cottage hidden comfortably behind the bend of trees and leaves "How old is she? Can I come play with her sometime?"
Draco's lips twitches "I think she's too old for that. But I bet she'd like to talk to you." he smiles at Amelia, relishing the feeling of being completely unguarded "I supposed you can help her out"
She nods happily, skipping "I can. Just like you helped me."
Draco falters, and is hopelessly touched, when there's a squeal as Amelia jumps onto a particularly large puddle, spraying mud and water everywhere.
"Mia!" He spits out water, spluttering and watching her tiny form double over as she clutches her stomach and laughs at him.
It's been a while since he's seen someone laugh. He likes it.
Even more so when he's the reason for it.
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.
.
It's another month before Granger visits again, and Draco makes sure he's out of her way and doesn't intrude, tending to raking the leaves.
Autumn has arrived, filling the vast estate with shades of crisp orange and red, and he silently works. He wonders when he stopped caring about Granger watching him work at the cemetery. Maybe all the world's embarrassment he feels due to her watching can never quite match to up to the humiliation he faced back in the Wizarding World, and he's finally found it in himself to not give a fuck.
He's never known manual labour could be so satisfying. Especially when his insides are squirming. He's very much aware of the fact that Granger is currently present in front of her parent's grave, and that she's noticed the marigolds.
Panting and brushing platinum locks away from his eyes, he sets his sweep down, and surveys the place.
Not bad. Well tended to.
Satisfied, he begins to make his way towards the end where his cottage is. Making a cup of coffee and hiding in there until Granger leaves feels like a delightful option. It's not about the fact that he's scared of her, but rather that he's not really good with awkward confrontations. Not with her.
Feeling the breeze flow through his hair, he turns around, beginning to walk away.
"Malfoy."
Stopping in his tracks, he doesn't know how exactly to reply. So he turns with a painfully casual look.
"Granger."
She's flushed, and fidgeting with her robes, and Draco can't keep his eyes away.
Brilliantly stark against the reds and oranges all around them, Granger is wearing a soft dark blue T-shirt underneath a faded jean jacket, and tight black jeans- and he's long given in to his growing familiarity with Muggle clothes. Her hair is open- brown and short, brushing past her shoulders in waves. She looks smart and crisp and good. Definitely good.
"Thank you."
She sounds honest enough, so he nods and turns again, when-
"And…uhm…I'm sorry."
Blinking, he turns to face her again "…For what exactly?"
"For shouting." she squirms, biting her lower lip. He's always liked it when she did that, even back at Hogwarts "And…erm...hexing you."
Malfoy scowls. He remembers how long it took him to bandage that arm, because it wouldn't fucking stop bleeding. And of course, on account of being sent on exile, his wand and inheritance had been confiscated. So two fucking weeks of agonising pain really wasn't something he liked reminiscing over.
"That really wasn't very nice. What kind of a bloody hex was that, Granger?" He'd never seen anything like that before.
She shrugs "Nothing too dangerous. Just slows your blood from clotting."
"Just-?!" he stares at her in disbelief "What the fuck, Granger, I could've bled to death!"
She rolls her eyes "Oh, don't be dramatic. It doesn't prevent it altogether, just slows down the process. It would've eventually healed. It just would be really painful. And er…messy."
He glares at her "And that sounds so pleasant, doesn't it?!"
Honestly, this woman is mad. Voldemort hadn't stood a chance. With her and her two mental friends, he was better off dead.
"You deserved it. Don't expect an apology for that. I just apologised for behaving rashly."
"You Gryffindors are known for that." he mutters "And I'm not asking for an apology."
She blinks at him in surprise. He supposed he's finally rendered her speechless. Ha!
"Okay…then…we're fine, aren't we?"
He wants to laugh. There is no 'we'.
"Whatever you call this-" he gestures between her and him "- I assure you it couldn't have gone more peacefully."
"Okay. Good. Yes, and-" she nods "-thanks once again."
He nods back, and as he turns to return to that cup of coffee, he pauses, wondering if he should ask her to join him.
The urge to ask is there…right there…
Maybe it's just the fact that he's been lonely for so long, he doesn't know, or maybe that this is the one chance he has- when he can feel his heart racing, the pain and the reality, and the burden of her gaze falling on his back.
"Hey Granger?"
She looks up, and he can feel that innocence in her eyes. The curiosity, the gentleness, the strength- and he doesn't really deserve her. She's too nice.
"Yes?"
"Don't hex me ever again."
She looks at him, confused, and he sets his lips in a thin line to make sure he doesn't look as unsettled as he feels.
"I won't." she replies "Don't give me a reason to."
He doesn't plan on.
.
.
.
"Why don't you wear gloves?"
Draco grits his teeth. It's five in the evening, and the entire cemetery is covered with snow. Donning his usual grey overalls, brushing damp crusts of ice chips off his bare, red hands, Draco works silently. He can feel Granger behind him, peeking curiously over his shoulder. He's not wearing any sweater, just black hiking boots and a cap pulled over his ear.
"Your hands will thaw, you know."
He doesn't reply. He likes the cold. He doesn't mind.
"How will you feel then?" she rambles on "When you get frostbite, and your hands freeze and turn into sculptures and then break into pieces when you try to move them or hold something? Like plaster of paris?"
He cringes. "Remind me why you're here again?"
"Why are you here?"
"Because I work here, Granger."
"But why? You could've gotten any job." she looks around, and shudders "Frankly, it's a bit creepy, the amount of time you spend here among dead bodies."
"That's my business, and I don't mind."
There is silence, and Draco thinks about how much has changed over the past couple of weeks. Granger visits more often now, and is annoying every time.
But oddly endearing.
Well, sometimes.
"Okay…at least wear gloves."
"No, dammit! I like the cold and I'm fine the way it is!"
The snows melts, chipping and icing away in his numbing grip as he sighs, sniffing and trying to regain a sense of warmth within his body. He doesn't know why he likes the cold.
Maybe because it always manages to numb everything else. Manages to help him feel less. Less pain. Less lonely. Less guilty. Less everything.
"I can see that." she says, not in the least bit effected by his shouting, looking thoughtful. "Everything about you is cold actually. Your personality, your features, your eyes-"
He looks at her flatly. "Does this conversation have a point?"
"What I'm trying to say is that you need to get warm." Granger says teasingly, and castes a side-long glance at him, eyes knowing. And all of a sudden, he doesn't really feel cold anymore. He still can't get enough of that high he feels whenever he sees the familiarity and ease with which she is now beginning to regard him. She even smiles. Almost.
Sometimes.
"I don't. I'm fine being cold." he doesn't know what they're talking about anymore- the weather, or his personality. He doesn't really care.
"Fine. Be difficult."
"I'm not being difficult. I'm being exactly the way I should be," - and that is true, because in this universe, in this life, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger aren't supposed to be close. They aren't even supposed to be civil to each other. Everything is supposed to be balanced. Even. Fair.
Draco can feel Granger's gaze on him, and he forces himself to continue working, relishing the slight crunch and crackle of ice chips and broken tree branches under his fingers as he works.
It's the grave of a Charles Wicklebrow- died too young, a soldier in a war. His ex-fiancé visits every month on the first Tuesday, and sits there and reads a chapter from a Muggle book- A Christmas Carol- out loud to his stone. Draco has never asked, but has bought the book and is halfway through it himself. It's amazing the kinds of things you get to see in graveyards. Muggles- Draco realises- are strange in the way they express their grief.
"You're confusing, you know."
He blinks, brought back to the world by the honeyed gaze of Granger, who is looking at him with a calm expression.
"Excuse me?"
"You're confusing." she repeats "I mean- yes, you were sent on exile and your wand was taken away. But it doesn't mean you had to go get a job at a cemetery-"
"How many times do I have to tell you that my job is not up for discussion, Granger-"
"No, I mean it!" she presses on "You take such good care of this place! As if it's your property. It's-"
"-Unhealthy. Creepy. Alarming," he rants on, feeling the pathetic shame and anger seep in again. What good is he, taking care of people, who are long gone? "Yes, I've been told-"
"I was going to say understandable." -her reply is so surprising Draco stares up to lock eyes with her, stunned.
Understandable? Maybe she's mad as well.
"Unhealthy and creepy, yes, but understandable too. Most people wouldn't see the point of this, but I think I do." her gaze shifts thoughtfully to survey the entire estate. Draco thinks winter is a beautiful time to be at the cemetery.
He cringes.
Maybe he is mad.
"Once a person passes away, you don't really have anyone to make sure they're okay, do you? To make sure their memory stands intact?" Granger is continuing her ramble, but Draco isn't really listening, steel grey eyes looking down at his red, frozen palms instead.
It's December; in another month, his exile will be over. His wand will be given back to him, his Gringotts vault will be activated. He will be able to enter the Wizarding World once again.
Oddly enough, after almost a year spending his life without magic, he isn't that tempted to come back to it. Draco cannot remember the feeling of having magic surge through his fingertips to his wand- and he cannot bring himself to miss it. He looks around at the graveyard, with it's empty stark tree branches and white snow curtained over the entire land, and he feels that painful pang in his chest.
Everything is so much simpler here. It's been his home for so long- Charles Wicklebrow, Susan Yewborn, Monica and Wendell Wilkins- and the hundreds of other gravestones.
They've become close in a way nobody has ever been close to him.
The warm body next to him shifts and he feels a hand grip his arm. He looks down to see Granger looking up at him, her eyes darker and calmer than he ever remembers them being. He can feel his heart thudding fast; the blood rushing in his head, but he can't pull away.
How odd- he thinks- to have been torn away from the Wizarding world, only to meet her here.
"Thinking?" she asks quietly, her warm breath falling on his face. He shivers.
"Something like that."
"What about?"
His hands wrap around the spade as he turns around going back to work, teeth gritted.
"About how you're one of the only human company I've ever had in this place." he says, disgruntled, giving her a annoyed look. She really can't stay out of anyone's business, can she?
She doesn't say anything, expect for blink in surprise and then lean forward, her voice curious "'One of the only'?" she quotes, surprised "Someone else comes here to meet you?"
Draco thinks of Amelia, and bites his lip to stop himself from smirking "Something like that."
"Draco!"
Talk of the devil.
The two look up on cue, and Draco's features soften as he catchers the tiny figure of Amelia Newborn flitting through the snow, running up to him. She's covered in a thick woollen jacket that is covering more than half of her small body. Mr. Newborn is smiling as he walks slowly behind her, hands clutching the usual bouquet of daisies.
"That would be her." Draco nods to Granger "Her name's Amel- oof!" he's cut off as the girl throws herself at him and he's knocked back into the cold snow.
Finding that ridiculous grin curve his lips, he wraps both arms around her, and nods to Granger, who looks bewildered. He likes her that way- it's not everyday you get to shock the shit out of the bushy-haired know-it-all.
"Oh, it took so late to come today! Daddy said that it's really cold and that I had to wear mittens, but I hate them, and they were in such a horrible shade of green that I- oh!" Amelia shuts up, cheeks going pink as she pulls back from Draco's arms to find Granger staring down at her. She presses herself close into Draco's arms.
Granger breaks into a kind smile, lending out a hand to Amelia. "Hello, I don't believe we've met before. I'm Hermione Granger."
Amelia perks up "Oh, you're the Marigold Lady!"
Granger look on in confusion, and then glances at Draco, who's watching the exchange, still lying on his back on the snow supported by his elbows "I see Draco's talked about me, then?"
Amelia nods fervently "I helped him plant those marigolds." she says proudly, standing up to her full height "It was a really good choice, Miss Granger."
Hermione quirks a brow "A good choice, huh? You think?"
The little girl nods, eyes bright and sparkling "Marigolds are put on the alters on the Day of the Dead, you know. They say that their scent guide the spirits of the dead back to theirfamilies on that day. I bet knowing that your parents' are always here for you will help you feel happy. It helps make me happy."
Under Granger's bewildered, shell-shocked expression, Amelia flushes and Draco fights the urge to laugh. He's having a surprising amount of fun watching this.
"Sorry." Amelia muttered, squirming, her right arm comfortably looped around Draco's neck. She sinks into him a little, pressing her face against his neck, comforted "Daddy says sometimes I butt in people's private business too much."
"No, no, it's alright, I just- I didn't think you'd know that." Granger cocks her head to the side "You're very smart."
And the exhilarated look on the girl's face is back. She leaps from Draco's arms, dragging Granger away, chattering at twenty words per second as she leads the older woman to Draco's cottage without so much as asking for his permission.
And Draco just lays there, in awe.
.
.
.
"I never took you to be the children type."
Draco groans- trust Granger not to say one word about his cottage or anything- and get straight to the point.
"I'm not."
The sun is setting, and Amelia has long since left with her father, leaving Draco alone at his place with Granger.
He'd always known Granger for her compassion and tenderness- but to witness it right before him when she had talked to Amelia had been an entirely different experience. He'd watched Granger loop her arms around Amelia and pull her into her lap, soothingly telling her stories about her childhood- stories that fascinated even him, that made him want to go, step forward and sneak a little bit closer to her and listen in.
Granger now settles herself on the wooden chair in the centre of the cottage that overlooks the back verandah.
"Then what was that with Mia today?"
He shrugs, walking back with two mugs of coffee. "She came up to me a few months back, demanding I put lilies on her mother's grave. I couldn't say no."
Granger's lips lift up "Went soft, did you?"
"No." he scowls "It's my job- I'm the grave keeper. I'm supposed to take care of the graves."
"Ah, right." she smirks into her mug, taking a sip. She makes a face. "Do you add any sugar at all?"
"You're welcome for the coffee." he says dryly, gesturing towards the kitchen "Help yourself."
She gets up and makes her way to the counter, looking around, taking in the sparse furniture, eyes alight.
Draco studies her. Granger looks like she always had in school- ready and eager to take new information in, and its slightly amusing, considering he's the subject. It's also slightly mad, but then, he's resolved to not take note of that anymore. He works at a cemetery, and Hermione Granger is in his house. Surely, it can't get any madder than that.
"So….this is where you live." Granger says conversationally, her eyes drinking in the polished wood that surrounds her. His place is small, but it's remarkably well kept.
"Yes."
"It's beautiful." she murmurs "Not something I would've imagined Draco Malfoy living in."
Draco lifts a brow, and wordlessly takes a sip of his coffee. To be honest, he wouldn't have imagined it either.
She laughs quietly. "Who would've known a place inside a cemetery could feel so calming. "
"On the contrary, isn't that what a cemetery is for?" he says, looking up "For people to rest in peace?"
She looks at him in confusion, and her eyes are intense, and he can't look at her anymore. He looks away, taking a huge gulp of his coffee and childishly hiding his face behind his mug.
Truth is, this graveyard has been his escape from the past year. Everything about it is strangely comforting and mind-numbing- the sound of the whistling wind, the comforting crackle of the fire during chilly nights, the overview of the stream. His nightmares don't haunt him as much- and if they do, there's no one around for miles to hear him scream.
"Enough about me." he says "What about you, Granger? I'd imagine you'd have better things to do than visit people in graveyards."
At her silence, he adds "I can't fathom why you're bothering yourself here talking to me."
She gives him a funny look as she walks back to join him in the living room, stirring her coffee steadily "You've changed. You dig graves now, and you're friends with children-"
"-It's one kid-"
"-And I can't- you seem so happy with your life." she lets out a laugh, and it's minute later that he realises she sounds bitter.
"Happy?" He wants to say that he really isn't- that happiness is something so foreign to him that he cannot even dream about what exactly being happy would feel like, but something about her expression makes him pause.
"-And I can't think of one reason why you should be." she continues, not aware of the stunned look he's giving her. She's rambling "And here I am- with everything I could've ever dreamt of, and I'm- I'm-"
He knows that feeling well. He's been living with it for quite some time now, and he's made peace with it. He looks down at his coffee mug, waiting for her to continue.
"-and I'm just…" she sounds exhausted "It's so stupid. Everybody's out there building their lives, and I don't even understand how we began to have these roles, but all of a sudden, Harry's the answer to everybody's problems! And Ron's the charming, goofy hero who you can always count on, and I'm the- the bookworm." she spits angrily. Draco's surprised she can contain so much loathing. "The Brightest Witch of our Age', and yes, I'm honoured- but honestly?! Who gave us such titles? We're nothing of the sorts- we're just three ordinary people!"
"Three ordinary people, who defeated the Darkest Lord of all times?" Draco asks dryly.
She gives him a dark look "Yes, fine, we're brighter than most, but we're not Gods!"
"Weasel? Brighter than most?" Draco scoffs "Please."
She glares at him, flushed. But then her lips lift and she laughs, rubbing a palm over her face and shaking her head, smiling. She's smiling, and it's absolutely amazing, and Draco can feel his chest constrict.
"And then I find you here, in a Muggle cemetery-" she looks into his eyes, and it's exhilarating "-and you looked so much better, so calmer than I've ever seen you. And I just had to know how. How you managed to find it even after everything that happened."
Draco snorts. She's sugar-coating it, making it sound so much more romantic than it is in actuality. Why is he not surprised?
"Has it ever occurred to you that I didn't have a choice, Granger? That I had to do all this because I knew I was the only one who gave a flying fuck about myself?" he shifts closer to the fire, and inadvertently closer to her "It's not as poetic as you make it sound. I take care of dead bodies, and that's all there is to it."
She clucks her tongue and shakes her head, looking out into the rain. "Do you like it in here?"
He takes a deep breath. Does he? And why the fuck is he having this conversation with Hermione Granger, of all people?
He sighs "Yes, I do."
"Will you continue living here?"
He looks at her in confusion "Where else am I going to go?"
"Your court hearing is on January 4th. Your exile gets over on that day." she blinks at him in surprise "Don't tell me you forgot."
No, he hasn't. But he is surprised she remembers.
"I haven't." He looks around his place "But I don't think I want to leave."
"What? Why?!"
"I find this graveyard oddly enticing."
"Draco, this isn't the time for jokes. I'm serious."
So is he.
Maybe.
He cannot remember when she started calling him by his given name.
He shifts. "Look Granger, I appreciate the concern, but I doubt the Wizarding World will be welcoming me back with open arms-"
"So what? You're can't hide forever in-"
"And I don't have any qualifications for a job-"
"The Ministry is responsible for employment for all-"
"The Ministry will not be interfering with my life after my release." Draco snaps icily.
Granger looks at him, and then nods "Of course not, but they will provide employment options for you. It's your prerogative. They can't expect you to saunter into the Wizarding World after a one-year exile and land a job all on your-"
"Dammit, Granger, I don't have anyone over there" he snaps, getting to his feet "There's no reason for me to go and build a life there when I have a perfectly good one here-"
"Good?" she looks exasperated, standing up herself and gesturing wildly around them "-You call this good?! You live in a cemetery, Draco! I know you're guilty, alright? I know that you- you feel like you owe Muggles this-"
"Don't you dare even begin to think you know how I feel-"
"-But you can't continue isolating yourself from the rest of the world!"
He gives her a cold look "And what makes you think you have any say in what I do with my life?"
Granger hesitates, and Draco's eyes darken. "Just because you've come here and visited me for a few weeks- just because you know where I work and have talked to me a few times, you think you know enough to tell me what to do? Or to understand why I do what I do?"
"I'm not going to pretend to understand what you're going through. I never have." Eyes solemn, Granger looks at him with such professionalism that it hurts. She looks so sure of herself all of a sudden, as if his cold words have done nothing to her, and he feels compelled to stare. She looks far too attractive from him to look away, and her scent is getting to him- that warm hint of cinnamon hovering and drinking in his senses in the warmth of the fire as he glares at her bright eyes, the sudden power that surrounds her.
He sits back down, shifting in his chair and wincing. He hates her for doing this to him. He always has.
"I care." she says softly, and the two words tug at his heart "You've become such a nice person- and I want other people to see that! See that you're more than the spoilt brat who called me a Mudblood, more than just the mistakes you made."
He glares, fists clenching "They were not mistakes, they were decisions. Tough decisions to make, yes, but well thought-out nonetheless- and I would make them all over again if I have to. Just like you would erase your parents' memories all over again if you had to."
Granger is staring, and Draco knows she's probably disgusted with him, but it doesn't matter. He means it. He would make the same decisions.
"You could've come to Dumbledore. Asked for help. There was another way. He would've tried his best to protect you. "
She sounds like she's accusing him. He doesn't know when she got the power to hurt him again, but it feels like she's always had it.
"Trying wouldn't have been good enough for my family." he says tightly "When Voldemort is living in your house, and there are Death Eaters who have access to everything you touch and eat and drink, 'trying' is not good enough."
Granger flushes "But you're more than that now."
He rolls his eyes. "I'm not a fucking angel. And I have no intention of going to the Wizarding World to prove myself. People can think whatever they want of me."
Draco can't help but realise how much he doesn't mean that at all. Granger is scowling at him, ready to pull her hair out in frustration.
"Fine." she snaps, "You do know I'm not going to stop visiting you though, don't you?"
He takes a sip of his coffee, laying back. "I doubt anyone could stop you if they tried."
.
.
.
It takes some time to fully appreciate what you used to have, Draco realises that after a few days.
It's six in the morning, and he's bleary-eyed and dressed in pyjamas, yawning into outstretched palms while Granger paces his living room frantically, muttering under her breath, face livid.
"Can't believe he has the nerve to just…! What I do is my business, and it's my job! Not everybody wants to pop out babies the minute they get- and I don't even understand why-"
"It's six a.m, Granger." Draco interrupts her "What the fuck do you want?!"
She pauses to send him a glare "I want to talk!"
"And it couldn't wait?! I might have a meagre job, but I do have places I need to be!"
"Oh, and where is that?!" she snaps harshly "Off to some secluded corner to talk to a grave?"
Draco sits up straighter, fists clenching, teeth gritted. Whatever his methods may be, she has no right to question them.
She sighs, coming to a halt and running a hand over her face. It's the first time Draco notices that she's covered in dirt, and her fingers are trembling.
"I'm sorry, that- that was uncalled for."
"You barging into my house at bloody five in the morning was uncalled for." he retorts coldly.
Granger doesn't say anything, just stands there. Her robes are hanging off her shoulders limply, tattered and torn, and she's standing unnaturally still for someone who looks so shaken. Draco doesn't know what this feeling is, this suddenly clenching of his throat, but he doesn't like it. He sighs, allowing his body to relax, taking a deep breath.
"Granger..what exactly happened?"
She leans against the fireplace, wrapping her arms around her. "I'm cold."
Draco looks on for a minute, before his gaze travels down to his bedcovers. He heaves the blanket up and makes his way to her, gently wrapping it around her shoulders. She's trembling and sniffing, and has moved her face away so that he can't see her. So that he can't witness her this…vulnerable, he thinks. He's new to people being vulnerable around him.
"…Better?" He asks softly. He grants her this small sense of dignity, moving away to add logs to the fire.
She gives another sniff and snuggles into the blanket, sinking into a nearby armchair, eyes fluttering shut. He places a mug of sweetened coffee next to her and sits down on the carpeted floor facing her, leaning against the foot of his bed, and looks up at her expectantly. The fire crackles, emitting sparks of violent golden, and Granger looks heart-breakingly fragile in the darkness of the morning.
"What happened?"
Her eyes close shut and she breathes deeply, "One of my partners, he…he was captured last night when we were on a mission. I lost myself for a moment and barged in, throwing hexes without looking." Granger pauses, wincing as her hand trails down to her left thigh. "It was a stupid move, I know. I got hit and injured myself pretty badly. Once it was all over and I was brought to St. Mungo's, Ron was beside himself. He kept shouting about how I should quit. Harry tried calming him down, but he wouldn't listen, and I didn't want to listen, and Ron kept on yelling, and I just…" she stops talking, and she looks so infuriatingly calm and kept together that it makes Draco want to punch something. Her eyes are carefully blank, and expression impassive, no trace of her previous anger present. "-I wanted to break away. Sorry I disturbed."
Draco's eyes stare transfixed at her, and then he looks away. "Well, you did infer last time that we were some sort of friends. I take this as a quite normal occurrence in friendships, yes?"
The look Granger throws him sends him off balance. Her eyes are wide, and he stares back, until she's suddenly bursting into fits of laughter. Embarrassed and irritated, he glares. "What?!"
"N-Nothing, it's- the things that you s-say!" she covers her mouth, tears streaming down her eyes "'Occurrence in friendships'! What, Draco?! Haven't you ever had a friend before?"
"Can't say that I have, no." he tilts his head, thinking about Crabbe and Giyle and Pansy Parkinson. "But sounds like you had one hell of a night."
She nods, wiping her eyes, her expression sobering. Draco realises he really likes how she smiles. "I don't mean to sound like I'm complaining- but after all of that, I just wanted to come home to someone who would comfort me, not yell at me. I don't- I keep trying to come up with a reason that would justify why I'm still with Ron, but…I can't."
Draco wonders why in the world Granger's telling him this in the first place. But then, he's long since stopped questioning the weirdness of this world. He folds his arms. "All the reason in the world will not be able to justify why you're still with that oaf."
Hermione laughs, and Draco feels ridiculously proud of himself.
Almost every morning after then, he's unceremoniously woken up by Granger yanking his blanket away and declaring it a beautiful day- even if it is bloody raining outside.
Occasionally, she asks him to join her for a morning jog, saying that he really needs some physical exercise. He quickly erases that assumption from her mind by racing ahead and leaving her far behind within five minutes into it. All that grave-digging has given him a large amount of stamina, and by the end of the hour, he's grinning as an extremely pissed off, breathless, red-in-the-face Hermione stamps past him into his cottage for their now customary morning coffee, glaring.
"Not- a- word, Draco!" she shouts over her shoulder, and he can barely hold his laughter in. She looks hilarious, with bits of twigs and leaves in her wild hair. Draco never thought a simple race with her could be so entertaining, but it seems like her hair has a habit of getting stuck everywhere. He wonders what it would be like to tangle his fingers in them, and yank them back- to trail his lips down the side of her neck and…
-That's when he usually clears his throat, insults her, and tries to avoid the weird look she gives him, the tip of his ears going pink.
He finds out that her hair turn into a bush whenever she runs, and that he really likes it when her cheeks are flushed and she's breathless from exercise. She's red and warm and toasty, especially in a graveyard surrounded by the cold.
And all of a sudden, even though he knows he's always called her Granger, she becomes Hermione to him.
.
.
.
The ease with which Granger is becoming a part of Draco's life is frightening.
She is singing. Singing. Draco shifts against his position, wincing as she sings a particularly high note.
And she is not good.
Hands and muscles calmly working up the snow as he brings the shovel down hard against the ground, he breathes- a single puff of thick foggy air leaving his lips.
They're at his place, where he is shovelling the snow aside to create a pathway as Granger sits on the verandah, a mug of hot chocolate tucked in her hands and her legs swaying as she continues to watch him, humming.
Draco doesn't know when trips to his cottage becomes common between them; but somewhere between her stubbornness, and his nonchalance, it became a routine. Frankly, eh doesn't even want to put up a fight anymore. Fuck conscience, Granger is here, and she is real, and she's talking to him. That's all that matters.
He leads back to survey his work, and his eyes involuntarily wander to where Granger is sitting.
She's….he can't even begin to describe her. She always looks so chaotically poised- with her flyaway hair, her slender arms and graceful, powerful movements- definite and confident, the thin press of her lips…and the sharpness in her gaze.
Her hands are wrapped around the mug, and her hair are bushy. Her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, and honey eyes dark as she regards him, cocking her head to the side.
There's a moment- a heart-stopping moment when their eyes lock, and Draco feels himself freeze. Granger's gaze softens, and the corners of her lips curl.
She looks so warm.
"You could've made some for me, you know." he says dryly, gesturing to her mug.
"The day I make hot chocolate for Draco Malfoy is the day pigs start flying."
He scoffs, setting his shovel down and sitting down next to her "Also, the day you win a race against me."
"Hey-!" she protests as he grabs the mug from her and takes a long sip "I could win a race against you!"
He smirks "Yes, sure. And all these mornings you've just been going easy on me, haven't you?"
"You don't play fair." she pouts.
He grins, he really doesn't. But then, she's cute when she tries to argue with him. "Well, I don't have a wand. The least you can do is let me cheat."
She gives him a curious look "You know…I would've expected you to be more hostile towards that."
He cocks an eyebrow "Towards not having a wand?"
She nods "And having to come live in the Muggle world."
"Please." he shakes his head with scorn "I think the Wizarding World has made it clear that I'm no longer welcome."
"Yes..but you've obviously gone to great lengths to avoid any contacts with other Muggles."
He looks at her, a little...hurt, is he? After all this, is this really what she thinks of him? "Is that what you think? That I still have something against Muggles?"
She doesn't reply.
"If I remember correctly, you're the one who earlier presumed that I worked here because i felt like I owed Muggle borns this." he continues quietly. He doesn't like this feeling- it hurts to know she thinks he might not have changed.
She studies him, her brows raising, and he realises his mistake instantly, closing his eyes and cursing under his breath. He's fallen right into her trap.
"So you do feel like that!"
He glares at her "I'm not talking to you about any of this."
Every part of him is screaming to just….let go. He's held it in for so long. The deaths of his parents, banishment from the world, the loss of a family and friends and a home and….everything. It's all overwhelming- how all of a sudden, the weight of everything that has happened in the past year comes down to attack him all at once. He's left gasping for breathing, fists clenched, not knowing- how- where- what did he do?! How did he survive all of that?! What is he doing- how did he end up here?!
"Draco, there's no one here for miles.." her voice is nothing compared to the soft hand that comes to place on his shoulder, the warm that spreads through his body through her touch. "…you've been living in a place with dead bodies. I'm not judging, and I'm not saying it's not okay…but I think it's time you admitted you're a lot lonelier than you'd want to be."
She's right- although as if he's ever going to tell her that. He looks up at his great, polished cottage, and then at the snow-laden estate around him. He'd come here because he'd wanted to be alone, but he doesn't fancy being lonely.
"I broke up with Ron."
His head jerks up to regard the look on Granger's face.
Where did that come from?!
"What?" he hates that his voice is so dry.
"I broke up with Ron." she repeats, and her gaze flickers down to his lips.
He swallows "And why exactly are you telling me about your relationship with Weasley?"
She shrugs, but the glint in her eyes is a tad bit more suggestive.
"Just thought I should mention it. Just in case."
He raises a brow "Why would you think I had-"
The soft strumming of a guitar interrupts him, and he sighs. This is possibly the only thing he doesn't like about the cemetery, altho- ironically, its the main reason why his job exists.
"What- is that a guitar?"
"Yes." he replies, eyes looking up at the blue sky. "There's a funeral going on."
"A-?"
"They play the deceased's favourite song sometimes. Or a tribute, towards the end of the service." he eyes her "I thought you'd know that"
"Oh." she shifts in discomfort "We….um…..tended to not have music."
He nods. Everybody who died in the war had been saluted with graced silence and a lighting of everybody's wands at their funeral, followed by speeches given by friends and family and officials from the Ministry, with innumerable reporters arriving and creating a ruckus out of the entire procession. They had turned the deaths of martyrs into a PR gimmick. If Draco remembers correctly, Granger had actually punched Rita Skeeter in the face once during Tonks and Lupin's funeral for not respecting Andromeda's privacy. He smiles drily. Granger has a mean right hook.
"Well, I better get changed." he stands up, shovel in hand.
"What- where are you going?"
"In another hour, I'm going to have cover the are they buried the coffin in, Granger." he eyes her with steely, bored eyes "Planting flowers isn't my only job."
She looks up at him for a minute, not saying anything. Brown eyes darting to the shovel in his hand, she looks nervous.
"Can I help?"
.
.
.
It's the weirdest thing Draco has ever done, and he has done some pretty weird things.
Wiping soil from his hands, smudging them on his cheeks, Draco pants heavily as he leans back next to Granger.
She's grinning, red in the face, heavily flushed from exercise as she sniffs precariously, wiping her brow from the sleeves of her robes.
She opens her mouth breathlessly "That was-"
"Bizarre?"
She shakes her head, giving him an exhilarating smile "-Fun."
The funeral service has long been over, everyone has left and the sun has already set- and for some reason, Draco feels that inexplicable urge to smile. For absolutely no reason whatsoever other than the fact that he's in Granger's company.
"I didn't think this could feel so satisfying." she says, eyes still on the ground they've filled. The surrounding field is a mess of snow and uprooted grass and mud- but Draco doesn't care as he sits down on a particularly cold patch of snow "That feeling of putting someone to rest, to be in peace. I really thought it would've been the opposite."
He rolls his eyes "Trust you to bring an optimistic outlook on burying someone."
She smiles at him "It's why you do this, isn't it?'
He decides not to look at her, and looks up at the night sky in the chilling darkness instead "Perhaps."
She turns away again, and stands there quietly. Even though he wouldn't admit it in a million years, Draco is observing her- drinking in her every curve. Every feature of her hurts, like a shooting star straight through his then there's that urge to just reach out and pull her onto him.
She laughs out loud- bringing him back to the world, and it's the most musical sound he's ever heard. "I'm exhausted" she surveys the tool in her hand peculiarly "This is heavier than it looks."
"Really? Big, strong brave Gryffindor tired from a little shovel?" he mocks, a smirk pulling at his lips "I always knew you were never one for physical labour, Granger."
"Please, I'm tougher than you. I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth."
He shakes his head. He doesn't mind the bickering- the small taunts and jibes- or the mud and filth sticking to his skin in dry, uncomfortable patches. A shower can wait. Everything else can wait when he's with her.
"I think we can both agree that I'm not that brat anymore."
And against the silvery sheen of light, the Granger that turns to look down at him is breathtakingly beautiful, despite the snow and dirt in her hair and the dry smudges across her cheek.
She smiles.
"I know you aren't."- and something about the way she smiles when she says that makes his heart explode into a million fireworks. She extends him a hand- maybe to offer to pull him up, but he can't help taking hold of it and pulling her down. With a yelp, Granger falls forward and lands gracelessly on his chest.
He cushions her fall, eyes locking onto hers, his right arm curling around her waist, clutching the thin fabric of her robes, fingers tracing the small touch of skin he can sense breath is falling on his lips and she looks bewildered, brown eyes wide in shock. But she doesn't move away, and Draco- for half a second- leans forward. He can feel her closing in...and then clench in fear, and he stops.
She's just broken up with Weasley. Now is not the time. He can't- he isn't- he grits his teeth tightly, eyes clenched shut. He is so painfully aroused- so ready to just forget about everything and kiss her and pull her into a hug and never let her go but he….can't. It's not the right way- it's not the proper timing. She's afraid….she might say that nothing effects her, but she needs time because Merlin only knows if he's going to do it, he's going to do it right. It's Granger.
He sighs, and with every last ounce of self-control left in him, slowly backs away.
He can feel her breath falling on his lips like soft, velvet mist and she smells like warmth and feels like home…and he can't. Not like this.
"I….." his voice is a mere whisper, and he looks up to see that her eyes are open, and she is looking down at him with a kind of emotion he can't quite put his finger on. Her gaze is like milk, features smoothed over by the darkness around them. "….We should-" he clears his throat "-We should head back. It's getting late."
"What- oh!" she blinks, and then flustered and taken by surprise, backs away and jumps to her feet, smoothing her hair down, cheeks pink. "Right! Of course, we should- it's- I have to go home. Right."
He doesn't move for a second, sitting on the wet patch of snow and taking in how good she looks. What did he do to deserve having her enter his life and completely turn everything upside down? He is not used to this- this kind of open expression of care from anybody.
"Draco?" she turns to look down at him "Are you coming? "
He takes a deep breath and jumps to his feet. Not now. "Yes "
I'm going to do this right.
.
.
.
A/N: So this...was part one! :D Part two will be coming up sometime next week, for sure :)
Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors that I might've overlooked, I'm very sleepy, and it's really late here. I'll make sure to go through it once again and correct those mistakes next time.
Please tell me what you guys thought! Was it too abrupt? Weird? I love constructive criticism, and thank you so much for dropping by!
Check out my other HP stories and please review, it means so, so much to an author!
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