When he thought of Hermione Granger's death, he always imagined it on a battlefield. She would be running across, trying to save some poor child caught in the crossfire. Her brown eyes would blaze like fire, her feet going faster than she had ever imagined. She would set the child down on the sidelines, telling him or her to run as fast as they could, away from here. She would watch them go before rejoining the battle.
And then it would just happen. The bright light of a deadly hex would strike her, and she would fall. Her lifeless body would just crumple, as if devoid of any bones, like his mother's had. He imagined the two Weasels and Potty mourning over her body.
Her coffin would be white and covered in pale lilies. People would hum her favorite song as it was lowered into the ground, and with it, the smartest witch of that generation.
He didn't know why he had such bleak fantasies. He couldn't help wondering, upon meeting or seeing a new person, how their life would end. What their funeral would be like, whether they would live or die. Whether they would ascend, or descend, to heaven or hell.
This probably spawned from his worryingly real fascination with death as a young child. His father, after all, was a patron of the Dark Arts, and worked for a man who wanted to start mass genocide. At first, he thought this idea of imagining death was indeed, awesome. Often, his friends would have peaceful deaths in their sleep, whereas Potty and Weasel would be ripped apart alive by Chinese Fireballs.
That is until he watched his mother be subjected Avarda Kadarva at his father's hands. He had never in his wildest dreams imagined his own mother dieing before his eyes in the dank, dirty dungeons below their manor. She was to have nice, painless death in her old age. This was not supposed to happen.
It was at this point that he realized he could not foretell how people would die. That was the whole point of death. It was to be sudden and swift.
He tried to stop these thoughts from flooding his mind whenever he met a new acquaintance, but to his dismay he could not. It was branded into his mind after years of habit. It was as natural for him to do this as it was for humans to breathe.
His fantasies of Hermione started the first time he saw her bushy hair disappear into a compartment on the train the first year they met. It became more detailed after all the hidden glances she gave her in the 7 years they went to school together. He, on the outside, was the most pompous brat he could possibly be towards her. But in his heart, he held a place for her and her biting insults, however small it may have been.
After his mother's untimely death, he joined the Light, mostly out of his determination to spite his father. The other, smaller factor was the fact that he would spend more time with Hermione, thus giving him more time to think about her demise. It was during this time that they became more hated enemies than they had before.
He waited the whole war to see if his predictions had come true. But when the smoke cleared, and Voldemort and his followers were vanquished, she was still alive. He then could not think of any other way she could possibly die. The Order, useless now, split up, and he never saw or heard from her again.
On the eve of his 25th birthday, he got the news that Hermione was in the hospital. She was very ill.
Seemingly possessed by some phantom, he dressed in silver polo and khakis, bought half a dozen red lilies, and apparated to her room in St. Mungo's hospital.
Hermione, to say the least, was surprised to see him. They were bitter enemies and this was not how she pictured her day going. Nevertheless, she was grateful for the lilies, which brightened her otherwise sterile room. Her surprise grew when he pulled up a chair beside her bed. For several awkward minutes, he switched his gaze between her and the window. She was weak and a bit paler than her normal rosy color and thinner than when he had last seen her, but her honey brown eyes still sparkled. It was at this moment, gazing in Hermione's eyes, he realized something.
This might have been the most stupid idea he had ever had.
He stood to leave, but was stopped by a warm small hand wrapping around his own. He looked at Hermione and resumed his seat, his hand still in hers.
"Draco."
"Hermione."
They were already in unfamiliar territory with the use of first names. Neither said anything. He noticed the soft white flakes starting to drift from the dark, gray skies.
"It's snowing."
If he knew this was the last conversation they would ever have, he would have thought of something better to say.
She pulled her hand from his and placed it gently on his cheek. He didn't draw away, and he didn't now why. They were enemies, or at least they had been. And he came to another realization.
He loved her.
Not in the way of passionate, want to kiss you all the time love, or the love that a family feels for one another, or even the love between friends.
It was a love in which he would have liked to kiss her, but would have liked to have her company just as much. They wouldn't say anything; just sit silent, just as they did now.
From the look her eyes, she felt the same.
Her touch dissolved the years of animosity, instead leaving the unfamiliar form of love they couldn't quite place. He felt his life somehow was not dominated by death, of his delusions of it, but instead by something else. He didn't know what.
He knew she would die, and he knew it would be soon. It would be radically different from his fantasies of it. But it didn't upset him at all. He would not have traded the moment for anything.
He smiled at her. She closed her eyes, and he knew they would never open again. He just held her hand, and watched the snow gently fall from the dark skies.