Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Author's Note: Hello! I was bored one day and so this story was created. Please review. Feel free to leave your thoughts. Thank you! :)
Draco Malfoy stood in the heavy snow with a blank face that would give away nothing to the pain he was feeling.
It was December 24th. He had circled the date on his calendar that was placed on his work desk, marking Christmas Eve and the death of her. He was supposed to be in her family's house, celebrating the night. But it didn't matter, because they wouldn't care, anyway. He hadn't visited them ever since her death. How could he after what he did to her? He couldn't face them. It was his fault.
He visited her grave every Friday in the morning before he went to work and at midnight.
He would never forget and he would never miss it, no matter how busy or tired he was. He would be there. He would always be there.
He had dream of her, whispered her name, thought about her, and loved her with all of he could. He had never thought he would love a person as much other than his mother, but he did.
He had brought her flowers; her favorite flower, white roses. She had told him once that white roses represented she was worthy of him. He remembered how she would have her morning walks in the garden and she would stop by the roses. He would watch her by the window of the Manor by then. She would pick the white one up, brought it close to her face, closed her eyes, breath in its scent, and Draco would think she had never looked as beautiful as she was right there.
She would return to the living room with the flower in hand, and she would sit next to Draco, who would play the piano every morning. He would feel her warmth and he could smell not only her sweet smell of vanilla, but also her rose. She would rest her head on his shoulder and Draco would feel the warmth all over his body.
He would be engulfed in her sweet vanilla smell and he had loved every second of it.
"Play our song." She would say with a sweet smile plastered on her face. She would say them in a whisper, as if she didn't want anyone else to hear. As if it were a secret. Their secret.
He remembered every single thing about her. He remembered her laugh… her whisper… they were echoing inside his head. Repeating over and over again. It was his favorite melody.
He would sleep as he clutched her dress so just he could inhale her scent and cried himself to sleep so that he could fool himself into believing that she was right there next to him.
Maybe if he remembered her hard enough… if he remembered every angle, every color, every scent, every sound, every smile… maybe, just maybe, she would come back to him. If he tried harder, maybe she would forgive of what he did and would come back in his arms. She would bring back the soft side in him. He would rescue her and would never let her go ever again.
But she never came back.
She would only visit him in his dreams. He was able to hold her in his arms once again, to feel her soft skin against his. Her scent was all over the air, sweet vanilla. He would bury his face in her flawless long mane hair and she would let out a small laugh. She had fitted perfectly in his arms, and his head had fitted perfectly at the crook of his neck. Her fingers interlaced with his, his lips against her soft ones. Her melodious laugh filled the air. Their heart beat as one. She was his and he was hers. They were perfect. Everything was perfect. As if nothing had never been wrong. As if he had never made the worst mistake of his life.
Until he woke up, that is.
He would squint at the moonlight and he would feel tears in his eyes. He wouldn't even bother to wipe them away. What was the point? He would continue crying, anyway. His sobs would get louder and stronger. His shoulders would shook and his chest would heave. Her laugh had no longer filled the air, for it was replaced with his cries. They had sounded so mad, so angry, but at the same time, they sounded so desperate and so broken.
He would wait until Friday midnight until he could finally fall on his knees and cry and told her, to shout to the skies that he needed her. He kept telling he needed her and that he was sorry for not protecting her like he said he would. He would cry of his broken promises. He would cry and he would scream to the sky that he was falling apart without her; that he could never be the same person she had made him to be.
But on the other days, he would have to endure.
Sometimes, he would stare out the window and he would see her face, staring at him with her lovely, light, brown eyes and he would stare back with his sad, grey eyes.
"Draco," his mother had started one morning during breakfast. "It wouldn't hurt if you start seeing—"
Draco had shot up his head to his mother with an angry gleam in his eyes. "No, mother. I would never do such a thing to her. I would never do such a thing to myself. I've disappointed her and myself too much, I could never be with anyone else again."
"You wouldn't break her heart, Draco. It wasn't your fault. You did the best that you could." Narcissa had told him, her voice was filled with concern for her son.
"I disappointed her, mother. I promised I would protect her with all I could. And I didn't. I failed her," Draco had replied, his voice was mere a whisper.
"You didn't fail anyone, Draco. She'd want you to move on."
"I said no, mother. You have no right to say that because you don't know." Draco had said and stood up from his seat, rushing out of the dining room.
He could never love again. How could he? He had found the love of his life who had changed him into a better person, and he had lost her. He had lost her because of himself. He could never love anyone else as much as he loved her. He could never. It was impossible and sounded absurd to even think so. In every face had looked at, he saw only her. Every sound, every melody… they all reminded him of her. Moving on would mean forgetting, and he could never forget the person who he had failed.
He stood there, in the heavy snow of December, with a blank face that would give away nothing to the pain he was feeling.
Draco Malfoy refused to forgive himself. He refused to move on. He loved Ginny Weasley too much. His dreams, his thougths, his words, they were all about her. His life was all about her. She was his best friend.
She had come to his life when he was so broken. She had guided him into the light. She had helped him went through the worst times of his life. And he had failed her in return.
At times, he wanted to forgive himself… he wanted to understand that he did try the best he could to save her… he wanted to feel the happiness in him once again… but it felt so wrong.
But why? Wouldn't Ginny want you to be happy? Wouldn't she have forgiven you already? Wouldn't she want you to stop grieving and live your life? A little voice inside his head said. It angered him.
How dare he even think about such a thing! It was wrong because it was wrong. He had failed her, and she would never forgive him. He forced himself to believing it, but his body rejected his life. He knew deep inside it was a lie, but he didn't want to admit it.
"I love you, Ginny. I'm sorry for not trying hard enough. I'm sorry… I—" his words choked as a sob came out from his mouth, tears rolling down to his cheeks. "I… I don't want to move on, okay? It would mean forgetting… and I could never forget you. I had failed you, Ginny, I'm sorry."
"Moving on doesn't mean forgetting, you know?"
Draco whipped around to see a short figure standing behind him. The figure walked towards him, and he realized it was a girl.
It was Hermione Granger. It had been, what, five years since they had seen each other?
"I know it's hard to move on. It seems impossible, even," she said and gave a weak laugh. "But, move on, we shall, right?"
"That wasn't very encouraging." Draco mumbled, slightly angry that his visit with his wife was interrupted.
Hermione shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, I was never good with encouragements. In fact, I'm probably the worst person to tell you to move on. I, myself, can't find it in me to move on." The last sentence came out as a painful whisper.
She closed her eyes and Draco watched her closely. Her hair wasn't as bushy as it was the last time he saw her. It was perfectly tamed into soft curls. But she was such an odd person. It had been quite a while since he had last saw her, and yet, there she was, suddenly making an appearance at his life again in a cemetery at midnight. It sounded like a scary story told to children.
He was about to ask what she was talking about and why she was in the same cemetery as him at midnight when he had never even seen her before. But then it hit him. Ginny Weasley wasn't just his wife. She was also Hermione Granger's best friend.
"I feel bad for not visiting her in a while. But she's in a good place now," Hermione spoke out as she looked at Ginny's tombstone.
"Is she?" Draco whispered, also looking at his wife's tombstone.
"Of course," she replied as if it was the most obvious thing. She turned her eyes to him. "I know how you feel, Malfoy. You didn't just lose a wife there. I lost a best friend. But it wasn't your fault. It was never your fault."
Draco scoffed. "The bloody Death Eaters came and I didn't save her in time. She was killed because of me. It was my fault, Granger."
"They held you off and gave you a choice. You chose Ginny, and that was enough for her. You've saved her." Hermione told him. "I know it's hard for you. It is for all of us. But we never blame you for her death. We've accepted the fact she's in a better place now, and move on, we shall."
Draco looked up at Hermione. Move on, we shall. It sounded like a mantra. Draco repeated in his head. Although, it didn't sound very encouraging, it was all he had. He might as well give it a try. Maybe the girl standing before him was right. Maybe he had saved her.
"Yes." Draco said, a hint of fear and determination in his voice. He saw that Hermione's brown eyes were pooling with tears. "Move on, we shall, Granger."
Hermione ran her hand to his shoulder. She squeezed them softly and gave him a small smile.
Maybe Draco Malfoy could still forgive himself and move on. He knew he could. And maybe, just maybe, Hermione Granger could be the one to help him.