AN: Characters, as always do not belong to me.
I don't know why I do this any more. It's just habit, I suppose, more than anything else. It's been twenty years; I should be over it by now. Maybe I still hope to see her again, even if it is her ghost. Anyway, it's all a load of sentimental rubbish, really. So why do I bother coming?
It was here, in this muggle pub, that she first told me she loved me. It was here that she agreed to marry me, a week after I'd asked her. And it was here, twenty years ago to the day, that the muggle fired a gun straight at her heart. I don't know why it was her, I suppose she was a victim of some random violent urge. Sometimes I wish it was me who'd been shot instead, but then I realise that would mean she was the one left behind. Suffering like I'm suffering now. And I wouldn't want that. So I accept my fate, and drown my sorrows here every year on this day. It always rains, did you realise that? Without fail.
The barman recognises me, and just plonks a bottle of something strong in front of me. I don't really care what it is, as long as it makes me forget for a few hours. The liquor burns on the way down, which means it should do the job.
When I've finished half of the bottle, I pick it up and walk out. This is just part of the ritual, and I wander down the road until I reach the cemetery where she's buried. I lean against the tree, facing the carved headstone, and slide down to sit on the wet grass. My trousers, a pair of those muggle jeans she always liked, are going to be soaked through in a few minutes, but it doesn't matter.
The flowers, as always, are fresh. A mixture of camellias and freesias, her favourites, and what she had in her bouquet at our wedding. This week, they're pure white.
"Hermione Granger-Malfoy," the inscription reads. "Beloved of Draco Malfoy." Below it, a phoenix is carved into the stone. For those who didn't know her, it's a mystery to puzzle over. For the wizarding world, it's a reminder that she helped bring Voldemort down once and for all.
Ironic, that such a powerful witch could be defeated by a muggle weapon, a painful reminder of the world she came from, and something I used to hate her for. I got over it though – she knocked some sense into me, and then I had the luck, or perhaps the misfortune, to fall in love with her. She's still the most headstrong, determined person I've ever met.
My mother asked me once why I still torture myself like this, instead of thinking about finding a new bride. I told her she'd never been in love with my father like I'd been in love with Hermione, and if she had, she'd understand. She didn't take it too well, I'm afraid. Not that it matters much, any more.
My father said if I was still so enamoured with my mudblood bride, why didn't I join her. Suicide is the coward's way out, I retorted.
I'd considered it, of course. But she wouldn't want me to die for her. She's… she was too independent for that. So I wait, and I mourn, and I remember her the way she'd have wanted to be remembered.
Standing up, I brush wet grass off my clothes, say goodbye to her, and head home. Being too drunk to apparate by this point, I walk, though it's not far. You can tell Hermione chose the house, it just looks like something she'd pick. I've still got all of her belongings, every last thing. Even her clothes are still in the wardrobe where they belong, and I never sleep on her side of the bed. Some people think it's strange, and that I must have some sort of unhealthy obsession, but I still love her. And I always will, no matter what happens to me. I will always love her.
AN: I'm pretty sure this is the last angsty one-shot for a while. But it'd still be lovely if you reviewed it.