She Remembered
She remembered his coarse voice and biting words; the way anything he said, even the nicest thing in the world, sprang from his mouth like a thousand tiny daggers aimed straight at her heart. And it wasn't the words that hurt, or the harshness with which he spoke—he treated even his friends with as much respect—no, it was that she truly believed him, his insults. Countless nights she spent drying her eyes relentlessly, uselessly, on her pillows. He loathed her. And it wouldn't have bothered her, except she'd done nothing to provoke him, save having been born to Muggle parents. Then one night, in the anguish of her sadness, something snapped. Anger pooled hot and soupy in her gut, her tears tinged with venom. She was going to give him a reason to hate her.
She remembered the aberrant tint of his hair, those white-blond strands that seemed to absorb light, intensifying the glitch in nature, instead of reflecting it back. But, at the same time, his ash-gray eyes collected no hint of light, gave no sign of life beyond the commands he was given. He was both bold and cowardly; luminous and shrouded; confrontational and subordinate. He was two different people, and she sought to cleave them in half.
She remembered the cold steel of the knife at her throat, its searing blade perched precariously close to her trachea. She remembered the long, gaping hours that followed, the raised voices and inflamed egos. The stiletto was enchanted, charm with the worst of dark magic—one slice, one cell of her flesh torn, and she was gone.
She remembered his threats and warnings, his promises and accusations. He fled the school that spring in the shadow of a man she'd been trained to trust, now vowed to hate.
She remembered that summer, hot and sticky and full to bursting with despair and a carefully applied and chipping layer of hope. They spent nights on the bare ground, in dank caves, the ruins of once-majestic manors. They ate once a day, drank little, and trudged for hours without thought to rest. They were filthy, exhausted, numb and angry—but they were resilient and they had valor.
She remembered his capture, the way he cursed her very existence to the marrow of her polluted bones. She remembered grabbing her own blade, not nearly so lethal, and stepping hard against his chest, his limbs secure in their magical restraints. Slice after methodic slice, she hacked at his blue-ribbon blond hair until there was nothing left but a snowy peachfuzz. His hooded eyes were as dead as ever. And that night she let him go.
She remembered his second capture. His third. His last. Remembered how each grew easier to obtain him, easier to break him. Easier to let him leave again.
She remembered the night she realized she'd finally given him a reason to hate her—she and her friends had humiliated him time and again with proof of his follies, sending him back to his superiors a little less of who he was each time. It was her first peaceful night's sleep since she'd learned she was a witch.
She remembered when they didn't have to capture him anymore, when he willingly sought them out. She remembered his pain so well that once again, she couldn't sleep. She had successfully broken the one person in her life she knew deserved it more than anything—and, nauseatingly, she regretted it.
She remembered—placing her hand on the cold stone of the grave—the first time he'd kissed her. She'd slapped him, twice—once across the face, the other his chest. He kissed her again. She slapped him again. Until her hands weren't hitting him anymore, but patting his body, roaming his muscles.
She remembered vomiting when he retreated to his tent, yards away from the others. Scorching guilt, bubbling like acid.
She remembered falling in love with him the next spring.
And she remembered the funeral, as if not a day had passed. The crisp autumn air, the solemn black-clad mourners at the top of the hill. She'd been there, but she hadn't gone, hadn't allowed a single eye to realize her presence—she hadn't cried so hard since his insults at school.
She remembered the months before the funeral, too. The death-threats and vows for vengeance—and the only feasible loophole. And she was the only one who remembered, for she hadn't confided in a soul, not even him, who had paid the ultimate price.
She remembered hopelessness and loneliness in a room full of friends. She remembered she loved him and that it was worth more to her than anything. Even her own life.
Hermione Granger set a vase of yellow acacias—the flower symbolizing secret love—at the base of the gravestone. She remembered how much she missed him, and she remembered how much it was worth it.
Not even thinking of looking back, she turned and walked towards the future. She would remember him again, one year from now, as she always did, bringing another sprig of fresh yellow acacias and setting them before the grave marked with a lie:
Hermione Jane Granger
Born: September 19, 1979
Died: September 15, 1998
Lived for knowledge. Died for faith.
She remembered everything. And, best of all, she remembered that Draco Malfoy loved her, too. He had never said it, never so much as hinted. But she knew.
There was a reason Hermione chose this day to visit her own, empty grave. It was the day he visited it too.
Little blurb to pass the time.
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