Disclaimer: Draco and Hermione belong to J.K. Rowling. The other characters were invented by the two of us and the Leather Librarians.

Authors' notes: Thanks to all who reviewed the first chapter.

It was a fine spring day. Raphael Malfoy II was walking through the grounds of the manor with his mother, who was teaching him the names of the different flowers that were planted in strategic locations throughout the garden.

"Mummy, what's that purple flower?" Raphael asked, pointing to the purple blossoms that grew on the trellis.

"That plant is called wisteria," his mother replied.

"It's beautiful," Raphael said appreciatively.

"Yes, it is, but the seeds are poisonous. Don't eat them. But yes, wisteria has pretty flowers," his mother agreed. "However, this particular plant is more beautiful than others. It has a story behind it. Would you like to hear it?"

Raphael nodded eagerly. He and his mother walked towards the trellis, and sat down on the bench under it.

"It's a story about a powerful wizard. His name was Draco. He loved his wife very much- her name was Hermione. And they even had a son, your grandfather."

"Grandpa Ralph?"

"That's right."

Raphael sat up straighter, more interested in the story because it involved his favorite grandfather, the man he was named after. "What happened?"

"Wisteria was Hermione's favorite plant. But she got very sick, and died when Grandpa Ralph was only a few years older than you are now. It broke Draco's heart."

"So what did he do?"

o o o o

It will be all right.

That's what she had said. Easy for her to say, Draco reflected, because she wasn't the one left behind.

Draco sighed and stared at the plant above his head. He was sitting on the bench under the trellis, the very same trellis under which they had gotten married. He was watching the buds of wisteria that grew on the structure as they danced in the wind. They were Hermione's favorite flower, and had she lived a few months longer, she would have been able to watch them bloom. But it wasn't to be. What had started as a sore throat became a high fever, but it was when Hermione's temperature suddenly dropped to some point below normal that Draco started to worry. He started to lose hope. But based on his talks with his wife, it seemed that she hadn't given up yet.

He would always remember one of the conversations he had had with her on the rare days that she was awake and alert.

"What do you think of all day?" he had asked.

Hermione had hesitated before answering. "I think of how I don't want to die. I wish I wasn't sick. Why me? Out of all the people in the world, why me? What have I done?

But then I think- maybe, maybe it's better that I'm sick, rather than some single mother who needs to work everyday to feed her child. At least you and I can afford not to work for months. And at least, with this kind of illness, I can say goodbye."

"And yet it were a greater grief," Draco had quoted softly, " to watch it withering, leaf by leaf, than see it plucked today; since earthly eye but ill can bear to trace the change to foul from fair."

Hermione then turned to look at the single flower of wisteria that her Ralph had picked for her the previous year. She had tried to put a charm on it to preserve it, but real flowers aren't meant to be fresh forever. It was starting to wilt.

"That was Lord Byron, wasn't it? I've been thinking of it too. And I'm sorry if it hurts you to see me deteriorate like this."

"It's not your fault."

"I really don't want to die."

"Then don't."

"I'm trying not to."

"Really? Try harder then."

"You get sick and see how hard it is."

"Why? Then we'll both be deteriorating. Do use your brain, love. You're supposed to be smart."

"Go to hell, Draco."

And Draco had laughed until his laughs turned to tears. He leaned forward and kissed Hermione gently. "Who will I fight with when you're gone?"

"Don't worry," Hermione had replied with determination, "I'm not gone yet."

But a week later, the pain had come. And it had tortured Hermione so much that Draco was torn between wanting her to stay and wanting her suffering to end. But she had died anyway, whether he had wanted it or not.

It was getting dark, Draco realized, dabbing at his eyes. Ralph would be looking for him. Sighing heavily, Draco stood up and walked forward a few feet, stopping right in front of a mound of earth. The stone at the head of the grave said Hermione's name, but Draco didn't need a marker to tell him where the one thing he loved most lay. She had been buried near her precious flowers, right where she had wanted to be placed.

As Draco turned away, an idea struck him. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at the wisteria. He muttered a spell, and a violet burst of light shot out from the tip of his wand. The plant glowed for a few seconds, and when the light faded, the flowers were more beautiful than before.

"An Everlasting spell," Draco said out loud, his eyes on the grave near him. "The flowers will fall in winter, but they'll bloom every spring. The plant itself will never die. You'll get to see it bloom every year."

He took a few steps back towards the house before hesitating. Turning around, he called back to the grave, "oh, and you were wrong, by the way. It's not all right. It never will be."

o o o o

Raphael stared at his mother, his eyes wide. "Did he tell you that himself, Mummy?"

"No, he never told anyone. It was Grandpa Ralph who told me, he had been crying behind the bushes when Draco had come. Grandpa Ralph said he was afraid to let his father know that he was there, so he didn't say anything."

"Did you ever meet Draco?"

"Yes, but he died a few months before I married your father."

Raphael turned to look solemnly at the graves that lay a few yards from where he and his mother sat. "He's buried there, isn't he?"

"Yes, dear. They're together again."

"They're both happy now, right?"

"Right."

"So it's all right, isn't it, Mummy? It's finally all right."

"Yes, it is. It finally is."