Author's Note: This is my first fic, so be nice. It's DMHG, naturally, and I'm trying to keep as close to the original HP books to possible, so please feel free to point out anything I've overlooked. I might change a few things though, so, er. Also, I reupdated the first chapter. I might seem completely different but it follows the basic plotline I was planning all along, just at a different angle.
Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Harry Potter & Co., or the plotline this follows. I do rather own this fic.
FORGET-ME-NOT.
Chapter One
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"Hermione, dear, wake up," a sweet voice cut through her pleasant dreams, tapping her shoulder. "Wake up, it's your wedding day."
The brown-haired, twenty-five year old woman yawned loudly, groggily opened one eye to see her attacker. A bright-eyed, cheery Ginny Weasley stood before her. Hermione moaned and dug her head deeper into the pillows.
Ginny laughed. "Hermione!" she pressed on. "Merlin knows you're not a deep sleeper; back in Hogwarts you'd always be the first in our whole dormitory to wake up - even on Sunday mornings." Yanking the covers from off her older friend, the girl grinned proudly as Hermione shuddered and, reluctantly, sat up.
"Force me to do your bidding by nostalgia of better days?" Hermione grumbled. "That's dirty, Weasley, just plain dirty."
Ginny giggled at her friend's state of near-conciousness. When Hermione sent her a glare, she only laughed harder. The crazy, tangled mop of hair that framed a heavy-lidded face that usually belonged to the neat and tidy Hermione Granger (not for long, though) was something that did not suit her.
"Well, it's true," Ginny managed to stifle her giggles. "You're hardly ever a late riser, though I don't blame you. It's fifteen 'till seven... Couldn't resist waking you up, though. It's an exciting day," she smiled mischeviously.
Hermione felt a lump rise up her esophagus.
The redhead noticed her discomfort. Her expression turning more serious, she said quietly, "Don't worry at all, 'Mione, today's going to be perfect."
Hermione managed a weak smile. She adored Ginny Weasley. Ever since their school years, although Ginny was a year younger than her, it seemed to be the only difference. Although her best friends were, of course, the famous Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, she could only stand their male company for so long. Ginny had always been her escape, her understanding, her sit-in-the-girls'-rooms-and-laugh-and-gossip-until-dawn: something that she could never even hope to have with either Harry or Ron.
"Well, now," Ginny's voice turned stern but teasing. "I want to see you downstairs in fifteen minutes so we can have our last breakfast together, and then we can have a whole day of feminine fun as your last day of freedom, dearie."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "It won't be our last breakfast together, Ginny, I'll still come visit you all the time. Especially since you live so close by."
"Whatever," Ginny threw the blanket back at Hermione. "I still want you downstairs in fifteen. And although I know this is your last day living with me, don't try to make a mess of it, huh?" She cast a pointed glance over Hermione's cluttered things before whisking out the door.
Hermione groaned and then dropped back onto the dark and still-warm bed, though the littlest rays of sunlight were beginning to seep in through the mahogany curtains. Checking the clock, she realized Ginny was right. It was nearing seven and Hermione was hardly ever up after six-thirty. Tossing her feet over the side of her bed, she realized Ginny was right.
Books, papers, quills, robes, scrolls, ink bottles were strewn across the usually spotless floor. She could barely even see the burgandy carpet. Sighing loudly, she began to absentmindedly picking up the trash on her floor, crumpling up the bits of parchment and overused quills in her fist, not caring whether they had any value to her at all. As she passed by a rather grimy mirror, she paused to look at herself.
At twenty-five, Hermione looked, well, like she should. She was a grown-up version of her childish self. She was still petite - about five foot four - with full, tossed brown curls that she usually kept in a messy bun. She had a fair, pale complexion from staying inside and reading, with dark, almond-shaped eyes that brooded over tiny print late in the night, a small nose, and a tight, pink mouth. Her large hair contrasted loudly with her delicate, porcelain figure.
She turned her head away from the mirror. It's not like she ever cared about how she looked anyways.
Dropping the crumpled trash in the wastebasket, she realized that she had once again forgotten the many conveniences in the Wizarding world and, picking up her wand from the dressing table, muttered a cleaning spell that was sure to please Ginny.
After a quick shower, she changed into a pale lavender sundress and a comfortable white cardigan, her wet hair up as usual. Proceeding to go down to the kitchen, something out of the ordinary on her usual book and parchment littered desk.
A cluster of small, blue flowers.
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They were sitting by the lake in their fourth year, of course on the far side behind a huddle of trees and brush, so no one could find them. That day had been heavenly. It was late April and the rain had ceased to pour for a day so the sun brightly lit all of Hogwarts ground, and it was impossible to resist such a sunny day. Cotton candy clouds dotted the pale blue skies, and the grass was dewy but springy. The weather was fair and Hermione had discarded of her black cloak further up, but she was kept warm by the lean, strong arm that wrapped around her shoulder.
"Pleasant day, hm?" he had said softly, his face buried in her hair. Which was flowing freely down her shoulders.
"Yes," she replied happily. "I was just thinking that. Get out of my hair, will you? I want to put it up. I like the breeze around my neck."
But he refused to do so. "But I like it when your hair is down."
She raised an eyebrow teasingly. "Oh, really? It didn't seem like that when you were making fun of it last week in the Charms corridor when I was with Harry and Ron. What was it again? 'Your untidy hair seems to be growing on Granger, Potter. Or is it a bit of a fad for the fan club now?'"
He paused, lifting his face out of her brown tresses. "I didn't mean it," he mumbled, more serious than Hermione's mocking voice had been.
She turned to stare into his eyes, who were looking at her, almost... fearfully. Hermione held his free hand with both of hers, and lifting it up to her lips, said, "I know, I know."
They sat in silence for quite some time, cradling each other in their arms, staring out into the brilliant lake. And then he broke the silence, sniffing haughtily, "You're hair is much better than Potter's."
She laughed, amused. He was so different from everybody, so different from who he wanted to be...
But they sat in silence for awhile again. They always did. When they had first met, they had talked to each other so often and animatedly that all their wit and speech had been worked to both of their limits, where all they were left to do was hold each other in silence when they met. Not that they minded.
But this afternoon, contempelating on last week in the Charms corridor, Hermione had something on her mind and could not stand the silence. I know I'm going to regret this, she told herself, taking a deep breath, but - "It's weird how we have to be totally different people when Harry, or Ron, or anyone else is around."
His arms around her stiffened, but he said nothing.
She pressed on. "I mean, why must we always pretend to be who we aren't when everyone else is around? Why do we call each other names, and make fun of each other, and snarl - "
He cut her off. "We have to, Hermione."
She hesitated, and then the emotion showing through her voice - "Do we?"
The silence was prolonged and dreadful. At long last, he replied. "Yes."
Hermione looked away.
The delightful peace of the morning felt bitter and morose now, and she could almost feel the tears spring up in her eyes as he began to stroke her hair.
"Look," he said tiredly, "I know you're trying not to understand the whole thing. I know you want to think everything's perfect, and everything's finished. But you have to admit that you know something is going to happen. Being best friends with -" his voice hardened at the name "- Potter would have told you that much. But, well, I just don't want you to get hurt." He finished lamely, she thought, giving away nothing.
But she felt unrightfully resentful now. "What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped, much harder than she had figured it would come out.
He touched her cheek and held it so she was facing him. "It means I love you," he whispered.
Hermione knew there was no chance in hiding tears now. Her vision blurred and she blinked, feeling them trickle down her cheek. He brushed them away.
"I asked you to come down here because I wanted to give you a present," he said, letting go of her and shoving his hands into his pocket. He produced a small twig in his palm. "Here you are."
It was a tiny branch of clusters and clusters, perhaps hundreds of tiny blue, delicate flowers. She gasped and picked it up carefully with two fingers, pleasure in her eyes.
"Oh Merlin!" was all she could manage.
"You like it?" a familiar, proud smirk graced his lips.
"Of course I do," she breathed and hugged him gently, careful not to damage the tiny gift. "But.. but, aren't these a Muggle flower?"
He paused. "Yes, they are."
"How did you know?" she was nearly bouncing with excitement. "And how did you get them this small?"
He chuckled, a rare sound from him. "A simple reducio charm would do, Hermione," he informed her. "And it wasn't hard to figure out your favorite flower."
She was flushed, staring enchantedly at the miniscule petals. "Thank you so much," she smiled, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
"My pleasure," he had bowed grandly, making her giggle. "We should be going back to the castle now. You go first, we don't want to be seen together."
"Alright," she agreed, picking up her cloak off the grass and slipping the gift into the pocket.
She glanced backwards at the boy, who was staring absentmindedly at the lake. He was beautiful, with adoring white-blonde hair and dashing silver eyes, just like a prince, she decided. His voice called out from behind her as she trudged up back towards the castle.
"Goodbye, Hermione Granger."
She paused, a light smile gracing her lips. "Goodbye, Draco Malfoy."
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Standing in the now-lit bedroom of her mid-twenties, she fingered the tiny blue petals in her own, careful not to tear them.
Ne m'oubliez mie, as they were called in the Old French.
Or rather "forget-me-nots".
She remembered.
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Author's Note: Thanks. Please read and review.