Disclaimer: All J.K. Rowling's

1,826 DAYS

In the beginning and in the end, there was only darkness...

In the end, only darkness was left behind.

"Malfoy, you've got to come."

Though I wasn't about to admit it to the Boy Who Lived to Be a Right Pain in the Ass, the sudden appearance of his head nearly killed me out of fright ... no, shock, I convinced myself. Harry Potter looked older. From what I could see of the lapels of his robes, they looked suspiciously similar to mine. It seems I would have to find myself a new tailor. I admit I stared at him for a full minute. I hadn't seen him since graduation, five years ago to the day. And believe me, I had been counting.

"She's dying."

I didn't really need to ask who. It was a mere formality. I knew it already, though it had been five years since I had spoken to or of her. But just because I never mentioned Hermione Granger did not mean I never thought of her. No, I had thought about her every one of the 1,826 days we have been apart.

"Who?"

Potter gave me a look, a look that said he couldn't decide if I were just playing stupid and he was going to hex me for it, or if I really didn't know who he was talking about and he was going to kill me for it. The look that scared the shit out Voldemort himself in the end.

"Hermione Granger."

Something squeezed hard in my chest, but no emotion betrayed itself on my face. I was a Malfoy, schooled not to show any emotion whatsoever ... trained not to have any emotion whatsoever. So, I reclined in my chair, putting the tips of my fingers together as if we were discussing a particularly complicated business deal.

"I assume she was saving your or Weasley's ass and got her own in the way?" I asked calmly.

Oh, but Potter was perceptive. He always saw right through me, another reason to add to my list of reasons why I hated him. Being an Auror (and sharing an apartment with Hermione Granger and spending every day with her that I could not) was definitely near the top.

"It's your fault she's dying."

I pretended not to have hear him, but every syllable he had uttered pierced by heart like a thousand knives. He continued, mirroring my calm demeanor with unsettling accuracy. "You'd really like to believe you haven't a clue about what I'm talking about. Well, don't wallow in denial for too long, Malfoy. It would be a shame if you turned up late for her funeral when Malfoys have always been known for their punctuality."

Dying.

"And just how is it my fault she's dying?" I asked, with a shrug. It sounded careless but, oh God, was it a question I needed answered, even if the infamous Malfoy pride had to humble itself a little. Just a little.

"How did I defeat Voldemort, Malfoy?"

Honestly, was now exactly the time to go over your victory and glory, Potter? Do I need to pump your already overinflated ego until it burst in order to get some answers? "The Avada Kedavra. You know, the Unforgivable you swore you'd never use but did anyway. If that has any relevance to what we are discussing, it would mean that she is already dead, Potter, not dying. And no matter how much you dislike me, framing me for a crime is rather beneath you. I don't believe there's an ounce of truth in what you're saying."

Hope floats.

"You know as well as I do that it wasn't the Killing Curse that killed Voldemort," Potter said placidly. "I'm talking about a special kind of magic, Malfoy. The magic that Hermione taught you and shared with you no matter how many times you hurt her again and again. The magic Ron and I have tried so hard to give her, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough. You know, in retrospect, its almost humorous. Both of us wanted her heart, but she never could give it to us.

"She said she gave it to you."

I had to turn away. Malfoy's don't show emotion. They can't. It was a sign of weakness... Oh, but Hermione had always been my weakness. I had taken notice of her even though she was everything I had been taught to hate. I always called attention to her when, as a pureblood, I should have walked by without a glance. I always threw insults at her just to have her attention for one blessed second. She had finally cracked through the facade I kept up for everyone else. She was the first one who showed me that magic Potter glorified himself with, the one thing I had never felt before in my life before I let her into my heart.

"Love," I said quietly.

"Yes, Malfoy. Love. Just love. All you needed to do was allow yourself to love her, but you never even cared for her enough to do that. And now she's dying. Hermione might have been the smartest of us all, but she had the most tender and delicate heart, Malfoy. And you broke it."

"You can't die from a broken heart."

"Tell that to Hermione. She's been dying every day since you left. Well, at least her suffering's almost over. I know she'll be happier where she goes. I hope to God she is. Hermione couldn't live without love, but you refused to give it to her like you'd refuse the scraps from your table to a man dying of hunger. I do hope you're proud, Malfoy."

I was. That was the problem.

Potter sighed in defeat, something I had never heard before. It was in that moment that I realized she truly was dying. Potter's words sank into my very soul, ripping it to shreds. The squeezing pain in my chest only intensified, and I realized that my heart, which I had believed dead and gone for years, was crying out for my pride to bow down. Through all these years, my pride had been the one thing that had stayed true to me, to the very end. It had acted as an iron curtain, protecting me from everything that could hurt me. Everything, that is, except her.

"Thanks for the news, Potter. I'll send flowers."

I did not look up, but I listened closely for the soft pop that said Potter was gone forever from my life. He was my only link to Hermione, and when he was gone, that was the end. We never could have become great friends, but we both loved her. There were only two differences in our love. The first was that Potter's love was expected and accepted, mine was not. The second was that he could live without her.

I could not.

"I hope you understand what you're throwing away, Malfoy," Potter said quietly. "She was willing to give it all up for you. Everything. Not everyone will do that for somebody. You know, they say true love comes only once in a lifetime. It can't have been true love for me because I still have hope. I know I'll survive. I'll keep on living because I'll know she's in a better place even if I can't be there with her. I may even still have my heart to give to someone else. But what about you, Malfoy? What will you have when she's gone?" He answered his own question:

"Nothing."

"Because you're nothing without her. You're nothing but a stupid, selfish fool who didn't recognize happiness when it was staring him right in the face. You turned away from happily ever after when it was in your grasp. It was your last hope, Malfoy, and you let it slip away. You're so full of yourself, full of your own pride. Well, guess what? Pride will buy you nothing in this world or the next. Hermione's going to a better place. And I have only one consolation:

"You can't follow her there."

At long last, the soft pop came, and Potter was gone. His voice still rang in my head, taunting yet true. They would ring true to the very end. I sat in my study, eyes not seeing the evidence of all the wealth I had accumulated for myself over the years. Rare phoenix feather quills, a high-backed chair of the finest Italian leather—all were material possessions that attempted to fill the void. The only things that were true in the room were the books that lined the walls from ceiling to floor—manuscripts that preceded the founding of Hogwarts, a first edition copy of Hogwarts, A History. Books that would have made her eyes light up in absolute joy and happiness, joy and happiness that I could have caused instead of suffering and pain, which is all I'd ever given her. I lay my head down on the red mahogany desk.

And cried.

The day Hermione Granger was laid to rest, Draco Malfoy was late for the first time in his life. In fact, he never even turned up for the ceremony. Harry Potter, the last of the mourners to leave her gravesite, lingered by the newly erected headstone, hoping Malfoy would turn up just to prove to him that Hermione hadn't given her heart away completely in vain.

That she hadn't died for nothing.

Harry waited, and no one came. Not a living soul breathed within the entire graveyard, save for him. His eyes rested only briefly on his mother's and father's graves nearby, but it Hermione's name engraved on stone held his attention. He couldn't believe it. She lay in the ground, cold and gone from this world. She had been his nearest and dearest friend, and the least he could do for her was bury her among the descendants of Godric Gryffindor, his family. Almost all of the people who lay beneath the ground had made names for themselves in the wizarding world. He could only imagine what great things she would have done had she lived.

"I'm sorry, Hermione."

He knelt on the freshly stirred soil, one hand resting at the base of the headstone while the other traced her name. "I'm so sorry you never did find the cure to lycanthropy or invented a new spell. I'm sorry we never travelled the continent like we said we would. I'm sorry for all the time we wasted arguing." Harry paused to fight the lump that had risen in his throat. When he spoke again, it was in a strained voice. "I'm sorry he never came, Hermione. You could have had anyone you wanted—Ron, me, anyone in the world. But of course the only person who never realized how wonderful you were was the one you fell for...

"I'm so sorry you had to fall in love with him."

He wrenched himself away, turning his back on the entire graveyard and walking away with his head bowed and tears running down his face. It never occurred to him that Apparating to the Burrow for a solemn meal with the Weasleys or even to the Leaky Cauldron to drown away his grief in shots of Firewhiskey was better than walking aimlessly in the numbing cold. Hermione would have wanted him to be with the Weasleys, but he could not bear to go back to the Burrow just yet. Ron's grief was unbearable to watch. Harry feared Ron loved Hermione just as she had loved Malfoy. He could only hope that Ron would not go down the path Hermione had.

The path of unrequited love.

Ron's love could not even hope, not in death. Hermione at least the chance to hope. She had hoped every single one of those 1,826 days that Malfoy would come to her. It wasn't until Harry had returned from Flooing Malfoy that she lost hope, the only thing she had left. She had faded quickly after that. As he and Ron sat at her bedside, holding vigil, he could have sworn he could heard her heart breaking into a million pieces, over and over again. The light in her eyes, which had been growing dimmer and dimmer each and every day, was finally extinguished. At the last stroke of midnight, she had finally let go. Her last words would haunt him until his own dying day.

"All I wanted was for him to love me ... just a little..."

And with that, she was gone. Yet, throughout the night, Ron and Harry had kept faithful watch at her bedside, not moving, not saying a word. Ron had just stared at her face, peaceful at last in the slumber of eternal rest. Despite the dozens of candles Molly Weasley lit in the room, not a glimmer had sparkled in Ron's empty blue eyes as he repeated the same thing over and over again.

"She can't be gone. She can't."

Harry wondered if Hermione was happy in heaven. He could just imagine her in white robes and angel wings, asking whatever Supreme Being had allowed her to die on this earth for all the answers to all the questions she had ever had. And yet, even in this mental picture of paradise, she was melancholy. She had not been happy for years because Malfoy was not with her. He had a painful suspicion that she would never have been happy unless she was with Malfoy.

The trouble was, the words 'Malfoy' and 'happy' never went together.

By the time Harry thought to take notice of his surroundings, it was too late. He had been led on by a force outside of himself to the last place on earth he wanted to see. He now stood on a sprawling doorstep, the brass knocker with a double M engraved onto it staring him in the face.

Malfoy Manor.

Harry stumbled back a couple of steps. The entire place was desolate, but it held every pretense of grandeur and importance. Even for the middle of the winter, everything was perfectly manicured. The tops of the leaf-less shrubs were still cut to razor perfection. Not a speck of snow dared flit across the path that led to the great, bronze doors. Yet the grey stone of Malfoy Manor, so much like the eyes of its owner, spoke of an impenetrable loneliness. Everything spoke of a cold pride that kept everything else at a distance. One lone light shone in the fourth floor window, flickering and on the verge of going out.

"So this is what it's like to be a Malfoy."

Harry nodded grimly once, now seeing the famed Manor for what it truly was: a prison. It was a barricade Malfoy built around himself, just as he had barricaded his heart. Harry exhaled slowly before turning his back on the building and its sole occupant forever.

"I hope to God you're happy."

And he really meant it. Harry was surprised when the words came out more heartfelt than disdainful. He wanted Malfoy to be happy for Hermione's sake; she had wanted Malfoy to be happy, even if it had meant sacrificing her own happiness for his. She had thought he was happy without her.

Harry knew better.

As well-trained as Malfoy had been in hiding his emotions, Harry had seen the truth in those steel, grey eyes. Malfoy had loved Hermione. Harry could not imagine that Malfoy could love her as much as she had loved him, but it was love. Now he could only hope that Malfoy could live out the rest of his life without Hermione.

Without love.

Harry strode back to the road but stood for a long time at the end of the path. He did not spare it another look, but he stayed nevertheless. Something was telling him to wait. For what he was waiting for, he knew not.

But he waited.

Malfoy lay on his bed in the fourth floor master bedroom of Malfoy Manor. There was no light in the room except for the flickering flame of a small candle on his bedside table. The room was as cold as it was outside, yet he cared little if he froze or starved to death. But he doubted very much that he would die from the cold or starvation. He had lain on this bed, atop its green silk sheets, for days, one hand resting on his chest, right above his heart. He had freed all of his house elves.

For Hermione.

He sobbed for Hermone. Yes, a Malfoy sobbing—wrenching, heartbreaking sobs. It was a release five years in the making, but instead of freeing himself from his grief, Malfoy felt completely the opposite. Each sob wracked through his body, each one making him weaker and weaker, driving him deeper and deeper into the overwhelming sense of loss and guilt that had overcome him ever since the day Potter's head had appeared in his fireplace. He gasped for air, but the pressure in his chest refused to subsist. The pressure that he had fought so hard to suppress came rushing through the walls of stone he had built around the part of him only one person had ever touched.

His heart.

Starlight filtered through the window and shone upon the trail of tears on his pale, white cheeks. One, Hermione had slapped a decade ago. The other, she had called 'quite lovely' as she stroked it six years ago. He remembered that day vividly, the one day of supreme happiness he had experienced in his life. Though it seemed to take all the effort he could muster, his pale white fingers reached for the bedside table.

"Alohomora."

Though he held no wand, it seemed that an angel smiled down on him and granted him his request. With an almost imperceptible click, the lock of the drawer on the nightstand disengaged, and the drawer slid open, the rollers screeching slightly from years of unuse. He reached a hand blindly into the drawer and pulled out its only content. His most prized possession. Something he had not looked upon in years, though every single detail was etched into his memory.

A picture frame.

Black and white like all wizarding photos, a picture of a girl was encased in an ornate silver frame with a curling H for a crest at its top. The girl neither looked at the photographer nor smiled. She was sitting on the ledge of one of the Astronomy Tower outlook windows at Hogwarts. The wind whipped her wild hair all around her face. She gripped her billowing robes around her knees, which she had pulled up to her ches. Her eyes had a faraway yet content look in them as she gazed out on the lake, of which a glittering square inch could be seen.

His Hermione.

She leaned against a cloaked figure who stood behind her, whose height had prevented his head from being included in the picture. But Draco knew who this stranger was. He closed his eyes and felt himself leave the gloom of his room. His face was bathed in sunshine, the wind blew around him. He could feel the soft tendrils of her hair brushing gently against his face, the slight pressure of her leaning against his chest, the rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed in and out. He lifted his arms to place them around her, to ensure her that he was there, that he was hers.

One resonating chord heralded midnight, breaking the spell.

He could no longer feel the wind. He could no longer remember the exact color of her hair or her eyes or that sweet scent that was explicitly hers. He could no longer feel her presence. He reached out to bring her back to him, fearing that she was leaning too far over the edge of the Tower and would fall. She had been scared to sit there, initially, but he had convinced her ... promised her that he would not let anything happen to her.

His hands only met with thin air.

He had failed her. He had not kept his promise. He had let her die. It was his fault she had died. He had not kept her close to him, not told her that he loved her so much it physically hurt, not told her that he needed her to live, not told her that he couldn't possibly live without her.

"Come back to me, Hermione!" he pleaded. "Come to me."

She had saved him once, not so long ago. Saved him with a look, a smile, a kiss. Saved him with the promise of her love until the end of time. Please, could she save him again? Save him from regret, grief, all the emotions he had hidden from for years? Save him from this misery of a life he had chosen? Save him from himself?

There was no answer.

With a little shudder of defeat, Draco willed himself to be still. Hope had never been a great factor in his life, and now it was non-existent. He was sorry—so utterly, desperately, terribly sorry. She had not deserved to die like this. He had denied the possibility that one could die like this. He had not believed it could happen, but he now knew, first-hand, that it was possible.

It was possible to die from a broken heart.

The room, from the hangings on his four-poster bed to the great window through which a lone shone, began to fade into an even deeper darkness. He was leaving his life, his entire world, everything that her love had threatened, everything that he had fought to hold on to. He was entering a world he knew naught of, and he only took one thing with him: the image of his sweet angel, his star, his light. He uttered one last entreaty.

"Save me, Hermione. Take me with you."

He was answered by the haunting echo of Harry's words, uttered that fateful day. He had not believed Potter, he had not believed she could be dying. She, who gave him a reason to live. She, who used to light up his world with a single look, a single smile. He could not imagine a world without her, living eternally without her.

"You can't follow her there."

There was no angel or star to light his way. He was alone in the dark, and he allowed himself to be consumed by it, just as he had all his life. Once, Hermione had pulled him out, and he had repaid her by denying her his love. He deserved this hell. There mightn't be fire or brimstone, but a life without Hermione could be nothing else but hell.

In the beginning and in the end, there was only darkness.

The last stroke of midnight faded away into the corners of the house that could have rang with the laughter and joy of children with his quite lovely cheeks and her gentle smile. What could have been and what was were two entirely different things. It all could have been entirely different if he had only taken the time to utter three small words to her.

The last stroke of midnight faded away into nothingness.

The last stroke of midnight reached Harry from the depths of Malfoy Manor. He stared up at the lone star in the sky for a moment, wondering if it could be her, still watching over them, over him. With a final sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his very soul, he Disapparted. If Harry had glanced back at the shadowy Manor, he would have seen the lone, flickering light go out, extinguished just like the life of the man who lay beside it.

In the end, only darkness was left behind.