Holy crapballs batman! Its been forever and a day since Ive updated. Im so sorry about the wait, should anyone care. Ive been really busy with that reality called life. Ill try to be ore prompt, but i guarentee nothing.
Anything you see tha tbelongs to JK rowling obviously belongs to JK Rowling. See the connection?
"Damn. She's alive." Draco muttered. "Not, damn, she's alive, but Arg!" Draco was clearly frustrated. Draco did not like being frustrated, not in the least. In fact, he despised it, especially when it didn't make any sense.
He was pacing his mother's garden again, although completely alone this time. His mother was off visiting Bellatrix-or so she had said when she had left. Truth be told, Draco didn't really care where she was or whom she was with, as long as she wasn't bothering him, or causing trouble. The scents of the flowers, and the open air soothed him, or rather, would have soothed him, if he weren't so agitated.
Why did she have to be alive? Not that he actually wanted her dead, or even maimed, but this further complicated those feeling that he had had before, when he was under the impression that she was good and dead.
He felt nervous, as if his insides had turned to worms whenever he thought about her. He didn't like this feeling, not in the least. The thing that bothered him the most was that he didn't know WHY his insides went all schizophrenic on him whenever the thought of her popped up. His stomach jumped and danced whenever he thought of her, picturing her big honey eyes, tears clinging prettily to her long lashes, looking at him.
Damn emotional bullshit, he though, wishing-not for the first time-that his emotions could be turned off or, at the very least, be used selectively, when it suited his purposes. His father had this ability, but as to whether it was a good thing or not was still up for debate. Draco leaned more towards the not.
But as to what he felt for Hermione-wait… Hermione? he didn't know. Thus, Draco didn't know what, exactly, he didn't want to feel for her.
Draco rubbed his head. He could feel a headache-a migraine actually, coming on. He would need a headache potion soon, judging by the pounding in his temples. He just hoped that there was some potion already made.
He made his way back to he castle proper, reconsidering. Maybe, if he needed to make the potion, the complicated instructions and measurements would keep his mind off Hermione. That was it, he thought. He would make the potion-whether it was needed or not, as a distraction.
Although, whenever he pictured her smiling face-which was never actually directed at himself-with those big beautiful eyes, and rosy lips, he wondered if he really wanted the distraction.
Hermione sat on a chair, near the kitchen table. She was surrounded by her friends, and well wishers and piles upon piles of food. It seemed as if every single guest had brought something-under the impression that Hermione was a starving beggar, she had guessed, who needed fattening up. To top it all off, Mrs. Dursley and Mrs. Weasley had already catered the entire event. There would be leftovers for weeks.
Hermione joined in conversations when she was obligated to, and answered questions and assured her friends that, yes, she was doing alright and that, no, she didn't need alone time at the moment.
And it was true. Hermione felt better once that cry at the cemetery was over and done with. It might have had something to do with Draco's arrival, but she felt stronger about the whole thing.
She hadn't told her friends about Draco's visit, and she didn't think that she was going to, either. Not that she enjoyed keeping things from her best friends, but she didn't think they needed to know. He had told her rather personal things, she thought, and the last thing that he-or she, for that matter, needed was Ron, raging about in a huff about nothing, or Harry coming up with conspiracy theories about why he was really there.
But, Hermione had believed Draco-every single word of what he had said rung true. There was no trace of a lie in his icy eyes. Not once.
She was, for the most part, a fairly good judge of people and, while she didn't trust-or even like-Draco, she could tell that he had truly been bent out of shape over things.
She just didn't know why.
"Hermione, you still with us?" Harry asked, startling her out of her reverie.
"Yeah, Harry, I am" Hermione replied. She smiled at him-a genuine smile. She finally believed that she was.
The reception was as successful as a reception for this many people could be. Hermione, as she knew she would, got stuck with more leftover then she could shake a stick at. Not that she wanted to shake sticks at good food, but it seemed an appropriate analogy.
She gave as much food as she could to the Weasley's, and the Dursley's (when she said Dursley's, she meant Dudley) and the rest, that she couldn't give away, would go to the homeless. They had a pickup/delivery thing in the city, and they took care of everything for her.
After all the guests had left, she, the Dursley's and the Weasley's cleaned the house. She had announced that she indeed wanted to sell the house. Mrs. Weasley would help with everything, since she was not only Muggle, but also lived close by.
Hermione went to bed that night at the Burrow, feeling better about the whole thing. She still desperately missed her parents, and family, but this was something that would lessen over time, she knew.
The only thing that kept her awake-and only for a few extra moments-was the thought of Draco, standing over her mother's grave, offering flowers for the dead.
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