A/N: I listened to Birdy's version of Skinny Love while writing to this, which is where the title is from. I recommend it. It's an absolutely beautiful song.
As usual, I own nothing.
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Just Last The Year
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Sometimes, you wonder if it was worth it.
The sky is a pale blue; the sort of dreamy blue that lovers sleep under and children dance beneath. The grass beneath your bare feet is frosty, sending your toes numb, and you receive some odd looks from passers-by, probably all of whom are question your sanity.
Just keep walking.
The cold bites you, like a ferocious lioness, rearing its head, ready to pounce. It attempts to attack you, send you into a state of pneumonia. It doesn't succeed, because you are already icy cold inside.
Keep walking.
You sit down in the grass, and lean against a fine oak tree. The occupants of it burst into the sky in a colourful mess of browns, blues, and reds. One bird detaches itself from its flock and hops onto the dirt beneath you, staring up at you in wonder. You can only imagine what it is thinking. It's probably wondering what you are doing on the ground on such a chilly morning.
Or maybe it is wondering nothing at all. Maybe you are going insane, like some people say.
"The boy I love is dead," you tell the tiny bird. It looks at you with its wide, glistening eyes, and hops onto the hand you offer. It has streaks of red and blue down its back, and its belly is spotted with white. It's very beautiful, in an imperfect sort of way.
"It's all my fault," you whisper, feeling your cheeks strain with the effort of holding back tears. You ignore the stares of onlookers, curious old couples, young couples, infants, and a panting border collie.
The bird looks up at you, and cheeps. It nuzzles into you, and a tear escapes. "It's all my fault," you whisper again.
This is your punishment, you think. Your punishment is to linger outside of death's reach, and yet never really live.
The tiny bird hops up onto your hand again and chirps its goodbye. It takes off into the sky, following another, who is hovering mid-air, almost waiting.
You climb to your feet again.
Keep walking.
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You are running with Neville through the ruins, your feet making an impossibly loud noise as they slap against the dirt. Your companion's eyes are tight, his jaw set. He's furious. At himself, at this war. You're not entirely sure.
But you understand completely.
A flicker of blonde, red blood splayed across the ground. Draco Malfoy's body is limp, devoid of life. You scream, and you scream, and you scream. You vaguely hear Neville ask you what's wrong, that familiar, worried tone in his voice.
He's dead, he's dead, he's dead.
You cling to your lover's body – it's okay to call him your lover now, is it not? Who's it going to harm?
No-one but yourself.
Dead, gone, gone.
His blood stains your fingers. The wound in his chest is gaping, and it appears to glare at you, whispering, This is your fault. You could have stopped this. You're weak. Weak. This is all your fault.
Gone, gone, gone.
"Hermione," Neville calls. "Hermione, it's just Malfoy…"
Just Malfoy.
Just the Malfoy who kissed away your tears, who saved you from yourself. Just the Malfoy who you allowed to die.
This is all your fault.
You don't see him, but you know that Harry has walked over. You can hear his heavy breaths, see his wand hanging limply from his hand. He is staring down at you as you clutch Draco Malfoy's lifeless body. He has a peculiar expression on his face, one of confusion and doubt.
"What's wrong, Hermione? It's just Malfoy."
Just Malfoy.
Just the Malfoy who told you of their plans, who offered to run away with you. Just Malfoy who made you laugh when you thought you'd never laugh again.
Just Malfoy.
"How did he die?" you whisper. It doesn't matter, not really. You know it will only hurt more when you find out, but your lips form the words anyway.
"Caught by a stray curse. Died instantly."
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You continue your walk. You can feel the cold now, but you welcome it, and it mixes with the iciness inside of you. You find yourself at the lake, the one your parents used to take you to when you were young.
Your mum would lay out the picnic blanket, and your dad would sing songs, his deep baritone dancing across the lake in an echo. When he was finished, everybody would clap and cheer, delighted with this show.
Now, even as you remember those times, this place just feels cold. Empty.
You can hear your father singing, but now it just sounds sad. Haunting. His voice in your memory holds a tint of melancholy.
Keep walking.
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"Whose curse was it?"
"Mine." Harry's voice is pained, and his brow furrows. He looks torn between regret and bemusement.
You begin to cry, great, horrible sobs wracking through your body, creating a mess of blood and tears on the cold ground.
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One night, a few days after the fight, Ginny comes to your apartment to find you collapsed on the bathroom floor, your head in your hands. She sits down beside you, holding you to her.
"It's all my fault," you whisper.
She doesn't argue. She looks down at your tear-stained face, wraps her arms around you.
And then she begins to cry, too.
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The water of the lake is frozen over, and a few ducks hop haphazardly across the surface, making tiny cracks in the perfect surface. You hold your hand to the ice, feel your hand go cold. You take your hand away, your fingers curling in on themselves.
You walk over to the tree that you and your family would always sit at, and you kneel in the dirt, bringing out your wand.
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You remember the night he was tackled in Quidditch, and had to go to the infirmary. You had followed him after making sure your friends were absorbed in the game, and sat by his bedside. Madam Pomfrey had regarded you with calculating eyes, but in the end, she had let you be.
He'd peered up at you with pained eyes, wincing as he leant on his sore shoulder. He had been hazy from the drugs administered to reduce the pain, and he'd stared up at you as if he could see right through you.
"I suppose you've got me just how you want me," he jokes with a strained smile.
You don't smile back. You bury yourself in the crook of his neck, inhaling the musky scent of him, and whisper, "Oh, Draco."
He meets your gaze with gentle eyes. His hair is a mess, and you almost giggle at the sigh of it. Almost.
"It'll be okay, Hermione," he tells you softly. He rubs his thump across your bottom lip. "Once this is over, we can leave."
You both know that this is a blatant lie, but neither of you says it out loud.
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There is no spell for what you wish to do, so you let your magic take over. You hear the grinding of stones as they merge into one, hear the shattering of rock against rock. When you look down, there is a smooth, marble plaque before you, with:
Draco Malfoy – 1980 - 1997
The right boy who made all the wrong choices
Tears gathering in your eyes, you walk away.
You don't look back.