Happy Anniversary, Draco

A/N: Yet another oneshot I had write. Just popped in my head when I thought about how ironic it would be to breakup on your anniversary. Not one of my best, but hopefully you’ll enjoy it.

Disclaimer: No, I don’t own Harry Potter. Wanna make something of it?

Happy Anniversary, Draco

“Draco.”

She had been speaking his name in secret—for how long? Why couldn’t she remember? So long, and still if felt unfamiliar on her lips, a strange new word that didn’t seem quite to fit, but fell from her lips flat on its face.

He turned and looked at her, a rare genuine smile lighting up his face.

“Hermione.”

Her name. It sounded so perfect on his, as though it had meant to stay there for the rest of its life. She loved the way he spoke it with a slight caress, so lovingly. So unlike Harry and Ron, who said it carelessly, as though the name had no importance.

She looked at him. It was their anniversary today, an anniversary of—three years, she realized. When he had first asked her out, she had laughed in his face. When he had asked her out again, she had slipped him an embarrassing potion. When he had asked her out the third time, she had employed Ginny’s Bat Bogey Hex. But he had never stopped. Little notes signed, DM, turned up all over the place. At breakfast she got sent flowers and little presents. And every chance he got, every time they were alone, he asked her out again.

It had been a month before she had acquiesced. She had been so sure that this was a prank—that he would stand her up and laugh about it to the whole school. And when he hadn’t, she had been sure that this was just another conquest for him, the playboy of Hogwarts. She had been determined she wouldn’t fall for him—that he was just a casual date. Only the dates kept going. And the romance continued. And that day he first said her name, she knew they had something more than temporary going on.

And here they were, standing on the Astronomy Tower, at five minutes to midnight.

Say it. Say it, she thought mentally. Just say it. You have to. You can’t keep going like this. It’s not right. It’s not safe. You just can’t.

But the words refused to come out of her mouth.

Just say it…but how could she?

He smiled at her, the special smile reserved just for her. Not a sneer, not a smirk—though those were undeniably sexy—not even the devil-may-care grin, but a real, true smile. She knew how much it cost him to let his barriers down enough to smile so openly, so honestly. She held his heart in her hands, and she was about to break it.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. His smile faltered, and she felt such a pang of guilt that she almost stopped—but it wouldn’t be fair to Draco, it wouldn’t.

“Sorry for what?” he asked, his tone holding no accusation. He trusted her.

“It’s not you, it’s me.” The old break-up line that is so meaningless.

“What is?” he asked, suspecting now, but refusing to believe, refusing to understand, hoping against all hope that he what he thinks, no, knows, is wrong. He knows what she is trying to say—how could he not, when he has used the line so carelessly so many times himself?—but refuses to accept it, cannot accept it…

“I can’t do this anymore, Draco,” she says, unable to look at him. “I’m sorry.”

“Do what? Sneak out to look at the stars?” he knows now, even his tone is merely bitter, but still—

“You know what, Draco. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“It doesn’t seem very hard to me,” he says mockingly, and now his voice is bitter.

“Please,” and now she can’t even look up, can’t look him in the face, just stares at the little quill she is twirling in her fingers.

He won’t beg. He can’t. His stupid Slytherin, Malfoy pride won’t let him. Slowly she looks up, begging for him to understand, for him to forgive her. But his gaze is cold, and he looks away.

“Tell me this is a joke.” The closest to a plea he can voice. Even in his grave Lucius Malfoy does his work well.

“I’m sorry,” she says for the third time, her voice barely audible.

“Who is it?” he asks. “Potter perhaps?” he spits the name angrily. “Or the Weasel?”

“No one, Draco, it’s just—”

“Just what?” he snarls. “Just you can’t do this anymore? What kind of fucking reason is that? What? You miss your friends, is that it? Your stupid Gryffindor pride won’t let you sneak around anymore to just carry on a relationship with me? After all, it’s only Malfoy, the Death Eater ferret, right? What do I matter? You miss telling Potter and Weasley everything?”

She closes her eyes, and he knows he has hit his mark. Oh, how it stings. Anything else would be torture, but this—his body shakes with a rage and hurt indescribable. Beaten by Potter yet again, when he isn’t even trying, damn it!

“Of course. It’s always Potter. You choose him, huh? Him over me?”

She opens her mouth desperately, trying to deny it, the blatant hate and anguish in his words, but what can she say? That is exactly what she is doing.

“I’m sorry,” she says, for the fourth and last time. Somewhere in Hogwarts, the enormous clock starts tolling. One. She looks up at him.

Two. She opens her mouth.

Three. Her hand goes into her pocket.

Four. She holds a tiny green box tied with a silver ribbon.

Five. It is the present he has just given her.

Six. Slowly, ever so slowly, she extends her arm to him.

Seven. Automatically, though it kills him to do it, he opens his hand.

Eight. She opens her hand.

Nine. The box falls on his palm.

Ten. She takes her cloak from where it has fallen on the floor.

Eleven. “I’m sorry, Malfoy,” she whispers.

Twelve. The door closes behind her, as his last name eats away at his heart.

The clock has struck midnight. He stares at the empty space where only a few minutes ago, she was standing. He slowly, slowly opens the box and stares at the silver ring inside it. There is scrap of parchment next to it and he reads it, remembering the joy and nervousness when he wrote it. Hermione, I love you. Will you marry me?

In a sudden fit of anger, he pitches it, the ring, the box, and the parchment out the window. He watches as it traces a slow arc over the grounds and lands with a splash in the lake. It is 12:01. It is January 18th. He laughs bitterly to himself. “Happy Anniversary, Draco.”