February 14th 1999
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Hermione readjusted her scarf and slid her hands into her pockets, wishing she'd thought to bring a pair of gloves.
The frost-laced grass crunched beneath her feet as she strayed from the path, meandering around the gravestones and memorials lined up in uneven patterns, many worn by weather and age, and some brand new. It was close to eleven and the night was at its darkest, but there were various lamps illuminating the trails, some near-death and flickering, and some seeming to flicker as moths danced around them like sycamore seeds. Peeking out from over the brow of a slight hill, she could make out the naked branches of an elm tree, stretching up to the stars like pleading arms, and she began to feel the emotion swell in her throat.
This part of the graveyard was secluded and lonely, with the majority of the graves here centuries old, but it had somehow felt appropriate at the time. Now, Hermione wondered if Tonks would've perhaps preferred to be laid to rest surrounded by others, as she'd always enjoyed the company of friends. But then the grave-dwellers weren't friends. They were strangers. And Hermione knew that as long as she'd been close to Remus, she wouldn't have really cared. She'd have said something like, 'I'm dead anyway what do I care where you put me? It's not like I'm going to know.' So Tonks and Remus had been buried side by side beneath the friendly sway of the elm tree, in this vast graveyard, not far from Ted Tonks, Sirius Black, and Severus Snape.
Hermione swallowed hard as she came over the crest of the hill, almost tripping over the roots of an oak tree sat near the top, and she grabbed its trunk to catch her balance. Lifting her head, her eyes sought out the grave she'd come here to visit, but it was obstructed by a figure. A man. Her heart-rate accelerated to an almost painful speed, vibrating around her ribcage like a wind-up toy, and her fist tightened around her wand in her pocket. The war had taught her nothing if to always remain vigilant.
She wondered if she had perhaps told Harry or Ron that she was coming here tonight, but she knew she hadn't. She had diligently assured that the boys wouldn't know about her midnight trip to the graveyard, knowing they would want to come, and she had wanted to do this alone. That was why she had come so late; to have the luxury of solitude and privacy, but evidently someone had decided to ruin that.
The figure was tall, lean, and definitely male. His head was bowed, but just when it began to dawn on Hermione that she recognised his silhouette, he lifted his head, and the glow of the moon bounced off his infamous white-blond hair.
Her jaw slackened as a torrent of emotions flooded her all at once; shock, outrage, confusion, disgust. She couldn't see his face from where she was, but she knew it was Draco Malfoy. She thought back to the last time she'd seen him, some five months ago when the Malfoys had been on trial. Harry had spoken in their defence and she had gone along for support while Ron had refused, insisting that Draco and his parents 'deserved to rot in Azkaban for what they had done.' Hermione had sided with Harry, listening to how Narcissa had saved his life, and how Draco had been threatened, but she hadn't found it easy. It had been difficult to resist considering all the awful things the Malfoys had done leading up to the war, and she had struggled to regard Draco with anything less than disappointment and disdain for his behaviour in Hogwarts. He might not be guilty, but he was still a cruel and prejudiced prat.
It was an involuntary reaction, but his presence here reignited all the aversion she'd felt towards him when they'd been growing up. She couldn't help but feel like this was some cruel joke; that he'd come to mock the memory of those who had fallen, and she clenched her fists as she left the shadow of the oak tree and headed towards him with long and agitated strides.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded when she was a few feet away, watching his shoulders jerk with surprise.
He slowly twisted around to face her, his posture stiff and defensive, but when she caught sight of his face, she couldn't stop her eyes from widening. He looked so different, like a tormented boy trapped within the shell of a proud man; his features sullen and tight as he bit down on his back teeth. The way he studied her was neither abrasive nor cold; his stare was simply blank and yet somehow intense, like he'd forgotten how she looked and was reassessing her with no intention of caring.
He sighed, and the icy air turned it white. "Granger," he greeted quietly, his tone stoic.
"I asked what the hell you were doing here!"
"I heard you," he said. "I would think it's fairly obvious why I'm here. The same reason as you."
She scoffed. "I doubt that very much. I am here to pay my respects-
"So am I-
"Don't you dare!" she interrupted, stepping closer to him. "You have a sick sense of humour-
"Granger," he frowned. "I am not here to be difficult."
"You shouldn't be here at all!" she yelled furiously, and she felt tears slip down her cheeks. She wasn't sure if they were tears of frustration or grief, but all tears burn the same. "You have no right to be here!"
His eyebrows knitted together. "Who are you to decide who-
"I was her friend!" she cut him off, her voice slightly shaking with emotion. " You have no reason to be here! You didn't even know her when she was alive!"
"Perhaps that gives me more reason to be here," he countered.
He reached one gloved hand into the pocket of his coat and Hermione hastily withdrew her wand, pointing it at him with a trembling grip. He hesitated for a moment, his absent gaze shifting between her eyes and his wand, and then he slowly pulled out a single black rose. Bending down, he placed it on Tonks' grave, and Hermione watched him with complete bewilderment as he mumbled something incoherent before he rose back to his full height. Studying her with that distant look again, he peeled off his gloves and tossed them to her, and Hermione instinctively caught them with her free hand. She glanced down at them but quickly lifted her suspicious eyes back to him, searching his impassive face for an explanation.
"Your hands are practically blue," he told her, and then he turned and left.
Staring at his back until he disappeared out of sight, all the animosity that she'd felt towards him seemed to melt away, and an odd emotion that felt very much like guilt stole its place in her chest. The sudden shift in her temperament was so jarring that she almost called out to Malfoy, but she caught herself, questioning whether the way she had attacked him had been too ruthless, or completely justified considering their history. What had thrown her the most was Draco's reluctance to shout back at her. During their time in Hogwarts, he had always been so keen to indulge in a fiery argument with his quick wit and harsh comebacks, like it was all a sport, but thinking back on their altercation, it was like he'd done everything to avoid a quarrel with her.
Shaking her head and remembering why she was here, she turned to back Tonks' grave, and the tears began to tumble like rain. Crouching down to kneel beside the gravestone, she could taste the salt at the corners of her mouth, and she released a shuddering breath. All the flowers that had blanketed both Tonks' and Remus' graves since their funeral had wilted away or been consumed by the February frost. The only indication of mourning now was Draco's lone rose, and for a moment she thought about moving it, still unsure how she felt about his odd behaviour.
But she let it be.
"I miss you," she whispered to the headstone, lifting her wand to conjure a viola and snowdrop wreath. "Happy birthday
