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.”
