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The night was still, calm, like how it is after years of familiarity. It’s grief and acceptance. It’s gratitude for the time, but anger for the absence.
The November chill had thoroughly set in over the English countryside, and that hazy white blanket of snow had just started to cover the large expanse of the Manor’s property.
Hermione was standing at the window in the main library. The soft, warm light of the sconces flickered on the walls behind her. Her hands brought the steaming mug of tea to her lips.
She inhaled the earthy bergamot of the Earl Grey in her cup and sighed looking deeper into the night. Her lips touching the china, drinking in the warm tea.
She hoped it’s heat would seep into her chest.
Pulled from her thoughts, Draco’s warm hands wrapped around her waist dragging her into his arms, against his chest.
“What’s wrong, darling?” He breathed into her curly, chestnut hair.
Her voice was clipped. “Just thinking, Draco, I’m alright,” she turned her head, quickly pressing her lips to his cheek.
He rubbed his fingers in soothing strokes across the tops of her arms, “When will you realize you don’t have to pretend with me?”
Hermione shivered, but pulled out of his grasp, sighing under her breath. She says nothing, but abandons the tea on a nearby table.
She looked through him as she returned to her place in front of the window. He watched as she wrapped her arms around herself and stepped closer to the window.
Draco doesn’t push, he’s learned his lesson in years past.
The holidays are always hard, and as time inches closer to Christmas, then New Years, and then February, the worse it gets.
Patience is paramount in grief because anger is available in an abundance.
Hermione Malfoy’s father died three years, ten months, and three days ago in a muggle hospice facility.
Time is a thief, and it has taken so much from his wife.
A young wife.
They’d only been married four years.
Indeed.
The timeline does in fact mean that his heart stopped beating three months and seventeen days after he gave her away at her wedding.
She wouldn’t have survived if it wasn’t for him. Draco was always so attentive especially during these times. Holidays, anniversaries, birthdays, and still every random day in between.
Grief doesn’t just happen out loud; at funerals, at their grave, during prayer at church.
Oh, no, grief is insidious and it spreads like cancer.
It lives in silence.
Until it’s doesn’t.
And the noise. Is. Everywhere.
Sometimes it’s a hum, and while you know it’s there, ignorable, but other times, you can’t ignore it. Other times, it demands you know it’s there. Know it’s name, know it’s memory, know the moment. It yells in your face, it drags you back, it rains on you in every bright moment.
But—
It doesn’t feel like you’re going to die anymore.
It’s a quiet dread.
It’s your mental health declining yet again.
Hello old friend, how long this time?
It’s a knowing exchange of anguish, like it’s been obligated to collect payment on pain and love.
The fog clears for a moment.
A voice.
It’s saying something. She can almost make out the cadence of the person’s voice.
A touch on her shoulder.
His face comes into view.
“Hermione”, Draco’s voice calls out.
Suddenly, reality refocuses, the haze is gone.
“Ah.. sorry, Draco, I don’t know what happened. Another episode I guess.”
He watches her wobble, unsteady on her own feet, unwilling to chance it, scoops her into his arms.
“Please, don’t take me away from the window.”
He stopped mid turn away from the large bay window, “I’m sorry, love, I’ll bring you back.”
He brought her nose right up to the glass. She sighed, and he chuckled softly, “Granger, look at the snow, it’s getting heavier.”
The dancing light of the sconces bounced off the snowflakes’ reflection in the glass. It looked like a sea of diamonds sparkling in the dark of night.
Hermione swatted lightly at Draco, “Please, let me down. I feel fine, I promise.”
His eyes were on hers a heartbeat later. His eyes could be nothing other than smoldering silver lava in that moment.
Ever searching. Ever analyzing. Years of experience as evidenced by.
He set her down tenderly, not letting her wander too far out of his grasp.
Instead of sitting like Draco wished she would, she leaned into the window. Face pressed into the glass, her hands coming to rest near her head, fingers splayed out like she was searching for something, anything.
She watched every snowflake dance and twirl across the dark expanse of the back property until they disappeared from sight.
It was a long time until she spoke again, but when she did, it was a question.
“Do you think the dead miss us and visit?”
“You know my answer, love, of course they do.”
“I know. I just… Nevermind. It’s silly.”
“Tell me, you know you can tell me anything.”
She turned away from the window when she answered, “Your answer is always so comforting. I know you’ve said it before but will you say it again?”
“I believe death is complex. Just as complex as living, and when one’s body dies, the soul, energy, and matter are still very much alive.
They retain their worldly memories and connections. They grieve and mourn as we do, and reach out for connection in similar ways.
They live among us. They guide us through the reminder of our lives.
Feel their touch, they touched you. See a memento, they placed it. Hear a song, they played it.
They know your pain, your struggle, your grief. They try to soothe it in whatever way they can.
It’s their love everlasting.”
He whispered this to her, holding her tightly as she stared out into the night, wishing and hoping for a past that was no longer hers.