Better Ridiculous Than Boring (Drabbles)

Hermione hadn’t really understood what made life beautiful when she was younger. Perhaps a product of her unique childhood, she’d assumed that life only held meaning if it was full of big things. Huge events that shifted the world on its axis, their sheer scale buying them a place in the annals of history. 

She’d been wrong about that. Life wasn’t so black and white. A day would be insignificant, and it would end, and its insignificance would mean it was forgotten. Another day would follow, just as insignificant, but then something would happen. Perhaps a whisper, or a hand held, or a coffee shared, it hardly mattered, but suddenly the day would be significant, and that’s how life really worked. 

She stared down at the grave and wished that day wasn’t significant. She didn’t want it to be an anniversary, she wanted it to have paled into nothing, just another day followed by some other days that didn’t threaten to swallow her whole. 

She would likely lament the time they wasted for the rest of her life. She cursed him for being a misguided fool for as long as he was. What if they had worked things out sooner? They could have been unlikely high school sweethearts, holding each other’s hands instead of holding their wands to each other’s throats. The years post war that they’d spent pointedly ignoring each other, time wasted. The years that followed that, where they’d carved out an awkward facade of civility, more time wasted. The years she hated the most, where they’d both been too scared to tell the other how bloody important they’d become. She wanted to travel back and grip her younger self by the shoulders, scream into her face to just tell him, risk it all if it meant they got a few more precious moments together. 

She hated him for making her love him. Selfish fucking bastard, carving out a piece of her heart and stealing it away for himself without asking for permission. Keeping that piece of her soul and then having the audacity to die. Where was his slytherin loyalty now? He’d fucked off to Mexico, kissed her goodbye as he’d left for the portkey office that morning, and then not even fucking bothered to come home afterwards. 

He’d stolen her future from her. She’d never get married now. Never have kids now. Why would she ever bother walking down the aisle if he wasn’t standing at the end of it? What would be the point of spending nine months growing a child inside of her if they didn’t come out with blonde hair and an attitude problem? She struggled to see the point of doing anything most days. She couldn’t go home and tell him about the things she’d done, so why bother doing them at all? He’d taken everything from her. She despised him. 

Gods, she fucking adored him. She wiped away a tear, looking at the fresh flowers surrounding the headstone. Narcissa must have visited. He will have enjoyed seeing his mother, she thought idly.

Nobody had ever listened to her the way he did. Nobody had seen her as clearly, loved her as wholly. If he ever came across a part of her that he didn’t understand, he dedicated time to studying her. He’d been a bigger swot than her in many ways. She snorted lightly, even as the tears continued to fall. He always denied that, despite knowing that it was true. 

Typically, if a person wished to pay a woman a compliment, they’d usually plump for some clunky line about her being like a flower. A rose, or a daisy, or wildflowers if they were a little more complex. 

On their first date, she’d muttered something about not being as beautiful as the other women in the bar. He’d scoffed and rolled his eyes and proceeded to say the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her. He’d said that he didn’t know why people compared themselves like that when most people are incomparable. It would be like saying a red rose isn’t as beautiful as sunset because it’s smaller, or trying to work out if a fish or a monkey is more competent by having them race up a tree. 

He said she was beautiful like a watch. Complex and nuanced and enchanting to look at. Composed of dainty, delicate pieces that are strong despite their size. Perhaps because of their size, he’d mused. He’d asked her why she still wore a watch. She hadn’t had an answer. He’d smiled and said he didn’t think anybody really knew. It wasn’t like anybody really needed them anymore, not with the time being displayed on their phones, or elsewhere out in the world. Why did people put such value in watches, then? The answer to that, he’d told her, was that people liked to feel as if they held their own future in their hands. That no matter what happened, they could glance down and see immediate proof that the world was still spinning. It was a symbol of hope, he’d said. One that always reminded him of her, he’d said. She’d smirked and called him pretentious. He’d shot her that stupid smug smile of his, the one that never failed to make her a little weak at the knees, and pointed out that she was crying. She’d said he must have expected it. One cannot simply give a person the greatest compliment of their life, wrapped up in poetic words and unnecessary expressions, without expecting tears once they’re finished. He’d shrugged, as if he hadn’t ruined her life there and then. As if he hadn’t reached across the table and claimed her as his own with the gentlest of hands. No wonder the hat had sorted him before it even touched his head. Sneaky fucking arsehole. 

The absolute worst of it was that he’d gone to Mexico for utterly selfless reasons. He’d gone to research a rare plant he’d read about (in a book she’d gifted him for Christmas one year, one she wished she hadn’t given him) that he felt had potential for healing potions. Maybe even an affordable alternative to dittany, he’d told her, if he could get it to work. She’d spent a long time cursing the world for that. He’d gone on the promise of helping them and they’d taken him from her. She was so fucking angry. 

She didn’t even know how he’d died. All she knew was that one minute his magic had been in the world, and the next it wasn’t anymore.

She sniffed heavily, before kissing her fingers and pressing them to the cold stone. 

“I miss you, Draco.” She said softly, before turning and heading home.