Disclaimer: If I even owned a tiny smidgen of the whole Harry Potter Universe, I would be happily reading all the books in Flourish and Blotts and not wasting my childhood here, writing fanfiction.

A/n; So this is my story entry in a contest at Hex, so yeah. EWE. I hope you'll like it! R and R!

Draco Malfoy gazed towards the lush greenery of the surrounding forest of Malfoy Manor. They looked almost the same as they had years ago, when he was a mere child venturing out, wanting to see the world. But it held a difference of sorts. It had faded with time, but the radiance that Hermione had brought upon the place was still there. Her magic was present in the weirdest and most secluded places. Places where no one but the two of them knew. Places that was theirs, and theirs alone.

In that forest, her magic could still be observed at a tree that she used to love leaning on to whenever they played with the kids. Even as an eighty year old man, Draco still remembered those days clearly, not a detail forgotten, not a hair or blade of glass blurry – he was Draco Malfoy after all, what did you expect?

And this particular view of the forest was the reason why Draco chose to stay decades all day and all night in that bare – save for a fireplace, Hermione's choice trinkets, a bed, and a painting of the girl the he once felt the extremest of emotions for – glass-walled room. That room, a room which he had made with Blaise, an architect; Weasley a lackey in which would always do everything when Hermione was mentioned (he didn't like it, of course, but it was hard to find laborers who actually knew Hermione); Harry, an expert in spells (and yes, he did call Saint Potty 'Harry' behind his back. Why, you ask? Well because Saint Potty, the Boy who wouldn't die, and all those other nicknames are just too bloody long); Longbottom, he was in charge of the tree and its growth... other jobs involving Longbottom would have involved him and his toad – another frightfully long-lived creature – in a burlap sack somewhere in the depths of the Pacific ocean, and the rest of the male and female arsenal that Hermione had wrapped in her pinky and of course, Draco's own arsenal too.

The room was airy and simple. Just like what she would have wanted, Draco often mused. Delicate rays of sunshine fell over the enchanted glass and the tree even though it was raining (Potter's work) and the stars were always seen (Weaslette, George and Bill's work). This was a place that Hermione would have loved – even if most of her precious books were missing. And to perfect the illusion, Pansy, who became quite a fan of Hermione and a fairly decent hand at painting, made a portrait of her which she insisted to be hung above the fireplace.

Draco sighed, tearing his gaze from the tree, which, like he, had become old and gnarled too. His ever-so-stormy eyes fell on the trinkets that rest on the fireplace. All of them had a story, everyone of which he had loved. But the one that Hermione had loved the most was not the bent silver recorder that she had used to play but broke because in a fit of tantrum, she bashed it against his desk; not the bronze compact mirror that she had inherited from her grandmother who inherited it from her Great Aunt who had won it in a game of poker (why she loves that story, Draco still doesn't understand – something about a Panda who did kungfu); but it was the ancient book, Hogwarts, A History that held his attention during the glance.

It was riddled with a fine layer of dust. Out of all the things there, it was the only one like that. The others were kept in prime condition by he himself since he would not allow anyone to touch them. Only the book was left to sit on the fireplace, not even grazed by human touch since Hermione's untimely death.

The reason why Draco turned ballistic when anyone tried to touch the book was that it was Hermione's last gift to him. In a way, he had thought that her essence was forever preserved between the fragile pages. But of course, the brunette had told him to open it when he was ready.

Ready for what, he was not sure of. Being Hermione, it could have been a range of things, one of those could mean 'Ready to see me' or 'Ready to live again' – after all, he had died with her on that day – or 'Ready to move on and stop loving me'. The last interpretation was what kept him from opening the book. He had been tempted, yes. Especially during times when he was locked up in this room and felt the brunt of the loneliness that consumes him... but the prospect of her being replaced was not a good one in Draco's point of view.

He was a man of age now. Surely, nothing would prolong his stay, and he knew Hermione would never forgive him if he didn't uphold her last wish (actually, her last wish was to feed her mangy orange beast, but that didn't count), the request to open the book.

Slowly, he rose from his bed, throwing away the fine silk sheets and taking small steps towards the fireplace. After a dreadfully long five minutes, he finally grasped the book.

He blew a bit of air on it, dislodging the billions of dust nodes that had taken a residence on its surface.

"A book. Bloody predictable, I say." Draco whispered fondly. "But at least it wasn't some puppy – or heaven forbid, another orange kneazle-cat."

He sat down on the carpet, his back to the wall and face to the window where in the distance, the tree showed prominently. With infuriating slowness, he lifted the leather-bound cover of the first page and he almost cried when he saw her handwriting scrawled on a note on the front page.

Turn to the page that was always ours

Love and Punches,

Hermione

P.S. I hope that you've been treating the twins and crookshanks right. Remember, they're all allergic to peanuts.

Draco let loose a rare smile as he saw the signature. Love and Punches was always used as an inside joke between the two of them, and, if he was right, he knew just what the page she was talking about is.

Quietly, he ruffled through the delicate pages, searching for the numbers.

When he opened the book at the appropriate page, he smiled as he saw a small, still fresh Dandelion.

It was glowing a faint blue and a note next to it said, My gift to you. I love you.

Draco scribbled on a piece of paper, smiling widely. He looked around the room and scribbled some more before returning to the flower.

Tentatively, he reached towards it, wrinkled hands shaking and sweat accumulating in his sagging brows. This was it. He had been wondering about this moment for too long. He had been dreading yet looking forward to it for even longer.

He placed his index finger on the iridescent blue flower and he felt a familiar tugging sensation in his gut. With one last look at the world without her, he headed towards the world that was with her.

With a large groan, Draco stood up from the cold, tiled floor. He looked around the sparse cream walls and the pristine white floor. The flower that he had held earlier was missing. Confused and dazed, he walked through the little hallway, a growing feeling of nostalgia plaguing him.

"Draco? Draco, is that you?" A feminine voice whispered from the end of the hallway. His heart stopped altogether as he realized who the owner of the voice was. "I thought I told you to give those papers to Kingsley! He's expecting you, you know! And I called in a favor just so you could go there and give him his papers. Being minister doesn't mean he only plays water polo in his office like you do."

"Hermione." He whispered, eyes bulging and his mind going haywire. "Hermione!"

With his already rheumatic knees and aching bones, he managed to do a little run towards the hospital bed where the love of his life lay.

She was as beautiful as he remembered. Even though this was probably the time that she was about to die, that immaculate sense of peace and adoration enveloped him. He had missed this feeling; the reaction that she wrestled from him. Her hair was already thin as well as her body, but her eyes were as lovely and alive as ever.

There was a moment of silence as he reached out and cupped her face within his wrinkled hands. He gazed at her, taking her in. his memory – though impeccably accurate – had not done her enough justice. He used to call her beauty unearthly... but now it was more than he had ever remembered.

"Hello, Ferret." She smiled as tears started to appear on her cheeks – and Draco realized that it was not her tears, but rather, his own that were cascading down her pale cheeks. She snorted playfully, saying,"Took you long enough. You're what now? 70?"

"I missed you." Draco whispered, still gazing at her face. "And just so you know, I'm already 87."

Hermione looked shocked and vaguely amused at this. "How did you suppress your curiosity for so long?"

"It comes with old age," Draco said nonchalantly as he sat on her bed.

"Yeah, right."

"Fine, I'll tell you." Draco conceded as Hermione stuck her tongue out at him. "For the first few years, that 'Open it if you're ready' deterred me from even touching that bloody book. Then after about the first two decades, I almost cracked, so I had Louis and Sam make me a curse that electrified me whenever I tried to open it. They removed it when I was 75."

"I'll miss the children." Hermione smiled sadly. "But I know that they'll be strong. They're too much like us to not be that way. And why didn't you ask Blaise. Architect or not, he was the best at our year when it came to curses."

"Easily bribed and tormented." Draco replied. "He would crack too early. You know that he could never resist Bibby's Fondue."

"Point taken." Hermione chuckled. "How is crookshanks? And Buckbeak? Did you feed them regularly?"

"Yes." Draco muttered, "They would even outlive our grandchildren if they had the chance."

"We'll have grandchildren?" Hermione said excitedly.

"What? Are you saying that our offspring are impotent?"

"No, you dolt." Hermione said, whacking him in the back of his head. "It's just hard to imagine our little Sammy and Louis married. They're 6 for heaven's sake!"

"Ok, ok. Calm down." Draco smiled. "I want to know why you want to return me to this time."

"I love you."

"And obviously, I love you too." Draco said as he rolled his eyes and smiled fondly at her. "But that isn't why you would make me go back."

"I just wanted to tell you that I'll be safe and not to worry."

"Yes, you told me that an hour before you died, I think." Draco said, looking at her with such intensity, "So spit it out beaver."

Hermione blushed and looked down to her toes. She started to say something, but stopped. She looked at me straight in the eye and said, "This is selfish of me... but I want us together when we... you know, pass away."

She said the last part as a whisper and my heart swelled at what she was trying to say. When she died, a part of me hated her for being selfish because she never wanted me to go with her. And now she was asking what I had thought about for the past 50 years.

"You want me to die with you." I said bluntly. "It's not a selfish request. Hell, it's the most unselfish thing you've asked of me – and believe me, I endured a decade of you nagging me to do everything in the unselfish way."

"I did not." Hermione insisted.

But Draco cut her off before she even had a chance to speak again, saying, "You had e babysit a bunch of cats so some stranger you met in Diagon Alley could go have a honey moon with his wife."

"Jace was 65! And Alice and him never had a honey moon." Hermione said stubbornly. "they deserved it!"

"Yeah, yeah" Draco smiled, brushing it off. "Now, let's get on with it."

"So you agree?" She said hopefully.

"Yup, but first do you know how to fix this aging problem? I have a feeling that you do. I don't want to spend the rest of eternity with you looking as old as your father."

" Of course I could, what do you take me for?" Hermione smirked. "But how could you just want to disappear with me... even if it is me?"

"Look at you. Anyone would want you. I... you... we belong to each other." Draco whispered as he fiddled with her soft white fingers. "My life wasn't anything when you were gone. Only the kids were my sole purpose for existing... and now that you and I could be together... there's nothing that I want more."

"Draco... I don't want to force you into this. It's selfish of me."

"No... can you ever imagine yourself living after half of you isn't? You are what I want,"

"Are you sure?" Hermione said tentatively, reaching for her wand.

"Positive." Draco smiled softly. "How many times to I need to tell you?"

"Fine." Hermione said, still blushing. The wrinkles flew away and Draco looked like the 35 year old him again.

Then she started to cry, leaving Draco utterly bewildered.

"Hey, hey... tears are not up my alley. What's the matter?" Draco said, worried.

"I feel horrible. I'm so selfish."

"We are not having this argument." Draco said stubbornly, crashing his lips to hers. "You and me... we are going to stay being you and me."

"But... you're going to fade when we die... I'm going to stay..."

"But we would stay together!" Draco insisted. "I've waited fifty years for this. Get on with it!"

"Pushy git." Hermione muttered and Draco smiled at this.

"I love you," He winked. "Forever?"

"And Always."

And Hermione raised her wand, and a sense of peace enveloped the two of them. Somehow, they both knew that they would be together... just how they were destined to be.

And they liked that.

The plainly dressed raven haired man came into the room, quietly and efficiently, just how Draco wanted it. He checked his watch, making sure that he was not too late – or too early. The last time he had walked into Draco's room early, the old man almost killed himself with rage. Seeing that it was only 8:57, still had about three minutes of waiting before it was safe to go into the room.

He looked around the hall. All of the paintings was sure to be worth a fortune each, but all of them had the same subject – a woman of varying ages.

At the first painting, she looked about ten. Her hair was bushy and out of control, but her face was still as delicate as it was when she was 35. the paintings showed various scenes of her. One was her bent over a piece of parchment, scribbling, another was her in a periwinkle dress robe. But Gustav thought the his favorite painting of her was one that had his boss, Draco in it.

There, in the painting, Draco was talking to someone out of the frame. His face was blurred, but the blonde hair and the haughtiness that came off him in waves was a dead giveaway. Behind him, the face of the woman was there. She was doing nothing but stare at Draco. Her beautiful large eyes were so full of love that it hurt when Gustav thought about her untimely demise and the way Draco still clung to every memory of her – even if it was as ridiculous as a chipped cup or a single drop of perfume. Rumors about her circulated around the Kitchen, the elves who worked there – who strangely wore ragged and dirty hats and socks – talked about missing her.

It was always, 'Mistress wouldn't like that mess.' ; 'Mistress would love that book.' ; and 'Mistress should come back soon. Master Draco is worried. G

ustav had a feeling that when this woman left – or passed away, by the looks of it – she had taken every ounce of the things that made its inhabitants happy.

Suddenly, the watch beeped and he placed a gloved hand on the diamond door handle, ready to deal with his overly depressed but menacingly mean employer.

Upon seeing the room empty, he shrugged it off. But of course, after 15 minutes of just standing there and waiting for Draco to come out of the bathroom, he started to get worried. Draco never woke up before nine.

He checked the fine silk sheets and noticed that they were cold. That they felt like they hadn't been slept in. That was when he noticed the dried dandelion and book sprawled across the floor. He checked the bathroom, but he found nothing there.

Comprehension suddenly dawned on him when he realized what that book was.

Knowing nothing else to do, he run off the room screaming about flowers and dead women.

Later, when the aurors came to investigate the room, they found nothing amiss save for a dried flower and a note that said:

Hermione and I are together now and of course, we're happy. What did you expect?

P.S. Feed the oversized chicken, Bucketbeak, she kept and that absurdly long-lived cat of hers – Shandra, was it? Oh, and don't forget to tell Louise and Sam that I love them. Frame the flower. Oh, tell the coward of a nurse to get his pay from Blaise.

A/n; Review. Review. Review! I hope this little piece tickled your hearts – or at least your funny bones =)