He was there again. Hermione couldn't be surprised, as earlier that day she had caught him looking at her picture, touching the portion where her face would be. So when she felt the shift in their bed, she knew where he would be.

Hermione dressed warmly on that October night, bundling herself in layers of clothing, yet she still shivered, her breath framing the graveyard she stood outside of. Her gloved hands gripped the iron fence, watching as Draco kneeled into the hard earth, bowing his head over the icy stone.

Astoria Malfoy, Beloved Wife is what the headstone read above the dead brown grass and bright white flowers. Indeed she was beloved. Perfect. His angel. His everything. All she heard from his parents was how wonderful she was, how pure she was, and how she made Draco happier than he's ever been or will ever be. It was made abundantly clear that Hermione was a second choice. According to them, he was only with her for company. He would never truly love her, but Hermione knew that wasn't true. Draco loved her. Draco also loved Astoria.

The late Astoria had tragically died, but how was a mystery. Draco refused to speak of it. He did not often speak of her. There was a quiet somber, a quiet mourning. There were silences on her birthday, fresh flowers at her grave. There was the far-off look. She had learned to be silent, as well. She lived not only with Draco but her ghost. There was a hold on his heart that Hermione could not touch.

Yet, Draco was wonderful. He had grown and learned from the war. He was no longer the boy she knew in school. Deeply and beautifully, she had fallen in love with him. There was the way he sat with his back straight at the table, but he put his feet up on the coffee table. When she fell asleep on the couch, a book lying on her stomach, he placed the book safely aside and covered her with a blanket before carrying her to bed. He kissed her awake every morning, and without a word he would help her wash the dishes. He covered her eyes during horrific parts of movies.

Hermione dared anyone to question how she could not love Draco, even if it meant those silent times. Even if it meant reminders of her when Hermione's emotions became ineffable.

Sitting by the gate, her knees to her chest, she waited for Draco. She always waited for Draco. Every time he left in the dead of night, he believed he left her asleep and unaware, but that was untrue and he had become unsurprised to see her. Such as then...

The gate creaked open, and Hermione looked up into his weary face. His eyes were dark and sad, and the corners of his mouth were pulled down in a frown, but he still looked softly down at her.

"Are you cold," he asked her, running the tips of his fingers over the raised bumps on her exposed collarbone.

She nodded, and he pulled her to her feet. Taking her hands into his own, he breathed life into them, his gaze never leaving hers.

"I'll put on a pot of hot chocolate," she promised.

"Very well, my light."

Hermione smiled. His light, that is what he called her. Astoria was his angel, and she was his light in the darkness.

Linking arms with him, she guided him home.

Astoria had his past.

Hermione had his future.