His wand wavered in his hand as moisture brimmed in his eyes, threatening to blur his vision. Tears streamed openly down the girl's cheeks as he looked at her with his pain-filled eyes. What had become of him?
Never once had he expected to become a monster, capable of such crimes. He was just as much a victim as she was to become – a causality in a war that he had been drug into by blood.
The unfortunate thing was that he had come of his own free will.
"Just g-get it over with, Draco!" she cried, her own hands trembling as they came to her face, trying in vain to wipe away her own tears. Her voice cracked, shattering into shrill pieces with every anguished word.
"B-but...I can't!"
"You have to!" She had known for years that to disobey the Dark Lord's orders was to die. Immediately. No matter how much she disliked him, though, she never wanted him to die. To wish for such a thing was no better than asking for a tattoo on her left arm.
Brown and grey eyes locked, as if trying to see in their reflections how the coming moments would play out.
There was a moment of silence as he contemplated her words. Could he get away without doing it? It was unlikely, but, on the other hand, could he kill the one girl he was sworn to hate?
No.
As much as he had grown to despise the blood that coursed through her veins—the lack of purity—he was not a killer. Was he?
His trembling hands wavered once more, the wand growing slippery in his fingertips.
He could almost hear the Dark Lord's orders echoing in his ears, "Mudbloods are to be extinguished immediately." But what was the cause behind those orders, the reasons for the fears? It was the first time that he had ever bothered to question such ideology. Before, it would not have mattered. Before he would not have cared.
What the Dark Lord deemed necessary of completion was done. No questions asked. No challenges made. No regrets to be spoken of.
During the passing months, he had learned to tolerate her presence, even—though he would never admit it—enjoy it to a degree. She had long ago become one of the few students that he could count on to outsmart him (another fact he would never admit to having) and trying to not be outsmarted—to rival her—had become a somewhat enjoyable pastime. Competition, to him, meant everything.
His eyes flickered to her wand, lying several meters away. "Pick it up."
"No. You won the duel."
Damn Gryffindor. Honorable to the very brink of stupidity. He'd won by mistake, a miscalculated error turned into what other Death Eaters would call the Blessed Dark Lord's Luck.
He severely disagreed with that sentiment.
"Just pick it up," he snapped, his voice harsher than he intended.
Annoyance born from years of animosity towards the Slytherin, caused her to glare up at him as she crawled backwards, hand clenching around her wand, but she did not raise it to him.
She was armed at least. He could tell himself it was a fair fight, that she had the choice to fight back and did not.
For once, lying left him with no comfort.
A fearful acceptance had entered her eyes. She was prepared to die at his hand.
As if a weight had been placed on the tip of his wand, his arm fell to his side, his gaze falling away from hers. "Get out of here, Hermione."
She squinted up at him, the Gryffindor part of her wondering if it was just another Slytherin trick, even as her heart realized the truth. He was letting her go, to give her the chance to live another day. Even as her heart came to the understanding, her mouth murmured the obvious, "You said my name."
His eyes widened for a moment, not even realizing he had said it. Then the slightest hint of a smirk touched his lips as a sort of determined defiance came over him. "Don't get used to it, Mudblood," he said, but despite the implications the insult carried, his tone was lighter, almost teasing.
The smallest of smiles crossed her face.
Good. She had understood his intentions. She always was the sharp one.
The smile fell almost as quickly as it had appeared. "But you'll die."
He looked away, his grey eyes narrowing into determined slits as he whispered, "I'll take my chances."
A single tear rolled down his cheek. It was time to face the demons.
Hermione watched as he walked away, before turning to take advantage of his goodwill.
Draco Malfoy was just never a killer at heart.