DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

BETA READER: silverbluewords

WARNINGS: Drug/alcohol abuse, explicit sexual situations, mild violence, self-mutilation, strong profanity, and torture.

ACT I

~MARCH 1998~

He didn't know what overcame him. He only knew that he had one chance, and one chance only, to make things right. So this time, he took it.

And despite what it may have looked like, he didn't do it out of bravery, some suppressed sense of nobility, or any other sodding thing like that. No, he did it for selfish reasons, because he wanted her, and he didn't know any other way.

He'd crept closer and closer, waiting for the right moment to strike. He'd forced himself to watch with cold, stone-grey eyes, as she'd lain crumpled at the feet of his mad aunt, who certainly harboured no qualms about defiling such a pure and innocent creature. Deep within, her screams of anguish echoed through the darkness that had taken hold of his mind, curdling his blood, even as hers trickled down from the condemning barbs etched upon her skin. The angry, scarlet letters mocked and tormented him, weeping bitterly upon a rug long soiled with the sins of the father. Letters that he might as well have carved into her himself.

Mudblood…

Mudblood…

MUDBLOOD…

It had all happened so quickly. The instant that Aunt Bella had raised her wand to deliver the finishing blow, he'd disarmed her, caught the wooden rod, and dove to the floor, shielding Hermione's body with his own. Faintly, he'd registered his aunt's screech of betrayal, his father's bellow of outrage, and his mother's horrified gasp as her wand clattered onto the ground. Overhead, the chandelier came crashing down. Shards of glass rained down from the sky, shattering upon impact and slicing into his skin. Struggling through the crystalline hailstorm and the trails of blood slithering down his face, he hurriedly jammed his aunt's wand into the pocket of Hermione's jeans. Seconds too late, Potter and Weasley burst into the room, misinterpreted his actions, and sent his own wand flying into the chaos.

In a final act of desperation, he clung to Hermione's limp form and lunged for his mother's wand. The bones in his right arm creaked and strained as he frantically stretched them towards that infernal twig, mere centimetres beyond his reach, and leisurely rolling further and further away. He could feel Hermione slipping from his grasp. He could hear Potter's shouts and Weasley's footsteps as the meddling oaf thundered closer and closer. No! NO! Not this time!

He squeezed his eyes shut and threw himself forward, uncaring of the consequences. As soon as he felt that familiar brush of wood against the tips of his fingers, he thrust his arm past breaking point and snatched up his only hope for salvation, Disapparating with a resounding crack of finality.

At long last, he opened his eyes. He shuddered with relief at the sight of the dense trees that sheltered them. They'd made it.

Their true destination laid about half an hour's walk away—the only place now that could offer them safety. He couldn't Apparate them there directly, since he didn't have access through the wards, but they should head out soon, before they ran into any Snatchers. He shifted beneath Hermione's unconscious body, which had haphazardly flung itself upon him as a result of the rushed Disapparation. He groaned, his every muscle battered and stabbing, unable to pry her deadweight off of him. One muscle in particular ached more than its brethren, and he mentally smacked himself upside the head for harbouring such notions at a time like this.

Worriedly, he glanced down at her. Her body had begun to go into shock. She trembled, clinging to him. Her eyelids twitched and she whimpered, her breathing erratic and strained. In the short time that she'd lived upon this desecrated and godforsaken earth, she'd already endured so much suffering. Just like him.

No, not like him. If he had to speak the truth, he, and many others like him, bore complete and total responsibility for all of the pain that she'd undergone since her initiation into this world. A world that constantly reminded her that she didn't belong—that she didn't deserve to live. But she did. More than all of them combined. She had bravery. She had strength. She had something worth fighting for. And he… He had none of that. He only had guilt, remorse, and regret—for everything that had happened between them, and everything that never did.

Taking care not to jostle her, he readjusted himself into a more comfortable seating position upon the dank earth and held her close. He encircled her with his arms, creating a cocoon of security and trying his best to soothe her shaking. He'd never attempted to console anyone before. He had no idea what to do next, and each tremor that wracked her small frame scattered his rationality into the dust. He felt frantic. Terrified. Helpless. The chilling convulsions threatened to rip her apart, but he held onto her tightly, giving her what little strength he had and saving none for himself. He had nothing else to offer, yet he asked for so much in return.

His ears still rang from her screams, and his nerves still rattled with the crippling uselessness he'd felt, cowering behind his aunt and acting as if he didn't care, as if the last, remaining fragments of his soul hadn't hopelessly, irrevocably enslaved themselves to the woman he now held in his arms. He felt incredibly pathetic, not to mention awkward, just sitting on the ground and coddling her. But he didn't want to let her go. Ever again.

Hermione! Hermione, he silently pleaded. Come back to me.

Desperately, he shut his eyes in prayer to any entity that would save her and kissed her softly upon the cheek with an agonising tenderness that throbbed through his chest, like it had so many times before. Before everything went wrong.

She stilled instantly. Draco watched with a mixture of trepidation and relief as her breathing gradually returned to a steady, normal pace, hardly daring to believe it. All of the pain that had ravaged her lovely face, just moments before, had begun to smooth away. She lay slack and serene in his arms, as if she merely slept, and the scene afflicted him with a twinge of nostalgia so powerful and intoxicating, he'd brushed aside one of her wild curls, leaned down, and alighted his lips upon hers before he'd even realised what he'd done.

With an unexpected shove, he found himself sprawled upon the forest floor, the air punched straight out of his lungs, and skewered upon the sharp end of Hermione Granger's piercing glare.

"Draco Malfoy," she spat, every syllable saturated with scorn. "Once again, you fail to astound me." Furiously, she wiped her mouth off with the back of her hand, disgust evident in every crease upon her grimacing face.

Fuck. He'd almost forgotten how coldly Hermione could treat people she didn't like. Hell, if she wanted to revert back to pre-armistice hostilities, then so would he.

He immediately leapt to his feet and stormed towards her, towering with rage. "I just saved your arse, you ungrateful bitch," he snarled. "But that's not good enough for you, is it? Nothing's ever good enough for you! Well, not everyone can be so fucking perfect—"

"HA, saving me? Is that what you were doing? Funny, it looked a lot more like molesting on my end! The felonies just keep piling up, don't they, you spineless snake—"

"Believe me, I've already moved on to bigger and better things," he sneered, punctuating each insinuation with a lingering leer of disdain, specifically directed towards her bust and her lower body. "Did you honestly think that I was going to mope about, waiting for you? Fucking hell, if you wouldn't let me get into your knickers, I had to find a bint who would!"

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, he fancied glimpsing a shimmer of betrayal in the earthen hues. And yet, the spiteful words continued to spill out of him, like blood pouring from an open wound—briny, relentless, and eager to stain.

"And blimey, was Pansy a fantastic fuck! At least with her, I didn't have to worry about any Mudblood diseases—"

She slapped him then, her entire body shaking with indignation. The hateful impact resonated through the emptiness. "You disgust me," she hissed, the scandalised rouge that stained her cheeks as flagrant as the mark she'd left upon his. "What in Godric's name is wrong with you? I've just been tortured to less than three centimetres of my life!"

"Well, thanks to me, you still have one!" he bellowed.

"Since when do you care?" she shrieked back.

"Why don't you use that big brain of yours and FIGURE IT OUT?"

"I stopped trying when YOU LEFT ME!"

"Why don't I just do you a favour and lay out every last, piddling detail for you? You like details, don't you? You like having every fucking thing planned out and mapped, like it's some sodding book! Well, swot up on this, you prig! I saw an opportunity, and I took it! I want out of this shite, and when this is all over, I'm asking for penance! So until then, you can either agree to be my witness for the defence and shut it, or you can be my hostage and I'll make you shut it!"

"I'm not your bloody anything, you sick bastard!"

"Cottoned on, have you? Honestly, what did you think this was? Some heroic rescue attempt? That I've had a change of heart?" he mocked, the truth permeating his tongue with an ironic bitterness that she would never see, and would never know.

Instead of responding with the usual sure-fire retort, she merely studied his mask with a deceptively impassive expression of her own, searching, searching—endlessly searching for something she would never find. "I gave up hope on that a long time ago," she quietly concluded. And with that, she turned away.

No matter how many times this exact same scene had played out before him, again and again, throughout the course of the brief, yet tumultuous days they had spent together, each time felt like the first. Her, storming off—upset, confused, and completely oblivious to the truth. Him, rooted to the spot, immobilised with a sense of loss so staggering and profound, it sapped away his will to run after her. Words so compelling, and yet so condemning, they strangled and silenced him, gradually fading away and dying… dying… one brittle, broken piece at a time.

He didn't mean it. He never meant any of it. But that had never stopped him from hurting her anyway. He despised the acrid, gutless slanders that spewed out of him during their rows. Somehow, when it came to her, he always knew exactly the wrong thing to say. She had no idea how much power she had over him, and a twisted, sadistic part of him needed to know that he affected her the same way—that she felt the same agony, the same despair, and the same undying desperation that he felt every time he looked at her. If she could still cry, she could still care. And although he hated himself for his cruelty, his selfishness, and his utter lack of courage, he'd never had the fortitude to deny himself the deepest, darkest desires that lurked within the human heart. If only he did, he would never have allowed any of this to happen in the first place.

He would never have kissed Hermione. He would never have seduced Pansy in that repulsive Muggle hotel after he'd given up hope of ever seeing Hermione again. Even if he did, she would never let him touch her now. It had taken him ages to resign himself to the bleak reality that awaited him. Driven mad with longing for the girl that he really loved, he'd convinced himself that if he really loved her, he would let her go.

So he'd told Pansy anything she wanted to hear, and gave her anything and everything she asked of him, just to get her to go up to that room with him. Like a coward, he'd smothered her cries with his hand and shut his eyes the entire time. Otherwise, it would have made it all too real, and he knew that he wouldn't have had the mettle to go through with it. When his orgasm had finally hit its peak, his torn soul had betrayed him and called out for its true mate.

He'd muttered a hasty contraception spell and left his bewildered conquest immediately afterwards, barricading himself in the loo. Bending over the sink, he succumbed to the bouts of nausea clawing through his system. Then, he'd collapsed upon the cold, hard tiles, weeping silently. He'd just had sex, for the first time ever in his wretched life, and he hadn't done it with the woman he loved. Instead, he'd callously taken the virginity of his childhood friend.

He didn't even know if she'd climaxed or not. In all honesty, he hadn't really cared. He'd used her, lied to her, and fucked her with mindless brutality, even as he'd fantasised about another woman. He hadn't shared that special moment with Hermione. He'd only succeeded in tainting himself further. In essence, he'd done the same thing that he'd always suspected Hermione had done with him—every time she'd kissed him, her thoughts had laid elsewhere. He'd sensed it all along, yet breathed not a word of his turmoil. At the very least, living a lie with her destroyed him much more slowly than facing a reality without her. Loving her had left his pride permanently crippled and bloated with sin.

Lust.

Greed.

Envy.

She, and she alone, would forever remain pure, and out of his reach.

Yes, he'd ruined them. He'd understood that long before today. He no longer had any right to remain by her side, if he ever did, yet an indecent and unspeakable compulsion continued to plague him. He scowled at Hermione's back, following her into the wilderness. What did she expect him to say? That he loved her? That he thought her the most beautiful witch he'd ever laid eyes on? That he no longer had the strength to live without her? Why bother, when he knew that she would never love him back? Why bother, when it would only result in mockery and rejection? Why couldn't she just understand?

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" he demanded.

She didn't answer. She simply turned her nose up and trudged on.

"HEY! HERMIONE! I ASKED YOU A FUCKING QUESTION—"

She halted abruptly in her tracks, whipping around and snapping, "Don't—you—DARE!" Her hand shook with barely repressed rage, pointing the very same wand that had tortured her, just moments before, straight between his eyes. Her voice wavered, but held firm, and her eyes burned with unshed tears—tears that she perpetually refused to shed for him. "You have no right—no right—to call me that! Not anymore! You made your choice the day you went up that tower and let all of your friends in! It's 'Granger' or 'Mudblood' to you, Malfoy, and don't you forget it!"

He'd already plastered the usual mask of haughty indifference across his face, but inside… Inside, his heart screamed itself hoarse, trapped within and beating furiously against its confines. But he held it in. He always held it in, allowing its cries to reverberate through the hollow hole that had ripped open inside him. It swallowed all of his bitterness and all of his passion, giving each and every emotion a place to rot and shrivel into nothingness. It didn't matter now. None of them would ever see the light.

To his utter disbelief, Hermione had actually responded quite civilly when he'd finally gritted his teeth and addressed her by her surname. As they made their way through the forest and discussed tactics in stiff, detached tones, he had to constantly remind himself not to slip up. He didn't want to risk angering her again when survival depended upon their ability to cooperate. Funny, how things changed.

A year ago, he would've leapt at the opportunity to rile her up. Blazing rows over the most harmless, nonsensical shite made them both horny as fuck. But now, Hermione had made it glaringly obvious that she no longer saw him as Draco, the boy she had snogged in abandoned corridors and confessed all of her insecurities to, but Malfoy, the son of Lucius Malfoy, the sneering cretin that had called her "Mudblood," and a servant of the Dark Lord. And to think, once upon a time, it would have physically pained him to address her by her first name.

It felt the same way now. Although the taste of her skin still tingled upon his lips, the syllables wrenched out of them sounded strange and forced, almost foreign on his tongue. This time, he didn't feel that rush of excitement that came with committing a taboo. This time, the words crushed him, each utterance a wall slamming down between them—a reminder of what he had done, what he had lost, and what he should never have deluded himself into thinking he could have in the first place.

She refused to walk side-by-side with him. If he got too close, she either sniffed in disdain and forged on ahead, or dropped back with wary, narrowed eyes and let him take the lead. He did the only thing he could—sever his emotions and close off yet another serrated sliver of his mind. Apparently, he had a talent for it.

"So, Malfoy," Hermione spoke up from behind him, the words rank with exaggerated cordiality, "Remind me again—where exactly are you taking me? Of course, assuming that you actually do know where you are going, and that I will actually be accompanying you there willingly."

"Why, I'm so glad you asked, Granger," he airily responded without breaking stride. "We'll be staying with an acquaintance of mine. I have her word that she won't be turning us in. Her family supports the Dark Lord in theory, as is expected of every pure-blood family of their social standing, but is otherwise unaffiliated with their practices."

"I see. You're referring to Pansy, I take it?" she inquired, her voice remarkably devoid of any and all inflections that might have suggested anything other than an innocent question.

He paused, sorely tempted to turn back around and witness her expression when she'd said those words. But he couldn't do it. Because he knew he would read too much into it. He didn't dare to hope that he would find anything beyond impassivity and revulsion. And truthfully, he didn't know how many more pieces he could break into before he couldn't bind himself back together again.

"No," he finally replied. "That would be too obvious. We'll be staying with the Greengrasses. They're not that prominent within the Death Eater circles. No one will expect to find us there, at least for another month or so. That will give us plenty of time to formulate a different plan. Daphne is a close friend of Pansy's, as I'm sure you'll remember."

She snorted. "Yes, her and all the other snakes that were so pleasant to me during my time at Hogwarts," she drolly remarked. "Her younger sister was rather taken with you, if I recall. Did you sleep with her too?"

"And if I did?" he challenged.

She remained silent for less than half a second. "In that case," she concluded, "you have my gratitude."

Gratitude? Gratitude? Slytherin's soul, for WHAT? She could've said something else—anything else. Something angry. Disappointed. Dismayed. Maybe even jealous. Never had he expected gratitude. As if she'd washed her hands of him, and took it as some sort of blessing. Yet again, she'd wandered out of his reach. Even though he'd fucked another woman, why did it still feel as if she'd cast him aside, as if she'd left him behind, instead of the other way around?

He halted immediately, his breathing strained, everything inside him constricted and compressed. Behind him, the grass stilled. The rhythmic rustling ceased, and he knew that she had come to a stop as well. He clenched his fists to his sides, not trusting himself to speak, or make any sudden moves towards her.

"Thank you, Malfoy," she continued in all seriousness, the silence no match for the power of her words. "Thank you for teaching me the difference between what's real and what was simply a load of Firewhiskey and manic-depressive adrenaline." Taking a deep breath, she ploughed through, never faltering, "Thank you for giving me the chance to save myself for someone who might actually treat me right."

He couldn't bring himself to respond. Nothing he could say would change her mind, or convince her to take him back. He couldn't undo the past, and he would only succeed in condemning and humiliating himself further. He'd already degraded himself enough for her sake. And she didn't even care. Clearly, none of it had ever meant a thing to her. Nothing… Nothing… He meant nothing to her.

He could only walk in one direction now—forward. So he did. And he didn't say a word. He just kept walking. Walking. Endlessly walking towards some far-off place that never seemed to grow any closer.

Somehow, he and Hermione had made it safely through the forest and now sat in the reception room of the Greengrass estate. Somehow. It didn't matter how. Evidently, the cognitive portion of his mind had decided that it had undergone enough mental strife for the day and completely shut down, allowing sounds and sights to flow straight through him. A relentless stream of information cascaded down the walls of his consciousness, each as blurry and distorted as the next, drowning him in a sea of his own brooding thoughts.

He faintly registered arriving at the manor and suffering a brief lapse in stoicism as Hermione had greeted the house-elf that answered the door with more patience and charity than she'd ever shown him. Apparently, Daphne had left to spend the evening with Pansy, and Lord and Lady Greengrass had gone out on a business trip to France. Therefore, Astoria had taken the liberty of inviting them into her home. He barely noticed her painstakingly swept honey-blonde locks, the eager lustre of her eyes, or her ostentatious dress, politely taking a seat upon the throne-like artefact offered to him and nodding occasionally in feigned interest at her incessant chatter about the newly implemented Renaissance décor.

He'd begun to slip into unconsciousness when a particularly bossy voice jolted him out of his reverie. "MALFOY!"

"What?" he snapped, his heart once more leaping out of his grasp.

"Honestly," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Pay attention when she's talking to you."

He shot her a withering glare. Hermione merely raised her eyebrows in response and coolly returned to sipping her tea. "Sorry," he grumbled hastily to Astoria, sitting upright and properly facing their hostess.

"No, really, it's perfectly alright!" Astoria beamed at him. But something in the way that her eyes had flattened and fallen out of synch with her simper suggested otherwise. "How thoughtless of me! You must be exhausted! Would you like me to show you to one of our guest rooms?"

"That'd be brilliant, Astoria. Thank you," he answered sincerely.

"Don't you mean 'summon a house-elf' to show us to our rooms?" Hermione scoffed.

She never could keep her mouth shut for long. Especially when it came to those blasted house-elves.

Astoria smiled at him in reassurance, then turned to frown at Hermione in deep and utter disapproval as she brazenly necked the remainder of her tea, completely unaware of the shadows that had fallen across Astoria's dainty, porcelain face. As if suddenly realising that she'd fallen under Draco's scrutiny, she gigged nervously and covered herself up with a shy smile.

"Pardon my frankness, Draco," she began, placing great emphasis upon his given name and adamantly refusing to address Hermione directly, "but I couldn't help but wonder why you've brought a stray Mudblood to my doorstep."

He winced almost imperceptibly at the dreaded word—the word that had once come to him as easy as breathing. "Astoria," he warned. Out of the corner of his eye, he gauged Hermione's reaction, tensed and ready to tackle her to the ground at any moment—not to protect her, but to protect Astoria from Hermione's wrath. Hermione had put her cup down with a clink of finality, evenly meeting the other witch's glower of distaste with cold amusement.

"Do you plan on ransoming her to Potter?" Astoria persisted. "Or perhaps using her as bait? Despite her inferior status, I'm sure the Dark Lord would—"

"No," Draco cut her off, rising to his full height. He stared her down with stormy eyes, his voice abnormally quiet. An eerie and foreboding stillness descended upon the room. "She's with me."

Both women openly gaped at him, hardly daring to believe their ears.

"B-but, Draco," spluttered Astoria, leaping to her feet. "You can't be serious! She's a—I mean—well—she's not like us! Don't tell me you actually fancy that—that thing!"

At that, Hermione stood up as well, but before she could say a word, he stated firmly, "I don't."

Hermione peered at him strangely. He refused to look her in the eyes.

"Y-you don't?" breathed Astoria.

"No," he confirmed. "I need her as a witness to prove my innocence to the Wizengamot." So far, he hadn't lied. He did need her testimony, and he didn't fancy her. He loved her.

"I see," she conceded, relief evident in her tone.

"This may be news to you both," Hermione interrupted coldly, "but I'm a person. Not a thing, or some pet that you can just refer to as property." She spared him a single glower of contempt before turning back to Astoria. "I thank you for your hospitality, but I am not 'with' anyone, and I can assure you that I won't be overstaying my welcome."

And with that, she quit the room, leaving only emptiness behind.

Hours later, he lay in bed, tortured by the sobs that seeped through the thin wall that separated them. He'd stupidly tried to confront her afterwards, and once again, it had mutated into another shouting match, ending with her slamming the door in his face and screaming at him to go away. He'd barely stopped himself from snarling words that would have destroyed them both, yet he'd longed so fervently to break down that door and barge straight in, despite everything—despite her rejection. He longed so desperately to hold her and never let her go again, to shred his pride and beg for her forgiveness, but would that have set them both free, or merely himself and his own self-interests?

Strange, how he'd always envied Weasley for his ability to make Hermione cry. To feel something. But now that he'd finally reduced her to tears, he felt no satisfaction whatsoever. Only emptiness. Blast it, he just wanted her to stop! Stop crying! Stop tormenting him! Stop haunting him!

But she'd made it painfully obvious that she wanted nothing more to do with him. Sure, if she could bring herself to cry over him, she probably still cared, but Hermione always had room in her heart for everyone—the weak, the poor, the sinners. Her beauty, her strength, and her kindness never ceased to infuriate him. And yet, such qualities had enslaved him to her in the first place.

He did not offer his heart so freely. Not even to her. In fact, before his need for her had consumed him to the point where he could no longer deny it to himself, he'd often wondered if he'd ever had one. He had never really given her his heart, but kept it safely locked away. And safe from what, exactly?

Safe from the world. Safe from her. Safe from himself, because he didn't deserve her, and despite his best intentions, he would always find some way to hurt her.

He grimaced with the sheer irony of his predicament. It seemed as if their relationship, if one could even call it that, had finally come full circle. It had begun with her tears, and now it would end with them. The first time, she'd cried because of Weasley, and now, well… It wouldn't even surprise him if he'd jumped to conclusions. Perhaps she cried out of frustration with Astoria. Or the aftershocks of her torture session with his aunt. Or worry for Potter and Weasley. Or anything else this world had managed to fuck up. Not him. Never him. But honestly, he'd brought this upon himself.

Not once had he ever told her the truth. He'd never told her that he loved her, never told her that he thought her the most beautiful witch he had ever known. And now, she would never know.

He raised his mother's wand to his head. A year ago, he'd stood in this exact same position, teetering upon the precipice of life and the abyss of death that awaited him below. Except back then, he'd wanted to end his misery for entirely different reasons. If only he'd succeeded.

This time, he had no one to save him from himself. He probably wouldn't even go through with it, knowing that she slept mere metres away. Somehow, having her this close to him lengthened the distance between them. It seemed as if there would always remain at least one wall that separated them—one wall that would never allow him to reach her. He closed his eyes, smirking wryly at the sheer futility of it all, and allowed himself one last, fleeting dream of soaring over clouds and embracing the impossible, before he surrendered to the night.

TO BE CONTINUED