Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Authors note: Reveiw, please! I love constructive critisism :)

Summary: He told her to leave. He told her that some things shouldn't be fixed, that they were so awful that they simply ought to remain broken. She agreed; but still she helped him.

Don't Try To Fix Me

The basement was darker than he remembered. There was a single candle in the room, but the wick had long burnt out over the weeks he had been kept down here, and he saw nothing recognisable from the days he had used it as his hideout during his childhood years. He could never tell whether he was awake or sleeping anymore; the darkness was always the same.

He had heard nothing for days. The silence of the room seemed to ring in his ears, and his chin fell heavily against his bloodied chest. His eye pounded - he was sure it was swollen - and his wrists, chained high above his head, were raw from where he had yanked his arms against the metal shackles that bound him. He could feel the bitter sting of each long cut that traced his torso, an intricate design carved by his demented aunt; she always had been an artist with a knife.

He was so thirsty. His throat screamed for water; he would even take the potions offered to him, dangerous as he knew they were, if they would only quench his thirst. He had resigned himself to clocking time by the number of breaths he took. It had been 52,020 breaths since the basement door last open. He supposed that was roughly fifty hours. Over two days since he had last had a drink. His throat burned.

A sudden shriek filled the room. He flinched, his eyes darting to the door of the basement. The sound had been loud enough to penetrate the barrier charms his father had placed; he pitied whichever poor souls were the newest objects of Bellatrix's sick fascination. The shriek was followed by more, he heard the crashing of furniture and glass and conflicted shouts before finally, the heavy thud of someone being thrown against his door.

Then the silence returned. He waited. 46 more breaths.

When the door was thrown open, he couldn't stop himself cringing away from the light that flooded the room. He clenched his eyes shut, ignoring the throbbing of his right, and turned to press his face against his arm, waiting. Footsteps echoed on the stone steps; but they weren't the clacking heels that he had grown to expect from his aunt, nor the heavy tread of his father. They were light, hesitant, and strangely soft against the stone.

Nonetheless he kept his eyes closed, breath held as he attempted to steel himself for the cold grace of the knife blade. So focused was he on the safe images of Hogwarts, the escape he had lost those months ago when Voldemort had made the decision he was not working hard enough on his task, that he failed to notice that his wrists had been released until gentle hands guided them down from their position against the wall. It was only then that he looked.

She stood before him, silent. She did not smile, but neither did she glare. She was impassive as she watched him study her, from the mahogany curls to her battered trainers, until he finally met her eyes. Even though he could only see through one of his own, what he found in hers sent a shiver through him; determination, triumph, pity, they were all to be expected. But behind those, where she attempted to hide it in the intense depths of those caramel orbs, he found tenderness - so unexpected that it warmed him to the core.

He had stopped counting his breaths when he had first glanced at her, so he did not know how long it was before he finally found his voice, rough and grating as it was.

"Why?" That single word tore its way up his throat like sandpaper and was released into the air no louder than a whisper, but still she heard him. For the first time since his eyes had been open, she moved. Her hand rose to his cheek, and through instinct he flinched away, anticipating pain, but she persisted. Soon her touch found its way to his skin, as light as a butterfly's kiss, and he tensed, waiting.

"Because you didn't deserve this." Her voice was as quiet as his had been. She raised her fingers to trace his swollen eye, her gaze darting down to the engravings on his skin. "You didn't deserve to be damaged almost to the point beyond repair."

"You shouldn't be here," he rasped, "some things ought to stay broken. I've done so much damage, Hermione. I'm not worthy of being fixed. I'm only broken because I'm evil." He felt defeated, weak, not fit for her presence. His gaze fell down as he wondered when this girl's thoughts, feelings and opinions had begun to matter to him.

"You're right;" she took a step back and he immediately felt the loss of her touch, "some things ought to stay broken." He wanted to follow her, but he couldn't find the strength to move his legs. He was surprised when she moved to his side, smoothly lifting his arm over her shoulders to support his weight, her hand going swiftly to wrap around his waist. She led him toward the stairs.

"But you're not one of them."

It was a few weeks later when he gathered the courage to speak to her again. Staying in Grimmauld Place with her and the other members of the Order, he frequently caught her gaze over the dinner table, heard her quick voice from his room as he recuperated, but he had never been able to bring himself to confront her again. Until now.

They were in the library together. From the third night, this had become routine. They would take their preferred seat - her in the armchair by the fire and he sprawled across the loveseat - and promptly ignore each other's presence as they read until the need for sleep became too overwhelming.

This time, however, instead of moving to the sofa as soon as he had his book, he strode with an attempt at confidence over to her. She appeared initially surprised at his approach, but quickly masked it as she looked up at him, expectant.

"Why?" He asked.

"I've already answered that question." She responded easily, about to turn back to the bookcase before he took her arm and kept her facing him.

"I mean, why do you think I'm one that deserves to be fixed?" His eyes were intense, he was obviously going to persist until he received an answer he found satisfactory. She sighed heavily, and replaced the book she had picked up earlier.

"I don't think you're broken because you've done bad things, Draco." She murmured, refusing to meet his gaze as she stared hard at the floor. "I believe you've only done bad things because you're broken."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He grumbled, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"You do, Draco." She retorted. "All your life, you've only wanted the love of your father. When you couldn't get that as a child, you resorted to doing things you didn't like in order to win his affection. In school, you bullied me; but only because you were trying to fix yourself before you shattered completely." Finally, she looked him in the eyes, a clash of molten silver and honey. "You think I hate you, but I never did. Whether you like it or not, I always understood, and I pretended to find you repulsive only to keep you happy. To help you."

"What exactly are you trying to say, Hermione?" His head was full of questions; they flooded his mind like an unsettled ocean that crashed against the walls of his mind. His brow furrowed as he looked down at her.

"All I ever did was care, Draco." And with that simple sentence, she reached up onto her tiptoes and pressed the lightest kiss onto his lips. His eyes instantly fluttered closed, even when she stepped away. He could still feel the tingle left behind and took the time to relish it. When he finally opened his eyes, she was nowhere to be found.

Stunned, he collapsed into the nearest piece of furniture, his fingers tracing the sparks that still remained on his lips.