Hermione Granger wanted to get away from her Head Girl duties, just once. Draco Malfoy wanted to do the same.
She wandered up to the seventh corridor on the seventh floor, in front of the Room of Requirement. She froze when she heard a shuddering breath. Hesitantly, she rounded the corner to find a familiar head of white-blond hair sitting in the corner: Draco.
Draco was scratching and rubbing at his left arm to the point he drew blood. He was muttering, but she couldn't tell what. He hadn't noticed her, so she crept closer until she was kneeling next to him.
"Get off, get off, get off!" he hissed.
Hermione was taken aback. She hadn't touched Draco; she concluded he must be mental.
"Get off…" he sobbed. She took a good look at his fingers, which were caked in blood and raw.
"Draco," Hermione said in a soft voice, "I'm not touching you."
His head snapped up and he scrambled away from her, like a frightened animal. Hermione couldn't help but notice his shirt was unbuttoned, showing her long, smooth scars across his torso. There were scratch marks on his chest.
"Granger." His voice was shaky, but he tried so hard to calm it. He cleared his throat. "What are you doing up here?"
"I could ask the same to you." Her eyes flickered to his bloody arm, an action he didn't miss. Draco crossed his arms on his chest, blood landing on his bare chest. She noticed his eyes were red from crying, and his face had fingernail marks on it as well. His hair had blood in it, too. She guessed from him pulling at it.
"Touché." He shrugged indifferently as if nothing was wrong, but she was Hermione Granger; she knew something was wrong.
"Draco…" He flinched at his name. "Tell me what's wrong."
He scoffed. "Like hell. You'd just go running off to Potter and Weasel, telling them the great gossip about me."
"No, I won't."
"Swear it. On something important."
"Draco Malfoy, I swear on my Head position, I will not tell Harry nor Ron about this conversation."
He looked satisfied, but couldn't hold the brave face for long. Draco turned his head away from her so she couldn't see his face, or his eyes which were flooding with tears.
Hermione got closer to him and took his hand. He flinched again at the contact. She held his hand comfortingly, squeezing it to urge him to speak.
When he said nothing, she asked, "Draco, why were you trying to scratch your own arm off?"
He shuddered and showed her his bleeding, though by much less, forearm. "I… It's stupid, but I was trying to—to get the Mark off."
She stayed calm and silent, allowing him to catch his breathing.
"And your chest?" she queried.
He laughed humorlessly. "A very cruel reminder of our sixth year, from your dearest Potter."
"What?"
"He didn't tell you? He cast that Sectum-something curse on me in that awful bathroom. It left these ugly, disgusting scars that remind me every day the year I let Death Eaters into this safe haven. The day I killed Dumbledore." He shuddered and tears finally rolled down his cheeks again.
"No, no… Harry told me. He said Snape cast the counter spell which cleared the wounds and the scars."
"Well, it bloody didn't, did it, Granger?" he smacked the floor and yelled. Hermione winced at the sudden movement. "How are you so damn calm? You're talking to a Death Eater! The one that killed Dumbledore!" He stood and paced in front of her, jerking his hand out of hers. She stood with him.
"You didn't kill Dumbledore, and you know it! Snape did that. Besides, Dumbledore had his death planned out."
"Why don't you hate me?" he cried, tears spilling again. Only now did Hermione realize she had her own tears. "I tormented you for years. You were kept prisoner in my own home. You were tortured there!"
"I don't hate you because you didn't do those things to me out of free will!" she shouted. "I know where I was tortured, I was there! And guess what, Draco? I bloody forgive you!"
He stood there, stunned. She forgives him? Why? He didn't do anything to deserve it.
"There. I said it. I forgive you," she finished.
"I don't deserve it."
"Nobody deserves forgiveness. Especially your aunt, but she's dead now." Hermione's eyes widened. "Not—I didn't mean that—"
"Don't worry, I hated her."
"Me too." She tugged at the hem of her skirt and rubbed her scarred arm.
"Do you… do you still have that word?" Draco asked nervously.
She nodded and slid down to the floor again.
Draco sat next to her. He took her arm and rolled her sleeve up, showing the crude scarring. "Mudblood" still stood out against her skin.
Draco's silver eyes searched her face. Her eyes were closed, tear streaks were down her face, and her skin was flushed from arguing. He looked back down at her arm and traced the letters with his finger. His touch was barely even there.
He traced all the way to her wrist, where he took her hand and laced their fingers.
"Odd, isn't it?"
"What?"
"We both have brutal reminders of the war permanently on our skin."
Hermione released a shuddering breath and sighed. "Sadly. We all have them. Some more than others."
"Oh?"
"Mm. I… I still get nightmares."
"Of what?" Draco asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Of…" She squeezed her eyes shut. "Of Bellatrix. Mostly her torturing me. A replay, over and over until I wake up screaming out of pain. Sometimes, it's her finding my parents and taking them to Voldemort. I'm captured with them, and we're reunited for mere moments before he takes us all out and forces me to kill them, or torture them, or both." She turned her head to Draco, where warm brown eyes met cool silver ones. "They happen every single night," she whispered, crying again.
"I dream too. They're actually similar to yours. I have to kill my mother because I didn't do something perfectly, and… and sometimes, I have to watch Bellatrix torture and torture and torture you until you're begging for death. She never gives it to you. It would be much more painless, to die."
She sobbed into his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, in a sort of awkward embrace. She shifted and put her legs over his and hooked her arms around his bare torso.
Eventually, he fell asleep in the corner while holding her and stroking her soft hair. She too, eventually slept, still embraced in his arms.