A/N: This is the first fic I've written in a while that I posted on FF, so bear with mistakes and whatnot! Dedicated to user Karisia for being the most incredible of friends and a classmate of mine. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I'd make Dramione canon. But I don't, so here I am.

Halfway through flight there-to

Where will you go?

After the meeting, Draco gazed at his mother in an attempt to steal her attention. His Malfoy features had helped him in masking his fear, but his eyes were still full of horror. He was so young, so afraid. And to think: if he failed his mission it would ruin everything: his family's reputation, his reputation.

His life.

Narcissa glanced back at her son, scanning his eyes and placing an arm around his shoulders. Holding his head close to hers, she whispered quietly in his ear, "It will be okay, Draco. I will make sure of it."

The blond nodded soberly, and as much as he loved to believe his mother's every word, he didn't. She loved him and he loved her, and as powerful as 'love' was supposed to be (something You-Know-Who so publicly condemned), it will have no effect on advancing or delaying His dreams.

And the Slytherin wasn't sure which of those he wanted.

He let go of his mother gradually so not to put on a display of weakness around his fellow Death Eaters, who were already snickering at such a mild spectacle. One of his only consoling thoughts was that at least Crabbe and Goyle were not here to see him this way. Neither was Father or Blaise or Pansy. He would never give the people he cared about the experience of watching him act or feel weak.

Falling down on the ground

Where will you go now?

The war has been lost.

Not only has Draco indirectly failed in his mission to kill Dumbledore: he had lost the entire battle. If hadn't let Potter disarm him, he would have come to battle Voldemort helpless and he might be the one cold on the ground.

Except that unlike most of the Death Eaters, the Slytherin felt a sick joy in seeing the Dark – Voldemort dead. He stared at the celebrating parties from over the bridge and shockingly, he wanted to join them too. He had never felt this exultant in a long time. There was no one left to control his life or the path he will choose.

Draco lifted a foot towards the bridge, but he heard Father's cold voice command his family homeward. He placed his foot back on the ground, his footsteps directing him to the same path his mother and father were taking. He took great care not to look into their eyes, avoiding Father's pair of grey, scornful eyes.

Do you remember what made you fall?

And does it matter to you at all?

After the War, the Malfoys were one of the most detested families in the Wizarding World. Their name alone was considered cursed, their faces an abhorrence. This led to their introverted ways: in which they spend most of their time at home, getting their House Elf to do most of their errands.

Their voluntary house arrest gave Draco a lot of time to think. He didn't have a lot of time to think during the height of the War.

He ignored his father's decaying body downstairs, his mother's words frail against the spitting fire here, there and everywhere. Pieces of parchment lay crumpled on his wooden floor, epiphanies printed on its surface.

For most of his life, it seemed, he had been living it up as Slytherin's golden boy. Being the only heir to a family who could be considered tycoons in the Muggle world, he gained all he desired or thought about desiring. He made friends who were worthy of his company. Father made sure he got into the Quidditch Team and was made Prefect by Professor Snape.

Harry Potter was the first – and only – person who had rejected his acquaintance, and Draco must admit that it took a toll on him. The same year, Gryffindor won the House Cup and Professor Quirell had been exposed as working with the Dark Lord. Not only that: Granger – 'a lowly Mudblood' – had smashed him in the end-of-year exams.

For the first time, the world did not revolve around him. And Merlin did that break him.

You wanna go, you wanna see,

What lies could set you free.

A chilly winter evening gave way to Draco's unsympathetic wanderlust overwhelming his reason. In the outside world, Christmas was nearing and everyone was busy with preparations and shopping for presents.

For him, there was none of that.

There was no purpose in the promenade Draco took. He had not returned for his seventh year of Hogwarts and therefore, if he bumped into Blaise and Pansy (who were reportedly engaged), no compassion would be involved.

He entered the flourishing Weasley prank shop he had so pompously ridiculed several years back. The business, though unnecessary and somewhat irrational, now seemed like a better idea for the former Slytherin. A gaudy spinning wheel caught his eyes, and his hand grazed its surface lightly, hoping to avoid embarrassing mishaps resulting from lack of knowledge.

"I never thought I would see your face here."

Draco quietly turned his head, eyes quivering upon the sight of Hermione Granger. Her bushy brown hair that had once riled him to the depths of Hell was kindly tamed, tied to the back of her head in a messy ponytail. Though her outfit was casual, grey eyes observed the gentle curves of her body he had forgotten to notice. Her blue eyes flickered towards green, her brows furrowed and her lips pressed in a thin line.

Merlin, she was attractive.

"But yet, here I am," Draco smugly answered, taking the wheel off the shelf. "I don't know about you, but I think that being stuck at home for the past six months does wonders to my sanity."

"Like you were ever right in the first place," Hermione contradicted tartly. "After all, you were the one fighting for Voldemort's cause, not me."

Draco drew a lungful of air, exhaling slowly. His tone grew grave, his eyebrows creasing. In a stoic manner he positioned the vibrant wheel back where it belonged. "You're presuming that joining the Dark Lord was fully my choice. You think that I got up one day and agreed to my parents' notions of how the world should be.

"What if I told you it wasn't completely my choice? It might sound alien, for someone of my family and their once unwavering loyalty towards him. Father believed in pureblood supremacy; I can't say the same for my mother though I often wish she played along for Father's sake.

"I was brought up a selfish little git who got all he wanted and did whatever shit he pleased. I was taught to hate Muggleborns and to taunt them, no matter how brilliant they happen to be. Mind you: children believe the teachings of a vagabond. Haven't you ever thought that if I was brought up with another family under a different name, I might be different?"

Hermione's face remained scrunched, though her eyes reflected some understanding of Draco's speech. His eyes relaxed from their former unrest somewhat, containing his rage and relief at being able to express his feelings.

"Now if you excuse me," the brunette replied, "I have some Christmas shopping to do."

You wanna see, right?

You'll know this night.

Draco had learned to acquaint himself with bars. Though wizards often threw things in his direction wherever he went, bars were a sad exception. Perhaps everyone figured that a lonely soul like him needed all the company he could get.

The only comforting sound playing was the licking of liquor as he nursed it in his palm. He had contemplated taking a gulp for nearly half an hour, and though his fingers were wet and numb with the fluctuating temperature of the glass, the time for him to consume his drink did not seem to come any sooner. His mind was ready on giving up any chances of the fiery drink burning his throat tonight, leave it on the table and go home for the night.

But Draco did not want to come home. His mother was still so struck over Father's death. They finally had the heart to bury him at the back of their house, and for hours on end Narcissa Malfoy would stare at her husband's tombstone and its succinct epitaph: 'Beloved Father & Husband.' Some nights, she would not sleep at all.

The image of his mother's bloodshot eyes was too much to bear. In a flash, Draco tilted his drink and let the liquor scorch his gullet as he swallowed. The moment it took to distract him from the pulsing red which highlighted the once gentle eyes of his mother was long enough to make him forget. The blaze spread from his gullet to his stomach, raging and burning down whatever lived inside it. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and the pain from his stomach made his eyes sting. The blond blinked constantly to rid himself of the agony, but something told him it wouldn't work.

He demanded another shot, to which the bartender reluctantly complied. As he resumed to his personal despondency, a young woman marched in and settled on the bar stool with all of her might and main. She too ordered a shot of firewhiskey and clutched her bag as she waited, placing her head on top of the soft leather.

"Rather horrible night isn't it?" she mused lightly, a derisive grin on her face. Draco recognized her pitch somewhere in his haze, but he couldn't determine its exact owner. In reply, he nodded dully.

Grey eyes saw unruly, tamed brown hair. Draco's pupils widened, though he chose not to gape. Hermione continued, "So tonight, my boyfriend and I were supposed to go out, but he came to my office an hour before dinner and said he had things to do. And do you know what it was? He had to manage the welfare of this silly little boy who faked his abuse by Death Eaters just so he can get his autograph!"

"I doubt a little boy would fake something as outrageous as that," Draco commented lightly, "but then again, you never know."

Hermione shrugged her shoulders, "Ron has been so sympathetic since… since we lost Fred." Her eyes brimmed with tears; the former Slytherin could see them seeping out of her eye. "Anyway, what's your story?"

"Nothing of your interest."

Both of their shots arrived at the same time, and Hermione took her shot immediately (whether it was due to offense of the blond not disclosing his story or due to her cancelled date, no one knew) whereas Draco took some time to consume his. During his swig, the brunette finally recognised her year mate, eyes somewhat puzzled, yet not surprised at all.

"Malfoy," she stated aridly, tinctures of succour dotting her voice. "I don't know what you've been through nor do I feel the need to hear your life story. However, I know from experience that bottling all of your emotions isn't good for your mental health either."

Draco glared at the former Gryffindor, his voice low and his eyes inflamed. "Why do you suddenly care, Granger?" the blond retorted, slamming his half-empty shot on the table. "Six years we've been in Hogwarts – six years of hating the daylights out of me. Yet suddenly, you turn around in a bar, of all places, and act like you give a fuck." He gulped the rest of his alcohol. "No one gives a fuck, Granger! No one! Even if they do, they do it because I'm Draco fucking Malfoy! No one – no one! – loves me, and thank Merlin for that, because God, look at me! I – don't – know – who – I – am."

Limply, the blond placed several Galleons on the table, and walked in a slapdash line all the way to the exit. He released an ear-splitting screech, cursing Merlin and Father, before collapsing on the side of the pebbled street, blacking out.

It's a nice way, I think

To wake up with you

Draco didn't know where he was when he woke up. Everything seemed sun-bright, blinding. The mattress on his back was soft, like jelly. As he opened his eyes, the ceiling moved, and so did the floor. His head was swarming with pain and his lips were dry. Fuck this world, he thought starkly, his head swaying stiffly.

A figure entered the room carrying a bowl, little clouds of steam rising out of its surface. The former Slytherin didn't know what to make of it; he blinked once. Twice. Thrice.

"Malfoy," Granger uttered, walking slowly and sitting down quietly on the bedside table. "Do you know where you are?"

"Not Malfoy Manor," he answered cynically.

Hermione took a spoonful of the soup and blew it gently. "Obviously. You're at my apartment. Well, mine and Ron's." Draco grew baffled, mind cursing his luck, but the brunette smiled coyly. "Oh – he knows you're here, and is perfectly fine with it. I had to do him a favour… but he's otherwise fine."

"Oh Merlin, Granger," snapped the former Slytherin, "your sex life with Weasley is the least of my concerns."

"I never said that the favour was sexual," Hermione responded mildly. "Now open up…"

Draco parted his lips, and Hermione smoothly pushed the soup down his gullet. It was rather creamy, despite the fact that it very nearly burned his tongue. His insides felt warmer and he grew more comfortable with his position. As she continued to feed him, the blond had another question in mind.

"Wait," he asked, "why on earth did you drag me home with you, considering what happened last night?"

The brunette sighed, "Well, a friend in need is a friend indeed. Muggle idiom." She glanced down at her watch, subconsciously feeding Draco who grew nonplussed. "It means that friends help each other. I'm sorry if bringing you to my place offended you in some way."

Spitting his reply, Draco swallowed his soup, "We're not friends, Granger."'

"I know," she breathed, "but we could be, Draco."

The way she had said his name made the raging tempest inside the blond's mind quieter. He had never heard anyone save for his mother say his name with such care, with less instruction than kindness. Still, his features remained stiff, grey globes glowing.

"Why would I want to be friends with you, Granger?" he barked, jerking into an upright position and knocking the hot soup as it spilled upon the floor. "You and Weasley and Potter have been the beginning and end of my suffering."

Without waiting for a reply, Draco bolted out of the bed. He evidently ignored his grubby clothes and the horrible mess his hair was, though he habitually rubbed his shirt. Behind him, Hermione watched. There were no words said between them, but the blond could sense what thoughts she had; he often thought the same of his mother.

"As much as you want to help me, Granger, you can't. I am too far gone." He turned back to look at her, his unforgiving thoughts faltering as brown eyes stared back at him. "You can't help every wounded animal out there" – he took a demeaning breath – "Hermione. Some animals are just meant to die." He turned the other way, walking out the door. Exhaling broodingly, he shut the door behind him and left.

The sun may have been raining light on him that morning, but all it did was blind his eyes.

You cannot see them when it is light

This is the reason we go at night

It had been several months since Draco had spent the night at Hermione and Weasley's, and since then he had gotten to a disorderly, orderly routine.

Wake up. Eat. Make sure Mother eats too. Drink. Sleep.

Some nights, he barely slept at all, but he was okay with that. Unlike most of his peers who were working nine-to-five, he had no job to look forward to. He had nothing to make him wake up every morning, actually, except for the bottles of alcohol lying around the house, waiting to be consumed.

Nothing got better and everything got worse.

Spring had landed on Malfoy Manor, though the interior still remained icy to the touch. The fireplace - which was once ablaze with glittering fire every night during better days - still loomed, but with charred wood and cold ash in its place.

Last night, Draco had imagined that the fireplace held Father's ashes (never mind the fact that he was buried in the backyard) and Lucius Malfoy was miraculously resurrected. In dread of the former, tyrannical patriarch, the current headman had sobbed in his presence, apologising for every bad deed to the Malfoy name he had ever done. His body shook like a tree in a gale, hands together and thumbs crossed, a waterfall of tears streaming down his face. Lucius glared back at his son, patronising, scorning him for failing to be the Malfoy heir he desired. Merlin, Draco was so sorry. Very sorry.

There were terse knocks on the door. Stirring from his slumber, he looked up at the ceiling. "Come in," he shouted insipidly, unable to make himself sit upright.

Creaking, the door opened.

A bushy brown thing appeared in the blond's peripheral vision. He let out a piercing shriek which dragged on; it was the only response he was capable of. The bushy brown thing got larger. Soon, the former Slytherin's panic stopped, for it was merely a head of hair that he was looking at.

"I-It's okay, D-Draco," stammered Hermione quietly, taking careful steps. His eyes were red with lack of sleep, his face paler than it usually was. Dark bags circled his eyes, bottles of firewhiskey dispersed in various concentrations on the cold marble floors. The last time the former Gryffindor had visited this place, Bellatrix Lestrange had cast the Cruciatus Curse on her, and Draco had – perhaps – saved her life. Needless to say, it had been difficult for her to come here. Her saviour's marked torture did not make her visit any easier.

"No… no it-it's not." Slothfully, he spun his head so he could face her, chapped lips slightly parted. "F-Father will f-find y-you, Hermione. H-He… doesn't l-like M-Muggleborns. G-Go, H-Hermione, b-b-before he g-gets you."

Defiantly, Hermione shook her head. "Draco, your father's dead."

"N-No he isn't." He beckoned her to come closer. "H-he came to m-me last night… in the f-fireplace… h-he said th-that I am a h-horrible M-Malfoy. I a-am a d-disgrace to the f-family. No one will love me b-because I a-am a tra-traitor and a coward. W-Why a-am I s-such a f-filthy coward?"

Draco sniffled. Hermione rushed to his side, placing her arms around him as his sniffles grew worse and worse. He began to sob, burying his head in her arms as he whined at full volume. In a motherly fashion, she rubbed her palm down his back, attempting to lull him to sleep. Though he was still crying his whines had quietened down somewhat, a volume soft enough to let her hum and for him to hear.

Once her humming had gotten into full swing, she heard silent snores erupting from his throat. She cast him a tender smile, brushing his hair with her fingers.

In the darkest flight of my career,

I am made blue all through.

Hermione led a sober Draco up towards the Interview Room. The blond wasn't very confident as disapproving faces looked back at him, though the brunette cast disparaging looks right back at those who did.

"I don't even have NEWTs, Hermione," he snarled, "what on earth makes you think that any Department of the Ministry would accept me?"

"Because I said so," she replied pragmatically, "my boss – no, it's not Harry – has been begging for me to get an intern though I am not far from one myself, and so far I have refused everyone who has even bothered applying. That's because I've been waiting for someone able such as you to apply." She lifted a pile of paperwork she had been holding in her arms. "Other than your association with Voldemort, your résumé is exquisite. You obtained Outstanding in nearly all of your OWLs except Care of Magical Creatures for which you obtained an E but it was a practical error. You are an excellent Dueller and from what I presume, someone who is good at Occlumency. I can also finally admit that you are an excellent Quidditch Player."

"Thank you for showering me with compliments, but it does not change my probability for being accepted."

"Of course it does! My boss is not a man of bias. He will consider you without clouds over your head. You will just be another applicant to him no matter how foul you're supposed to be. Once you've grasped the basics, you can get promoted into higher positions and do more important jobs." Her tone finally became more reassuring, "You need to get your life together, Draco. This is your chance."

Draco's opposition to her plan waned, the begging in her brown eyes conveying how much she meant it. He faced the door, the metallic knob luring his hand nearer, nearer. His hand clasped it firmly, shivers running up his spine. Casting Hermione one last look, he turned the doorknob, walking inside.

On my dark descend I persevere,

I am thinking of you.

Autumn descended once more on Malfoy Manor, and whatever remained of the leaves that still grew on the branches of chestnut trees had now wrinkled and reddened, oscillating as gravity pulled them daintily towards the ground.

Inside, Narcissa Malfoy was rigidly cutting a piece of chicken. Her hand quivered when she lifted the fork close to her lips, teeth abruptly clenching the poultry. Her teeth did their respective jobs: cutting, grinding and crushing, and she swallowed. The clink and clank of forks could be heard straight after she had finished her first morsel of food as they clashed with the plates.

"Well done, Mother," congratulated Draco kindly, clapping. Narcissa looked up at him in mild joy, her lips cracking a smile.

Behind them, Hermione watched, smiling blissfully. From what she could see, Draco's mother was finally eating again, and another of the former Slytherin's worries was put to rest for now. But with his life going uphill, hers was spiralling downwards. Ron had moved out of her apartment in a fit of rage, Harry was refusing to speak to her because she was speaking to his arch rival, and Ginny – no matter how much she didn't want to – stopped talking to her because Harry did. The fact that he had been friendlier towards her friends than vice versa had perplexed her, but it had also said a lot about his changing attitude.

"You don't have to do this, Draco," reminded Hermione grimly, "you don't have to go."

The blond shrugged his shoulders, "The Ministry wants me to go. They're beginning to trust me, Hermione. If I don't, they'll think that I'm scared of doing bigger things, which I'm not. I could train to be an Auror after this if I don't mess up." His concerns deafened the jubilant noises of metal against meat. "Besides, it will only be six months. I will be back in time for the memorial next year."

"Six months!" Hermione cried, "t-that's half a year! A lot can happen in half a year! You could die!"

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself." Draco combed through the room in search of his luggage, and found it sitting courteously by the fireplace. He extended the handle with his hand, turning his suitcase over so that the wheels were on the ground as opposed to the body. He left the House, dragging his luggage behind him.

"Wait." Hermione was on his tail as she too rushed out of the Manor. "At least… let me give you a proper goodbye."

Draco spun round to face her on the thin patch of grass that separated him from the rest of Wiltshire. A few paces away, they stood still as a breeze on a stiff summer's day. Grey eyes gazed at brown, taking a deep breath for each of her features: one for her glimmering eyes, one for the thin bridge of her nose, one for the curl of her eyelashes, one for her slim frame, one for her intelligence, and finally, one for the lionheart that lay beneath.

It was a shitty time to come into a revelation, but at that moment, Draco Malfoy realised he loved Hermione Granger.

He turned away; he couldn't look at her with such feelings. She would know and whatever they had built would be ruined. Besides, someone like her did not deserve to be with a rabbit heart like him. He was too damaged, too scared to let her in any further.

That was partly why he took on the job. He hadn't known of his fierce emotions at the time, but he had known enough of her failing relationships with the people she had known all her life to know that she needed time and space to reconcile. She needed the Alpha of her problems to disappear if she was going to have any chance of solving the rest.

That Alpha problem happened to be him.

"Goodbye, Hermione," he stammered, closing his eyes and visualising the cosy Bulgarian apartment that would be his abode for the next six months. Already he could smell the aromatic hot chocolate amongst clouds of steam that would be the staple of his diet. He Apparated, muttering a few words during the ear-splitting crack which followed.

Hermione never did know what he said.

It's a nice way, I think

To wake up with you

A nice way

Draco entered the Castle, glad to see that nearly all of it was back to its former glory. His peers – who once looked at him with glares of stone – now cast small looks of compassion in his direction. The former Slytherins who were once his only company were gathered in a circle: Blaise and Pansy's hands were firmly linked, a small bump apparent on Pansy's stomach. Theodore was chatting merrily with the married couple, while Daphne was several feet away nursing a baby who she adoringly called 'Pippa'. Tracey and Marcus – surprise, surprise – were exchanging derisive comments, her hand on top of his.

For the first time, it was not their faces Draco had longed to see. Theodore, being the cheery man he was, invited him over for a bit of small talk. He gave them several anecdotes on Bulgarian women and his chance encounter with Viktor Krum and his unorthodox wife, though he left soon after to roam the castle for the face he was truly yearning to see.

And it seemed that he was in the right place at the right time. There she was, laughing with her friends and snickering away at something someone said. Her brown hair sparkled and so did her eyes.

Or perhaps it was that shiny diamond ring on her finger.

Draco's heart sank faster than a sinking ship, beating like a hammer. No matter how much it pained him, he knew that it was coming anyway. Still, he took contemplative breaths which allowed him to walk towards the group of Weasleys without looking or feeling like an idiot.

Naturally, Hermione spotted him first.

"Draco!" she called, shoving her companions out of the way to approach him. He turned to face her, not even trying to crack a smile on his lips. Hermione's fire did not melt his frosty stare, and her run slowed down into small, feeble steps.

"A-Are you okay?" she questioned, coming closer. She paused when their faces were several inches from touching, hand floating upwards to caress his cheek.

Draco clutched her wrist, setting it down next to her arm but not letting it go. The few moments of warmth he much enjoyed were only sparks in his otherwise arctic grey eyes. Hermione looked up, eyes beseeching for his kindness. He took her hand in his wrist, completely oblivious of Ron's livid expression. She did the same with his other hand, their pulses as loud as foghorns in a balmy summer night.

"I – you – we can't be friends anymore."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"You need to have a good reason for saying that, Draco."

"I do."

"Then what is it?"

"I can't say."

"No, Draco. You can't do this to me. You can't just break our friendship like this – "

" – save it, Weasley. I already have."

"Draco, I – "

" – like I said, save your breath."

Draco's succeeding steps were rushed. His hand pushed his melancholy on, aching for her touch. His eyes were crestfallen as they battled the tears so hopelessly fighting against their barrier. Eventually, it stopped, the presence of her voice drifting from reality to memory. Inside him, there was no heart anymore to feel the pain: only shattered fragments with pointed edges. Soon they will lie at the bottom of the blackest pit, cold and dry like frozen ice.

He returned to his group of former Slytherins, gaze still lingering on Hermione and the gleeful conversation she was making with the people she had always belonged to. He could never be part of that happiness, not in this timeline.

A hand softly patted his shoulder. Draco turned his head round in order to address the owner: a blonde girl of about eighteen and should really be in classes instead of the party, but he supposed the Battle affected more lives than he thought. He cocked his head to question her presence, and in reply she walked to his side, slipping her arm around his.

"Your love for Granger is beautiful," she began comfortingly. With a blandness on his face that would have done Father proud, the Slytherin looked at her. She continued on, "I say it again: it is beautiful. We both know that your parting of ways is best for your future, no matter how painful it is now. The both of you cannot coexist without causing friction whether it is against you or against her. If you were born under circumstances and under different names, you would have waiting at the end of the altar, not Weasley."

"I know, Astoria," Draco mumbled, "I know."

She smiled compassionately, leading him out of the castle and into the Lake she knew existed below. Though he was following every step she took, he still mulled over the woman who saw him at his worst, saw him at his best, and crushed his heart like a wrecking ball.

I'm separated from you.