I own nothing except an ugly cat. You can have this cat, if you wish. Then I will really truly, own nothing.

Prologue

"You can't leave."

Each syllable was pronounced with a safe monotone and a dedication to pacing that Hermione knew had not come without its claim to practice. She was, after all, the recipient of most of the practice sessions. Threats laced in the silences and spaces would have remained unnoticed and superbly hidden except to the most experienced of listeners. Hermione was a very experienced listener.

"Malfoy, it's not up to debate."

"I'm putting it up to debate."

"And I'm taking it down." Something in her tone must have hinted at the serious, she had nearly forgotten Malfoy was as skilled, if not more, in deciphering her own words. She turned away but not quick enough as both of them would have liked: Malfoy reached a hand to grip on to a pillar of the large and floo-comfortable fireplace, no doubt aware of the impact her next words would have.

"I can't stay with you."

Hermione stared at the cracks within the marble, temporarily wondering whether they we're caused by Malfoy's visually painful hold or by their own fashion. Having experienced the result of Malfoy's un-foreshadowed reaction to conversations of much milder natures she was confident it was not in this particular marble's fashion to look so utterly worn.

There was a long pause. Malfoy raised his eyes from the black of the tiles.

"You mean to say you can't stay in the Manor?" he said with an attempt at ignorance and perhaps a smile, it was hard to tell. "It's quite alright, Hermione, you're stubborn, I'm stubborn; I'm sure we can spend a few more weeks talking about the issue." He gave her a slightly more successful smile, "No need to rush things."

Hermione recalled how often she had said those same words, how much Malfoy hated those five words. She wondered how desperate he must be if he could utter them so casually.

"It's not a matter of…time, Malfoy, you and I both know it's not about that."

"The gifts!" He too a step closer, and then some, to meet the one she had casually taken, hoping he wouldn't notice in his concentrated state. He had; he took one more step. "I can – I will! – Cut back on the gifts. Every other week with Herish and Blott's order, maybe-"

She looked at his own Herish and Blott's ordered shoes, at 3 days old they we're at their late prime, and dangerously close to retirement. "Malfoy…it's none of those. More so…you know it's none of those." She didn't bother looking back up knowing that his gaze would have never faltered, instead she pretended to straighten a sleeve, making a glance at the pocket watch preeminently tucked in it's fold. "I have to go."

"It's just another phase." She wondered whether he was conscious of his breathes deceptively stage whispered murmur. Before she cared to note at the increase of this happening within the past few weeks his attention was completely on her. Making sure, with a penetrating sincerity, that she heard his next three words he spoke them in between his additional step forward, making sure the clink of his shoes sole was timed to her convenience and between his words. "Just another phase."

Hermione took a steadying breath, and wondered, not for the first time, whether there was a real difference between common words and spells – "Malfoy, this is not a phase. I'm sincere. I'm serious. I have to leave. I am leaving." – and both seemed to have enough power to render one in more pain then any hex she had seen performed.

Malfoy didn't react with throwing a punch at a wall, or breaking one of the pristine porcelains ideally placed about the room. (Romantic Heroes had broken enough porcelains and walls that Malfoy needn't add to their uncared for toll.) Instead, Hermione heard the small thump and looked away before she could see the fallen man that the tile had so uncaringly betrayed.

"You're not fucking leaving, Hermione." The words were made to be threatening, spoken with anger and command, but they had failed before the suggestion of such adjectives could even be desired. It was a plea; and one that scared Hermione more then any shattered Grecian urn.

She took a step back before realizing the mistake of that step. She saw his change instantly. She shouldn't have taken it, not with her wealth of knowledge at how badly he reacted whenever she tried to step away from him.

Before she knew it, Malfoy had risen, and had cautiously put out his reach. Gently, he started walking towards her, arms out, expression an attempt at calm. Hermione thought she recognized the position as what one often observes in pet-owners, attempting to save their rebellious charges. Charges who would be cornered, and once again cared for, before ever realizing their original goal: escape.

"Hermione, you don't need to do that, really, you don't. Let's just…talk about this – remember how we used to talk? – there's no need for rash decisions here."

Hermione knew she must have done something wrong. Whether it was prolonging the conversation, trying to get him to understand, warning him…She should have just left. But now she was here, with a clearly unstable Draco Malfoy, and trying to do her best to recall the nearest exit.

"Hermione, there's absolutely no need to look at the door."

"I wasn't, Malfoy." She tried to make it sound casual but trying to 'sound anything' with Malfoy, when spoken from her, was as hopeless as trying to stay here a second longer.

"You know I only block the Manor's apparition for your sake right? You know I do it for you, Hermione, so we can talk about things."

She nodded not trusting her voice.

"Last week's incident…I know I was a bit much, to that I admit."

Ah, so he would mention it, Hermione thought genuinely surprised.

"But we can work on that, Hermione!" he reached for her arm but watching her flinch he casually brushed away an invisible hair from her sleeve before casually retracting the hand into an available pocket. "Too much there's so many, many ways to fix a too much, Hermione…Flowers? You don't like the flower's I sent last weekend, right? I knew it, I did, you never were much for flowers were you, my love?"

Hermione winced at the endearing title and noticed how Malfoy had beat her to it by closing his eyes. To anyone else, it would have been a blink: a casual act, nothing more, but Hermione knew better. Hermione knew his timing and care that he took to close his eyes at the exact moment the words would leave, the natural eye movement being an unnatural second too long. She preferred it like this though. She still held the memory of the first time he said those words, she still remembered when he didn't close his eyes and was the recipient of the visual of pity that immediately settled on her features. That was not a good day.

"Malfoy, your flowers didn't fit in the room. I couldn't leave."

"That the beauty of it, dearest! You never have to leave, don't you know? You never have to work – you know I hate when you work, don't you? You never have to earn another galleon again! You know how I hate when you talk about galleons, don't you Hermione?

She did.

"We can change things Hermione – you need more time on your own, right? That's it?" Her face must have revealed more then she wanted for Malfoy suddenly felt ecstatic, as if he found the magic words, "Yes! We don't have to…be together all the time." Hermione could almost feel the number of neurons working out the painful debate in his head, "We can go to more parties – remember how you used to love those parties? We can even go visit your friends – you loved visiting them, didn't you love?" One more blink. "You can…" Malfoy noticeably shuddered, "Go alone…I don't have to have you all to myself all the time…" the last was formed in the shape of a joke but collapsed before the foundation was even set.

They looked at each other, one of them thinking how to leave, the other thinking how to do everything probable, and some things most certainly not probable or wise, to get the leave-er to stay.

"Hermione…I can change."

Hermione looked him in the eye – the sincerity and expression would have made the hardest heart consider, if only to say they did. Hermione didn't have the hardest heart.

"…Will you really let me see them alone?"

Malfoy gave a reassuring nod, a glimmer of success in his eyes. "Of course!"

"Even Ron?"

Malfoy grew very quite, and Hermione knew the old paranoia had set. She watched the Slytherin. Watched the Slytherin she had known. The deceptive calm, the hands clench before they reached her shoulders, the eyes that for once didn't look back to meet her own.

"And why, may one ask, are you wanting to see Weasely in private?"

Hermione couldn't help but sigh, his words surprised her, for a conversation so used and rehearsed she found it strange how all the words remained so crisp and sharp when he used them, hers didn't. She was very tired.

"I'm tired of this Malfoy, he's my friend, you know he's my friend."

She knew the lines of this play, she felt it's repetitions could rival Shakespeare productions, and just like those same productions needed actors who never held their years or pasts against them, Malfoy's face gave no indication of knowing that he was playing a role, saying lines, and acting a part that had been done oh so many times before.

"My love…" Malfoy's breathing was coming so fast, "My love…not him" So very fast. "Anyone," he said this for her, "Anyone," he said this for him, "Anyone but him." The little prince issued his commands as pleas and hoped his subject would listen.

"You…you can't go on like this."

Malfoy collapsed at her feat, timidly reaching out his fingers to just barely touch the point of her Herish and Blott's shoe, presumably taking her words as a requiem rather then a sentence. "I know it…but nonetheless...don't leave me."

Hermione instinctively gave a very small nod and Malfoy let out a breathe of relief and said a shaky 'thank you' still staring at Herish and Blott's product of labor.

He didn't see me nod.

And it was that moment that Hermione knew that today was the day she changed the ending of the play. She wouldn't tell him. She wouldn't bring it up again. She would leave…for his own good. Her being there helped nothing. She knew this from the moment he said 'thank you' to a nod he couldn't see. The moment his acting became a monologue and her actions became those influenced not by a fellow actor, but the writer. They always said that Shakespeare acted in his own plays.