"But not all dark places need light, I have to remember that."
– Jeanette Winterson, Oranges are Not the Only Fruit
He stood alone in their living room, the remnants of their last – their final – fight scattered around him; a broken lamp, shattered plates, cutlery strewn across the carpet. Another explosive argument – over what, neither of them would have been able to tell you – and he would have been thanking her forethought in casting silencing charms around the house if he hadn't been left feeling completely numb.
He continued to stare at the front door for hours after she had left, his mind either refusing or not able to comprehend the fact that she would not simply walk back through it and into his arms. It couldn't end like this! They had always had such passion – their lives full of such danger – that if it had to end he would have thought they would go out with a bang.
"Good, aren't they," he said smoothly. "But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives, I expect a museum would bid for them."
The Slytherin team howled with laughter, and he felt pretty good about himself. They were laughing with him; he was the centre of attention; everything was how it was supposed to be.
"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," said Granger sharply. "They got in on pure talent."
The smug look on his face flickered; this wasn't how it was supposed to go.
"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he spat.
After that day, he couldn't help but begrudgingly admire her.
It took days for the hollow numbness to eventually wear off – for the denial to finally abate – leaving behind bitter anger and resentment and hatred; but above all, he was hurt. Maybe not everything had been perfect, but he had thought it was working – he had tried to make it work, at least; he would never have willingly moved into a muggle neighbourhood if it hadn't been for her.
There were a lot of things that he would never have done if it hadn't been for her.
The Giant Oaf turned round and hurried back towards his cabin, his face buried in his over-sized handkerchief.
"Look at him blubber!"
They'd been standing just inside the castle doors, listening in on the conversation Potter and his Gang of Do-Gooders had been having with the poor excuse of a professor.
"Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic?" he said, "And he's supposed to be our teacher!"
Potter and the Weasel both made furious moves in his direction, but Granger got there first – SMACK!
She had slapped him around the face with all the strength she could muster. He staggered back, pain radiating from his cheek. Potter, Weasley, Crabbe and Goyle stood flabbergasted as Granger raised her hand again.
"Don't you dare call Hagrid pathetic, you foul – you evil –"
"Hermione!" The Weasley said weakly, and he tried to grab her hand as she swung it back; he was no longer ashamed to admit to flinching back at the furious expression and raised hand both directed his way.
"Get off, Ron!"
Granger pulled out her wand. He took a hurried step backwards, hoping that his fear wasn't too obvious. Crabbe and Goyle looked at him for instructions, thoroughly bewildered and completely useless.
"C'mon," he muttered and, in an attempt to save what was left of his pride, disappeared down the passageway into the dungeons with Crabbe and Goyle in tow.
His respect for her had grown ten-fold; so had his fear.
It took even longer for him to finally admit that they were both as much at fault for this. He couldn't put all the blame on her simply because she was the one brave enough to walk out; the one who was able to admit that this wasn't going anywhere – that it wasn't healthy – and they would both be better off apart. She'd always been better than him at things like that; more intelligent; braver.
He was seated in the drawing room with his father when the snatchers walked in led by his mother, causing him to frown in confusion; snatchers didn't normally see fit to keep their finds alive for longer than it took to determine blood status.
"They say they've got Potter," his mother answered the unasked question in a cold voice. "Draco, come here."
He rose slowly from the high-backed chair, not daring to look at the trio lest he recognise them.
The werewolf dragged one of the prisoners directly under the chandelier. He refused to look at any of them, fearing that the snatchers may have been right.
He took shelter next to his mother by the fireplace, hoping that the questioning had come to an end.
"What about the Mudblood, then," the werewolf growled, and he felt his heart plummet in his chest – not her, please not her.
"Wait," his mother said sharply, destroying all his hopes of there being an easy way out of this. "Yes – yes, she was in Madam Malkin's with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?"
"I... maybe... yeah."
In that moment he really hated himself for not being more like her.
It took him nearly a year to admit that she had been right. There was nothing that they could have done to make things work out for them. It was better that it had ended the way it had, rather than in a messy divorce with kids to worry about. In a way, he was thankful to her for coming to that conclusion when she had. It could have been a lot worse.
The silence of the house was almost deafening in its intensity; there was always noise – screaming, shouting, crying – and the lack of it was simply unnerving.
"Draco..." She whispered, sad eyes watching him carefully from across the room. "Draco, this doesn't... We know this isn't working. We've tried to make it work, and if it was going to it would by now..."
"Granger..." He interrupted, only to stop when she raised a hand to silence him.
"No, listen. I can't do this anymore, and I know you can't either. You can try to pretend that you can, but it's slowly killing us both. We can't spend our entire lives arguing and you know it. There's nothing left for us here." Her voice never once raised above a whisper.
"But I..."
"Don't. There's nothing we can do. It's never going to work," she whispered as she made her way over to the front door. She opened it slowly and paused just before stepping through into the empty street. "Goodnight, Draco."
"Goodbye Hermione," he whispered as the door closed with a quiet snick.
He wouldn't realise until years later that that had been the first and last time he had ever used her given name.
Some of the flashbacks use scenes from The Chamber of Secrets, The Prisoner of Azkaban and The Deathly Hallows with the POV changed and parts added/removed to account for the change in perspective. Just in case anyone was wondering why they seemed so familiar :)