Dear Draco,
It's been raining for days. You won't remember, but a cat sneaks into the building whenever it rains, and he always ends up in our apartment. You used to laugh at me when he didn't show up on rainy days and I'd go looking. I wonder sometimes about trying to adopt him, but I imagine at the first hint of sunlight, he'll be on his way. Perhaps he has two families. One that loves him in the sunshine and one that loves him through the rain. Or perhaps he knows that rainy days are harder.
...
After splinching himself, Potter'd had him confined to a separate part of the headquarters. It was the fucking revenge of the nerds here. He'd only ever passed through before, and days on end here convinced him he'd kept walking with good reason. On any given week the 'acquisitions' teams made as many trips out as the fighters, but their goals were much different. The fighters went out for blood. The scavengers (as he referred to them) went out for food, supplies, books, and anything else they came across in the wreckage this war had left behind. They also kept up communications with other groups of rebels. It was much too far away from the vengeance he needed. Potter would never understand what he'd taken from him. His parents had died too long ago. He hadn't had to watch his father's body crumple at the Dark Lord's feet… hadn't been made to listen day after day to his mother's tortured screams. Vengeance was more than just an obsession for Draco. It had been the only thing keeping him sane.
The only one of the scavengers who didn't pity his confinement was Granger. She tried again and again to learn more about the Death Eaters. He supposed he should feel grateful that someone still found him useful. What he felt was very far from gratitude. He wanted to scream at her; to hurt her. He wanted to destroy every book and every piece of furniture he could lay hands on. He wanted to destroy every bit of progress she thought she was making. He wanted to kill everyone, regardless of which side they were on. He wanted to die, burning with his hatred and rage.
He'd given into it for weeks, screaming at her, giving release to all that was trapped. She'd let him do it. Every day, she had come and waited as he'd hurled furniture at the walls and raged uncontrollably.
He hadn't stopped until he realized Granger hadn't told anyone. He suspected she'd even sound-blocked the room to keep them from hearing. No one knew how unstable he was because she hadn't let them see. It caught him so off guard that he'd listened to what Granger had to say the next day. And the next.
On the worst days, when the compulsion to hurt was too great, he'd still tell Granger to fuck off. And she would.
On the other days, their grudging collaboration moved forward, inch by inch, week by week, month after month until they'd formed the plan that had changed everything.
...
Wasn't it just like Malfoy to make himself too important to cast aside? It irritated Harry. It made him feel undermined. But already, Malfoy's new plan was more effective than anything they'd ever tried. They still fought, but now the purpose of fighting wasn't to injure or kill – it was getting close enough to take. Because Malfoy knew that becoming a Death Eater was a family rite, a tradition passed on from one generation to the next. That more often than not, an entire battalion was made up of only three or four families ready to fight to the death, if only to preserve the honor of their names. He also knew that they weren't remotely prepared for capture. It was something too shameful to bother speaking of or training for. And so they formed teams, each member with a specific task: defending, disarming, petrifying, apparating. Malfoy was the only one of them who knew all the family connections among the pure bloods. He made the calls on who would be taken.
Harry had grimaced at the irony of taking orders from him. But it had worked. The Death Eaters were spooked. They were constantly looking over their shoulders, waiting for the next assault. When it came, they fought poorly, scattering or gathering families together, some even hiding. In an effort to protect their identities, they had begun wearing the cloak and mask at all times, battle or not, making it impossible to distinguish between them.
Damn Malfoy for finding a way back onto the battlefield. But what other option was there? He had fought with these people for years, and been around them long before that. He knew them, masked or not. He could tell by the grip of a wand and the length of a stride which was the one he wanted.
And so, after seven months of confinement, Draco Malfoy rejoined the groups of outgoing fighters.
...
Six inches apart, and already this was more than he'd felt for anyone. He looked into her eyes and cursed himself for the time he'd spent waiting. Two years had passed him by, watching Weasley push himself on her. Two fucking years spent by her side, planning, strategizing, commiserating, celebrating. Two years of falling so slowly that he was in way too fucking deep by the time he'd seen it.
He knew he had to break the routine. When routines were broken, anything was possible.
So he kissed her.
...
She and Malfoy had been working together for months, and she was still no closer to understanding him. She couldn't get a handle on the man she'd seen tear people apart. The man who gave over to his darkness in every battle. That was before the ambush. The acquisitions teams had never been targets before, but the Death Eaters were becoming desperate. They were attacked without warning. After years of luck and near misses, she'd been wounded and disarmed. She could see it in those leering eyes facing her; she could feel it as she slipped into unconsciousness: this was how she died.
The next conscious memory she had was of Malfoy. His arms were around her. They were sprawled awkwardly outside of their own headquarters, far away from the attack. He was unconscious. His blood was everywhere.
It'd taken him four weeks to recover from his injuries, and she hadn't even been able to say a proper thank you without him bristling. Whatever his objections, he couldn't manage to stop her visiting him.
"Why?" he'd asked flatly when she'd come around, yet again.
"Must we really fall back into these roles after all this time, Malfoy?" she asked wearily.
"These have always been our roles, Granger. Why are you suddenly so keen on visiting?"
"We've spent nearly every part of the past five months together, Malfoy. You're my friend. You were even before you saved my life. Of course I'd want to visit you."
He looked away, his face closed, his eyes carefully expressionless. But he hadn't objected to her visits after that.
...
Dear Draco,
I dreamt of you last night. Do you still dream? Have I ever lingered for just a moment after you wake?
The ghost of your touch is still there before the dreams melt away, and I hold onto those moments desperately, wanting them to be real. I have to believe that before the slate is wiped clean each day, we share those moments. They are the only place you still love me – the only place we can hold onto each other – the only moments each day that you are still mine.
This letter unsettles him more than any of the others he's read so far today. Because he had dreamt. Damn it all if he could grasp anything from it, but he had woken up knowing that it was important to remember, knowing that if he could just hold onto the blurry edges and drag them into consciousness, everything would be alright. Instead, he'd woken with a sense of dread. He'd woken up knowing, very clearly, that everything was not alright. He couldn't understand where he was, or why. He had felt his panic rising as he took in his surroundings, his clothing, his appearance in the small, square mirror over the sink next to the bed.
The 'not right-ness' only grew more heavy as someone entered the room.
"Good morning, my name is Healer Smythe."
He had felt compelled to respond, but couldn't for the life of him, think of his fucking name. And it had hit him, then, that he knew some things, but not others. He knew that people should have names, but he didn't. He knew what a prisoner was, but he didn't think that word was quite right for this. Gods, his head ached from trying to gather so many thoughts into a single, coherent idea. It was like trying to make his body move only to find that it was scattered, piece by piece, across the room.
And this, apparently, was repeated. Every day, he would continue to wake up like this. It was enough to make him consider ending the cycle. Death was as close to peace as he was ever likely to get now. But there were the letters. He asked about them, and the healer had sat down, looking as though he'd told him a hundred times before. He listened as the healer described her, and described their supposed connection.
"Does she ever come to see me?"
"She used to."
"Has she given up hope, then?"
"The letters come almost every day. Perhaps she still has hope."
"Do you?"
The healer patted him patronizingly and smiled as he stood to leave.
"I'm afraid I have other patients to check in on, Mr. Malfoy, but if you need anything, press the button next to the door. One of the assistants should be in with your breakfast shortly. Have a pleasant day."
"Healer Smythe," he said quietly, and the man paused. "How many times have you answered these same questions from me?"
"Almost every day since you arrived, Mr. Malfoy."
"And how many days is that?"
Looking down at the folder in his hands, he shuffled a few papers.
"Three hundred and eighty-seven," he said before turning back to the door and closing it softly behind him.
...
After that first attack on the acquisitions teams, they knew no peace. They were as likely to be attacked as the fighters. Draco always stayed close to her, shielding her however he could, but she almost wished he wouldn't. It was harrowing to watch him fight. The vengeance that had nearly killed him when he'd joined the rebellion still possessed him, body and soul. It left behind nothing of the man she'd spent months with, strategizing and collaborating.
"Do you think it will ever be gone? The darkness? The compulsion?" she'd asked later.
His expression was unreadable.
"It's all that keeps me going."
"What if something else kept you going?"
It was a stupid question – far too personal – and she looked away, giving him permission to leave it unanswered.
But the question still hung between them days later. Before he left next, she had found him. She told him goodbye. She told him to be safe. Unable to think of anything else, she took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently. She didn't know what it would do – what difference it would make – but perhaps she thought the motivation to fight could shift, inch by inch, away from the darkness.
...
Dear Draco,
Every day is a battle, and every day I'm losing. I keep thinking about the way you used to fight. I never understood how you could let it consume you. I wish I had known then what you felt. I feel it now too. I want everyone around me to hurt. I want everyone to lose the ones they love because I can't bear their contentment.
I never thought I'd understand the sort of darkness that could make you wish for death. The only way to keep it at bay now is to drown it in a bottle. How ashamed I would make you. How repulsed you would be by me now.
...
"She's killing herself, slowly but surely, and there's not a damned thing I can do to stop it."
Harry was slumped in defeat.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Ron asked.
"What could you have done? You haven't even talked to her since-"
"I bloody well could have tried, Harry. You don't just keep something like that from me."
"You know now. What difference does it make?"
The two glared at each other before Harry slumped down again.
"I'll have to obliviate her soon. It's been coming to it for a while now."
"She'd never forgive you."
"She'd never know."
"I won't let you."
Harry looked tired and annoyed.
"Why on Earth are her memories of Malfoy so important to you?"
How could Ron explain to him the importance of keeping her memories? The importance of her choice? It was awful the way everything had happened, but he'd be a fool not to think of this as an opportunity. If fate had allowed him this chance, he wanted to win her. And if he won, he wanted it to be in spite of the memories of Malfoy... in spite of the memories of himself. His pride demanded that she set Malfoy aside by choice, not by magic.
"She'd never want to lose those memories, no matter what they cost her. I'll find another way."
...
Draco heard raised voices when he'd passed her room and knew the other was Weasley's. They did that a lot. He wasn't surprised to find her alone in the common area that night. He'd walked in and took the shabby little arm chair next to hers.
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?"
He shrugged, his eyes never leaving the glowing fire in front of them.
"If you're here to make me feel better, it's not working. Leave."
He stayed silent.
"I mean it, Malfoy. You can't do anything to make this better."
He took a slow breath, meeting her eyes at last.
"I know," he said quietly.
They woke the next morning still in their chairs, muscles cramped and stiff. Neither spoke, but before she left the room, he could swear she looked back over her shoulder at him with a soft smile.
...
She was already well into her evening ritual when she heard the knock on her door. She buried her head in her arms, willing whoever it was to believe she wasn't at home. When the knock came a second time and then a third, she groaned, rising unsteadily to answer. Gods, please don't be Harry again, she thought. I can't stand it if it's Harry again.
It wasn't Harry.
"What are you doing here?" she asked coldly.
The last time they'd spoken was the defeat of Voldemort. He'd told her: You don't need him anymore – the war is over. We can be together now. After all that had happened, he still had the nerve to imply she was a whore. As though she'd go back to him once Draco had outlived his usefulness. She looked at him now with disgust.
He didn't meet her eyes. He looked ashamed standing there with his hands in his pockets, staring at her feet.
"I have no right to ask your forgiveness-"
"You're right. You haven't," she said, slamming the door shut between them.